ZAZAMADA

Karma is a Bitch

2009-05-21T21:19:00.000-07:00

I was smug. I was self-righteous. I was naïve. I was an idiot. Yes, like many people, I was a better mother before I had my daughter. I watched people navigate the waters of parenting, battle storms, endure choppy water for days and I thought I could do better than them. HA!!

For a brief history of me and kids: I started babysitting as soon as I was able. I was a mother’s helper when I was in 4th or 5th grade to a lady across the street (she was home). The baby rolled off the bed and screamed. The baby knew better than the mother than to let an 11 year old (if I was that old) kid take care of it. Anyway, she let me continue and thus began my long career of childcare. I babysat all through high school, college, a little after college and as recently as my early 30s, worked as a part-time nanny. Most of the time, I was a good sitter and only occasionally dropped them. I played with the kids, rocked the babies, sang and generally stayed off the phone and didn’t have friends over.

Babies barfed on me, kids peed their pants, spilled food, wiped noses on me. All the regular kid stuff. I took care of a colicky baby a few times a week so the mom could survive. He literally would not let you put him down. So I would hold him, rock him, bounce him, jostle him and love on him for 4 or so hours while his mom showered, napped and attempted to maintain her sanity. I was great with kids, or at least confident.

Over the years, I spoke with friends in the early shell-shocked days of parenthood. They would tell me that some days they couldn’t remember to take their vitamins, brush their teeth or shower. They were hanging on by threads. I sympathized, but inside, I recalled the colicky baby and all the others, and thought, “That’s because they haven’t taken care of babies before.” Oh lord. The self-righteousness of it all.

When I was pregnant, a few of those friends warned me about how hard it would be, and I agreed. I knew it would be hard because I remembered the days sitting when I was so happy to give the baby back, run off to meet friends for a beer and tell stories about the baby before going home for an uninterrupted night’s sleep. But I still thought I would be able to juggle the baby, cook, look presentable and maintain some sort of adult social life. You know, because, like um, I’m super woman.

I humbly bow down to all the parents I thought I was better than and take my karmic beating. My sweet, gorgeous baby girl has kicked my ass. Shower? Vitamins? Teeth brushing? Hell, I forgot to shit some days and that’s a bodily function that HAS to be maintained. It is only now, at almost 7 months that I feel like I can see past the blur. At 7 months with a sitter who comes twice a week and a housekeeper who comes every other week so I can maintain my sanity. Yes, I need help. Yes, this parenting thing is HARD. It’s great, fulfilling and nothing beats the smiles Lila gives me, but damn, it’s hard. I’m still looking for my village.

When I was pregnant, I thought I would join the ranks of mommy bloggers and eventually make some money off of ads. I thought that until I became a mom. How and when do these women write and upload photos? Lila likes to be held. A lot. She wants my attention. She wants mommy.

This is my possible re-entry to blogging. I am going to try to find a few minutes a week to regale you with tales from the trenches of mommyhood a la attachment parenting (attached meaning she is always attached to me). We’ll see if I can keep it up.

Here is a long overdue shout out to all the amazing parents out there! And may you all make time to crap today.

She's here!

2008-11-15T18:34:00.001-08:00

Lila Hilde was born at home on October 27th at 1:39am. We're all still settling in, but heading into week three, we're finding we can get along just fine without grandma (who graced us with her help for 2 weeks). A few pics until I have the energy to write a real post. Oh, and one the day before she made her appearance. I could barely get out of bed so I was so happy she decided to come out and join the world.

I think I might pop.

Her first pic of the day - a bit red and swollen still. I swear she is part German and not all Japanese.

Getting to know each other.

My favorite from day 3. She loves to sleep like this.

I'm Back!

2008-10-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

I found fried heaven. It exists at Price’s Chicken Coop in Charlotte. We had AMAZING fried chicken there back in oh, July. The sides left a little to be desired, but the chicken was hands down, the best I’ve ever had. Pete inhaled a few pieces before we’d even made it out of Charlotte. (The goal was to take the chicken to my grandparents’ for lunch.) I think I can safely say we will make more trips there in the future.

We also had a great trip to Grand Bahama island in July. Pete’s company had a retreat there for four days, but we extended our trip to last all week. We lounged about the pool at the resort for a few days before agreeing that we are not resort people. We like a little adventure with our travel and little less of people we can see at Disneyland. My mom met us for the last part of the trip because we thought Pete would be working the whole time and I’d need a playmate (it ended up Pete skipped most of his work stuff except the required things on one day). Needless to say, it didn’t take a lot of persuading to get her to meet us in the Bahamas (and a non-stop flight from Charlotte didn’t hurt either).

After complaining about the food and annoying people for the first half of the week, we decided we needed to rent a car and explore the island – cost and driving on the opposite side of the road be damned. Thank god we did. You know when you’re a teenager and all you can think about is how much freedom you’ll have when you get a car? It’s true. We take it for granted, but the car opened up another world for us.

Luckily, in my zealous over-planning, I found a list of must-see things on the island. One, was Gold Rock Beach located in Lucaya National Park. We had to drive about 30 minutes to get to the park, which didn’t look like a park or even parking lot. I had to beg and convince Mom and Pete that it was indeed the park. After parking, we had to walk 15 minutes or more through a swamp out to the beach. It was hotter than hell, and I was 6 months pregnant carrying my little furnace with me (that is to say, I over heated in about 3 minutes). After admiring the mangroves and hermit crabs on route to the beach, we came upon the dunes. We crested the dunes and beheld the Bahamas of the ad campaigns. The beach exceeded all expectations of beautiful places.

And I thought my belly was big here... hahaha...

We spent the remainder of the week driving back to Gold Rock Beach and Banana Bay, where we could literally walk out for hundreds of yards. We found local food that was much better than the food at the resort, but still not great. The Bahamas are not known for their food especially since they are basically sandy islands with no good soil to grow crops.

Between all the travel and work and growing of a baby, I was exhausted. Plus, I read in a few blogs about how they hated their life being on display. So, I stopped writing. I’m on maternity leave now, and adjusting to a life without a schedule. I hardly know what to do with myself. Last week, I was at the farmers’ market racing from vendor to vendor when it hit me, where exactly was I racing to? It wasn’t like the apple guy was going to run out of apples or the melon guy melons. And if they did, someone else would have some. I am so used to rushing that I couldn’t slow down.

I spent last week running around at the markets buying food to cook and freeze, Babies R Us, Target, Ikea, the bookstore plus doctor’s appointments that I hardly noticed I wasn’t working. This week, with a freezer full of food and clothes washed, I am finding myself at a loss of things to do. And of course almost all of my friends work so I can’t call them to play with.

I said to Pete that it was hard to adjust to having no routine and that I needed to create one. He said it was pointless because in a few days or weeks, I’d have to create a new one. So, I am doing what I can to enjoy having no schedule, no routine and nothing other than doctor’s appointments to worry about.

In the meantime, I have time to write again so I’ll try to be diligent about posting once again. Or at least until the baby comes.

In Search of Fried Heaven

2008-06-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

It might not be obvious in my postings, but I am a food lover. I can’t go past a farmer’s market without a glance at what is in season. Even if there is no chance I will be able to cook anything. Some of my favorite parts of Vietnam? The markets. Of course, the food was even better. Pete and I actually swooned over a few meals, but that’s another post I’ve never written.

I read food blogs, I read cookbooks and cooking magazines. I read restaurant reviews more often than movie reviews (reminder: I work in the movie business). In the context of foodies, I am fairly mild so I don’t think of myself as hardcore, but a friend recently corrected me and declared I have a passion for food. I’ve accept that fact. I admit I am a foodie.

So, imagine my delight when I read Gourmet magazine today and I find a write-up about a Price’s Chicken Coop in Charlotte just past a lengthy article about great Thai food in Los Angeles, followed by restaurant write-ups in Culver City (an LA neighborhood close to my house). I thought I’d died and gone to…. well, you get the picture.

I flagged the article about the fried chicken thinking, one day we’ll have to eat there. Then it hit me. We are going to be in Charlotte this SATURDAY. Yes, Pete and I are headed to NC for a week of relaxing with my mom and extended family (no, that wasn’t a typo). I picked up the phone and called to see what time they open. We land at 9:30am on Saturday, and hell, I want some of the best fried chicken in the south. The phone rang and rang and rang, but no one answered it during the dinner rush. I finally found them on the internet and by god, they open at 10am! It couldn’t be more perfect. We will land, claim my bag (which I get to pay to check) and drive on over for fried heaven. We’ll most likely arrive just as the doors are opening. I am so excited, I am bursting.

You have to understand. Before I travel, I do research (generally not to NC). Lots of it. I like to know what sites we should take in, but more importantly, where I get local, authentic food. And in tourist areas, you can get burned. Frankly, nothing pisses me off more than being overcharged for subpar food. So, I research. This time, I am trusting Gourmet magazine. Let’s hope they aren’t overhyping the chicken.

**** I’m also fired up to eat at my favorite Asheville restaurant, Tupelo Honey, and try the BBQ at Twelve Bones, which I hear is phenomenal. I can’t wait to see the family, but my mouth is watering from all the food excitement. I guess I do live to eat.

If you have any secret food haunts, send them my way. I like high brow places, but I LOVE a great hole in the wall where the food is so unexpectedly good you think you could eat it every day for the rest of your life.

Dream Houses

2008-06-25T18:44:00.000-07:00

Like most women, I dream of the perfect house one day (okay, I dream of ANY house). The one I've conceived and created with an architect with an interesting interior, gorgeous garden and beautiful furnishings. Everyone's idea of the perfect home is different. I don' think I would want to live in David Ling's home, but the video of it is stunning plus I love all of the creativity and Asian influences in it.

Click here to enjoy a little piece of art. Just watching it and hearing him gets my creativity flowing.

About Time

2008-06-17T14:31:00.001-07:00

Today, I am proud to be a Californian. I am happy my friends can marry whomever they want. And I can't wait to vote same-sex marriage into law in November! 'Bout time!!!

That Glow

2008-06-17T09:42:00.001-07:00

Organic Pregnancy. Yes, it’s something I strive for, but the further along I get, the more relaxed I get. The second hand smoke we breathe from the neighbor? Hell, most moms smoked through their whole pregnancies before they figured out, hey! Smoking kills! Body lotions full of parabens? Well, I still avoid those, but occasionally I still smear on a pretty smelling one that’s not from the health food store or Dr. Hauschka.

Speaking of the good doctor, I received a face cream for Christmas by him. I started using it when my other moisturizer ran out. I’m pregnant. My skin is crazy (that’s another post). I have moles and skin tags and such all over the place. Glamorous, I know. When my face was red and splotchy, I assumed it was pregnancy.

I was lazy during the first trimester (read exhausted and ready to collapse at 8pm). I stopped washing my face every night and rolled into bed with whatever grease, dirt and make-up was on my face. It made sense I’d be red and splotchy. As winter progressed to spring, and my sensitive pregnant skin was getting sunburned, I decided enough was enough. I needed some chemical sun protection pronto. A few chemicals are better than skin cancer and chemo.

So, I returned to my old, sun block enhanced moisturizer. And guess what? Within a week I no longer had red, splotchy skin. Gone. It disappeared like that. I added back the face washing for an extra measure, and my lord, my face looks like normal again! In fact, you can even see the pregnancy glow now that the splotches are gone.

It’s nice I can look in the mirror and not want to cover my whole face in concealor. I mean, I can’t control my giant boobs or feeling sick (seems to have passed) or the skin tags and moles, but I can at least have nice, sun-protected skin. To hell with natural everything.

Fore!

2008-06-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

The past weekend, Pete and I were lucky enough to score tickets to the US Open. Pre-Pete, I would have turned them down, but since he loves watching golf, and I’ve started to think it slightly interesting instead of boring, I accepted the tickets.

We had a great weekend. We left Saturday and headed to Laguna Beach for lunch on route to San Diego. Pete had never been, and I hadn’t been in years. We found a hotel with a roof top deck over looking the Pacific, which was gorgeous. Although we live right next to the beach and can even see the ocean from our apartment, the water in Laguna is bluer and cleaner and just plain nicer looking. We watched pelicans soar by while munching on empanadas and hummus (not together). It seemed like the perfect place to sip a mojito if I wasn’t pregnant (lots were being imbibed around us). After blissing out on the ocean and scenery, we headed back to the car for the last hour to San Diego.

Our generous hosts put us up at the Inn at Rancho Santa Fe. It was charming and cute with a king size bed that I wish were in our bedroom at home. Neither of us had ever been to Rancho Santa Fe so it was an experience. The road winds between large gates, lots of trees and flowers. If you didn’t look carefully, you probably wouldn’t even realize there were houses back there. There is a town about the size of a peanut that seemed to only have real estate brokers in it. The photos on the windows advertised houses from the low $700s to $35 million. The $700,000 house wasn’t in Rancho Santa Fe. Needless to say, we decided $35 million was a little high, but the $2.5 house was within reach. By the time we saw the one for $700,000, we thought we should just snap it up.

Sunday, we headed over to Torrey Pines to watch the US Open. What an experience! I’ve been to pro-sports events before, but never golf that lasts for 4 (now 5) days. My first thought was I should have brought a single girl with me because the place was swarming with men. The ratio had to be about 10 guys to every 2 women. And the women were almost all with husbands or boyfriends so the competition would be limited. Of course, after awhile of looking around, it became apparent I was trapped in the largest fraternity party around, and rethought the single girl scenario (at least in regards to most of my friends).

We planned on walking the course because we’d heard how gorgeous Torrey Pines is, but the crowds were massive. We stopped at the 8th hole to watch some people putt, and Pete noticed the line to the grandstand wasn’t too long. So we cued up and waited 45 minutes to get seated in the stands. It was really cool because we could see them tee off and then putt at the hole. And our timing couldn’t have been better. We were able to see the top 15 or 20 players on that hole – including Tiger Woods. And wow! That man travels with an entourage. We could see him coming long before we saw him. The press corps surrounding him is INSANE not to mention the rabid fans.

His shot went into the bunker (sand trap for novices), and in my naïve mind I thought it would take him a shot or two to get out. Nope, one chip and his ball landed about a foot from the hole. Note to self: Professional golfers are not like the rest of us – especially Tiger.

Since Tiger was the last one to play the hole, everyone vacated the grandstand, or tried. Every where we looked, there were seas of people moving after the man in the red shirt.

Again, we planned on walking more of the course, but after seeing the throngs of people, we decided to take it easy and watch people finish at the 18th hole. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones with this plan. People were 10 deep in the viewing area of the last green. We stood on tip toes, we veered left, crooked our heads right and still, we couldn’t see shit. After awhile of this, we accepted defeat and headed home with Tiger on the 14th.

AM radio provided us with a play by play as we zipped north from San Diego (no traffic – hooray!!). By the time we heard he’d tied it, we were north of San Clemente with LA clearly on the horizon. It would have been great to be in the stands to watch that moment, but since we knew the reality of the viewing, we enjoyed it just as much from the car knowing we’d seen one of the greatest golfers ever play earlier that day.

Glamour

2008-06-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

Pregnancy is not glamorous. The celebrities make it look easy, fashionable and fantastic. In some ways, it is. The fashion part is much easier now that I fit into my vast maternity wardrobe compliments of my failed business. Plus, it’s true that the second trimester is like a jolt of energy. Unless you get the barfy flu – better known as the stomach flu.

Yes, last Thursday, I found myself praying to the porcelain god. That afternoon, my stomach hurt and I felt a little funny, but with pregnancy, that happens from time to time. I decided that getting home to bed would be the best cure, and my friend, who is a mom, agreed. She thought if I sipped some water and got some sleep I’d be fine. Oh how I wish she was right.

I sipped some water and finally retired to bed around 8:00. About an hour later, I ran to the bathroom, hand over my mouth. I thought, “Oh crazy pregnancy. I should feel better now that’s all out.” And I did for about a minute. Then it happened again. And again. And again. And again. Well, you get the point. I accepted defeat and made a camp in the bathroom.

Here’s the thing. I’ve had the barfy flu lots of times over the past few years (thank you, nieces). I can handle it. In some warped way, I think of it as a great ab workout and quick slim down. I mean, not eating for four days tends to take some weight off. But when you have someone riding shotgun in your belly, it takes on a whole, new terrifying identity.

First off, I was worried something would happen to the baby as she took the wild ride of being lifted up with everything else in my stomach. You know how when you throw-up your whole stomach heaves up? Well, it still does it with a baby in there. And then the baby slams down on your bladder. I don’t care how many kegels you do. The pressure is insane. So, not only was I puking my guts out, I lost control of my bladder. Humility at its best.

Luckily, Pete is a man of incredible strength and sweetness. I was sitting on the floor recovering from the first bout of retching, and I looked over at him.

“I pee-peed my pants.”

“That’s okay, Sweetie. It happens to everyone when they get old.”

“But I’m not old.”

“It’s still okay. Drink some water. You have to stay hydrated.”

I’m not sure if he was really trying to hydrate me or just make me so I’d pee my pants more, but I’m taking it as sweet not vengeful.

****************

On a positive note, I am probably closer to the textbook weight gain recommendation since last month I gained nine pounds. Oh, and I can feel the baby kicking so she seems to have made it through unscathed.

Career: Mom

2008-05-29T17:44:00.000-07:00

I talked with a friend this morning on my way to work. Finally, things sound like they are falling into place for her success. She’s had a rough road that started with getting laid off from the company I still work for. In some ways, it’s been a blessing because it allowed her time to devote to her writing and film making, but financially, it’s been challenging. I’ve watched and listened over the years as she’s cobbled together jobs to make ends meet and networked with all kinds of interesting people to construct a creative lifestyle. In lots of ways I am jealous of her freedom and the ability to fully go for what she wants career-wise.

While I’ve been seated sedately behind my desk, cashing my bi-monthly paychecks, she’s been scrambling to make things happen. And I’ve… well, I’ve been collecting my paychecks. There was the time when I was working on the website, but that passed. The truth is, by the time I am done with work and commuting, I don’t have much energy left to do anything but eat dinner and hang out with Pete or friends.

Right now, I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. I’m not scrambling for anything but wooden baby toys and onsies. I mean, I’m GROWING A HUMAN! But it’s a rather passive thing. I mean, people in comas have brought a baby to term. I’m preparing to be a mom, which seems to involve a lot of reading, talking to moms, shopping and realizing that nothing will really prepare me for motherhood.

I remember prior to getting married thoughts I’d had about friends and their behavior (or mine) surrounding their weddings. Finally, I understood how they felt, and why certain actions of selflessness on the bridesmaid’s part are necessary. I understood after I was inducted into the Married Club.

The Mommy Club is a huge one with lots of different types of members, and I am preparing for my induction. I don’t think I am formerly a member until I am puked on, pooped on and get less than four hours of sleep in a twenty-four hour period. So looking forward to that!

Listening to my friend whose career is coming together (and has no spit-up in her near future), makes me envious (and so proud of her). I’ve always wanted a “career,” but more than that, I’ve always known I wanted to be a mom. A fast-paced, highly paid career mom isn’t the type of mom I want to be. At least not while my babies are small. I see the sacrifices executive mom’s at my company make. I see how much time they are away from their families so they can be successful. One executive that I know is regularly the only woman in a room full of men. That is a mom to be proud of. But me? I want to be around on the weekends without a blackberry buzzing me. I don’t want to be jetting off to New York for meetings. I don’t think I could go on location and produce a movie like my friend will do and also be the mom I envision myself being. (Of course she isn’t a mom yet so she’s not leaving kids behind.)

But, like my mommy friends tell me, I’ll probably eat everything I’ve ever said about parenting once I’m a parent. Maybe I’ll ride the coattails of my writer/producer friend and grab a wardrobe career on the way. Maybe you’ll see my name on the credits of a movie shot in Italy. If you do, know I did it with a baby slung on my body because after 37 years of wanting a baby, I’m not leaving her at home – career be damned.

Mother's Day Bump

2008-05-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

For Mother's Day, Pete made us a great picnic, and we drove up the coast to Malibu to one of my favorite beaches. It was chilly, but still beautiful. We also took some belly photos to send to the family. I definitely have something growing in there - and this time it's not beer and burgers.

Long Weekends

2008-05-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

Thank God that today is a short day before a long weekend. There’s something about a free day off from work that makes me giddy. In the past, I’ve crammed my trips into three day weekends, often taking an extra day off to stretch it out. With all of the traveling of last year, I’ve been grounded in Los Angeles since Christmas. I haven’t stayed in Los Angeles this long since I moved here, which is how I’ve survive in the big city.

I like to make my weekends slow-paced and local. We rarely drive on the weekend unless we are going hiking or shopping, and usually we skip both of those. We are lucky enough to live within walking distance to the beach, two great shopping/restaurant districts and the Sunday farmer’s market in Santa Monica. It isn’t the best one, but it has lots of stuff and I know who has the best strawberries. (Wednesday’s Santa Monica is amazing. The Palisades Sunday also boasts some great growers.)

I love to spend the weekend making up for all the junk I eat during the week. I usually wake up before Pete (I’m a morning person, he’s a night person – great for the baby!), so I wander out to the kitchen and dream up some concoction to make. Some mornings I make eggs with fresh peas and soft, creamy avocado. Other days, eggs with asparagus and swiss cheese, or eggs with whatever leftover I have in the fridge. I usually add a tortilla, or if we happen to have a fresh loaf of bread, I’ll toast that it put it on the side. Occasionally, I decide to make pancakes or waffles that I pour maple syrup on and Pete smears with jam or Nutella. Apparently, maple syrup is very American and slightly too sweet for my German husband.

While Pete catches up on work or sports or sleep, I mix up banana bread or try a new spread. (Barefoot Contessa has a good sun-dried tomato one. I use less mayo than she suggests.) I might marinade some chicken or form meatballs. (Lidia has the best ones, but unfortunately, looks like she took the recipe down.) Luckily, Pete is the most open and accepting person I’ve ever cooked for. I’ve had a few misses, but we take them in stride.

This weekend, I am inspired to make cornmeal waffles for breakfast tomorrow. We might have people over on Sunday for a cook-out. I think teriyaki chicken would be great with a green salad – the one I wanted to make last weekend but we didn’t have lettuce. Apricots, carrots, sunflower seeds with a light vinaigrette. I’ll have to figure out the other sides – maybe some rice or whatever other vegetables look good at the market on Sunday. I’m just excited to have time to cook and relax.

Dress Regrets

2008-05-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

It’s so wild to think that a year ago I was gearing up for our wedding. I was perusing websites, gathering more ideas, sticking stamps to invitations and fretting over details like escort cards, which we didn’t use. Maybe because I’m a girl and slightly crazy, but occasionally I still think about what I wish I’d done differently or went differently. I loved our wedding so I have no idea why I dwell on the things that I cannot change. Like the dress I wore to the rehearsal dinner.

Sometime last spring, my cousin asked me if I was going crazy and buying new clothes for everything. I prided myself in how simple things were and how I was watching money since we paid for part of the event. I had a bright green dress that I liked a lot, and said, “Nope. I’m going to wear a dress I already have.” And I did.

Before I criticize myself any further, I will remind myself I was super sick, pumped full of antibiotics and praying I felt better for the actual wedding day (I did). All I wanted to do was to lay in bed and have my mom wait on me, but we had a town full of guests and lots of events planned so I had to rally and drag my sick ass self to get my nails done, throw a luncheon and host a pre-wedding barbeque/rehearsal dinner.

I look back on the pictures and think, “Why didn’t I have my hair done for the rehearsal dinner? A simple blow-out would have look TONS better than that frizzy pouff on my head.” Note to self: If an event centers around you (baby shower), spend the time and money on a blow-out! (Yes, I live in LA.)

In the few hours between the luncheon and the rehearsal/barbeque, I lay around on the couch, sipped hot ginger tea in 90 degree weather and wished yet again that I didn’t have to drag myself to a party filled with people I hadn’t seen in years who were coming to see me. I mean, I wanted to see them; I just wanted to feel good.

But what I really wonder is why I let my cousin’s comment stop me from buying an absolutely fabulous dress. I guess I keep thinking about this because wedding season is upon us, and I see great potential rehearsal dinner dresses everywhere. Maybe it has something to do with the fact I can’t buy them now to wear because of the bun in my oven. Maybe I’m just fantasizing because in a year, I’ll probably be covered in baby snot and baby puke and baby diapers and the idea of wearing a stunning dress will be a faint memory or a future fantasy.

We are going to a wedding a two weeks. I found a cute dress at the Gap that I can wear with these strappy silver sandals I already have, and when my pregnant self can’t handle them anymore, I can put on silver flip flops. I think I’ll look fabulous, or at least semi-fabulous.

98% Girl

2008-05-16T13:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had an amnio. I wasn’t too excited about it. In fact, I would have been fine skipping it since out first trimester screens came back looking extremely good. My odds of having a downs baby dropped from my geriatric age of 37 to that of a 20 year old. (I blame that on my healthy lifestyle, regular exercise and love of organics.) Pete wants a guarantee we have a healthy babe growing in my womb. So, after another ultrasound where everything again looked great (normal nuchal fold, beautiful spine, five fingers on at least one hand), I agreed to let the doctor stick a huge needle into my belly and remove amniotic fluid.

It didn’t really hurt. They swabbed my belly with betadine, numbed it and stuck the huge needle in. Like the doctor said, the set-up took longer than the procedure. My tummy felt a little odd last night, and I could only lay on my left side, but today, I feel much better, although not back to my normal self yet (I think that will be in October or November or sometime later in 2009). So, I am resting and waiting for the definitive results, which we will have in a few weeks. More importantly (since I am pretty convinced we have a healthy baby), we’ll know for sure if it is a boy or a girl.

A few years ago, for some reason, I was convinced I was having only boys. I fancy myself a little psychic, and just concluded I would never have a room full of little dresses and soft pink things. I’d have trucks and blues and little man who was a momma’s boy. When we found out I was pregnant, both my mom and I thought, “We’re going to have a little boy.” I even started looking at little boy things.

“Do you see any boy parts?” I asked the doctor yesterday because I didn’t see anything even when we were looking at the butt.

“Nope, I don’t see any boy parts.”

“So it’s a girl?”

“I’d say 90%, no, 98% it’s a girl.”

I looked at Pete. “It better be a girl or our boy has a really little pecker.”

I am adjusting to the idea of a little girl. I’d envisioned myself with a little boy for so long. Caring for a little penis and making sure he didn’t pee on me. Most of my friends have little boys – some of them even have two. Of course, I have two nieces with clothes to hand down to my little one, which is awesome. I know about princesses and pink stuff. I can teach her how to put on her make-up and not look like a slut (she will most likely go against me and wear blue eyeliner like I did even though it looks like ass). I am going to have to teach her about periods and personal health and boys and sex, which scares the shit out of me.

Of course, all of that is years away. Right now, I’m just counting down to the day I get to meet her.

Cougar

2008-05-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

I'm home recovering from an amnio, and just watched Regis and Kelly. (I always hated Kathy Lee so never watched it with Kelly - not to mention I am usually at work. But, she is really funny. I can see why people like her so much. He is still annoying, but I laughed out loud a few times this morning.) They were talking about cougars, and at what age one becomes a cougar. I've always thought the magic cougar age was 40, but apparently, according to the internet on Regis and Kelly, is it 35!! Kelly declared herself a cougar, which means I am also a cougar and so are most of my friends. HOLY SHIT! When did we become cougars??? And here I thought I had 3 more years until I was a cougar. Of course, I'm married and not prowling around, but cougar is cougar. RARRR!!!

Keeping in Touch

2008-05-09T17:34:00.000-07:00

For whatever reason, I’ve always been good at keeping in touch with friends. Even before email, I faithfully sent letters to my friends who went to college before me. Even in college (there still was no email), I wrote long letters to my friends at different schools, filling them in on my life in Colorado. I ran up exorbitant phone bills calling my parents, my cousins and my friends scattered across the country. Even on a tight college budget, I spent about $100 a month on phone bills. This, of course, was pre-cell phones with unlimited weekend calling.

I don’t know if it’s because I was an English major and love the pure joy of a story, any story, or if it’s because I truly like people and like to stay in touch. When I lived in Boulder and had a more flexible work schedule, yet no email at the office, I would start my day by making a smoothie and sitting down at my computer to respond to my emails. I felt very Victorian, as I imagined my routine was similar to one of days past.

Now a day, everyone has email at the office, email at home and most of us sort through loads of spam in addition to the informative emails. The last thing any of us want to do is compose a long email about life. Luckily, cell phones are ridiculously cheap and allow us to catch-up without typing or putting pen to paper. (When was the last time you received a letter for the sake of a letter? Not a thank you card or invitation – just a letter. I can’t even recall and my grandmother used to be really good about it.)

I have a 45 minute commute to work each way, which leaves loads of time for phone conversations (I wear a headset). I randomly call people all the time. I keep in touch with lots of friends and family members. And I love it.

During my life, I’ve had friends who marveled at my correspondence and list of far away friends. How do you do it? They’d ask. I can barely remember to call my mom, they’d say. And I knew then that they would be the friends who I’d have to do all the work with keeping in touch.

So, when those friends don’t call back, I call again. When they don’t respond to email, I don’t take it personally. But when they don’t call me back after I’ve left eight messages over two months, I start to take it personally.

One of my best friends lives in Boulder and is horrible about keeping in touch. But over the years, she’s appreciated when I stalked her and we’d finally catch-up on the phone, which was about once a month. Whenever we’re together, we laugh our asses off and have a fantastic time.

I called her before our trip to Vietnam to wish her a happy Thanksgiving and let her know we were headed to Southeast Asia. I called her again to tell her about the trip and wish her a Merry Christmas. I called again to wish her a Happy New Year, and still no return call. Finally, I caught her on Martin Luther King day for a few minutes while she was waiting for some workers at her house. She filled me in on life, how she was moving to a new house, her Christmas vacation, but the whole time she seemed uneasy. She eventually told me she didn’t want to spend the whole day waiting for the workers and had to go call them. I was fine with that, thinking she’d call me back. She never did.

I called her again in February. Then again in March to tell her about the pregnancy. Still, no return call. Finally, I stopped calling. I know lives get busy. I know I live in California and she lives in Colorado, and I know she is horrible about keeping in touch. But it’s hard to not take it personally when someone I considered a best friend doesn’t even drop me a note or text me or leave me a voicemail saying she is overwhelmed, but can’t handle anything else right now. I understand that. But radio silence? For months. I’m baffled and my feelings are hurt.

The other day, a number from Colorado popped up on my cell phone. I didn’t recognize it, and thought it might be her from her new house. I answered with hope in my voice, so happy we’d get to catch-up. But it was the University thanking me for my donation.

I’m still hopeful the friendship will survive, but I’m done making the effort. As my friend said, even pregnant girls need their girlfriends. Thankfully, I have her and lots of other friends to share stories with.

Smoke Free CA?

2008-05-06T09:38:00.000-07:00

One great thing about living in California is that it is very health conscience. Smoking is banned on beaches in Santa Monica. All restaurants are smoke-free unless you sit outside (and being Los Angeles, this option exists year ‘round). It’s great. I can easily go out for dinner or a drink (pre-pregnancy, of course), and come home smelling exactly as I did when I went out. Needless to say, as a non-smoker, I love it.

Unfortunately, one place you are still allowed to smoke is your home. And guess who lives below us? A smoker. Most of the time, we can’t smell it. And most of the time, we have the windows open (a bonus of living in southern California). But, there are times when he has his friends over or maybe gets depressed or creative or whatever one does when they chain smoke, and the smoke drifts into our apartment.

This happened a few times before I was pregnant, and it grossed my pristine lungs out. I would open the window, swear a few times and go back to bed. But now that I’m growing a baby, I know that the crap the asshole smokes downstairs isn’t only staining my lungs, it’s fucking with my baby.

Anyway, my whole point of writing this is that there are these ads that run on TV by tobaccofreeca.com. Some of the ads talk about second hand smoke, and how it travels through the vents to get to your neighbors. In one in particular, they show the smoke entering a kid’s room. What I don’t understand is this: clearly, the kid’s parents don’t smoke but the asshole neighbor does. If the asshole neighbor doesn’t care enough about his own health (it’s a guy in the ad), why would he stop smoking for the health of a neighbor’s kid? Who are the ads aimed at exactly?

If anything, the ads freak me out MORE about the second hand smoke. Maybe they are done in conjunction with the real estate association to get more people to buy single family homes to escape the smoke? Short of him moving out, I think the only other solution is for us to move into our own home and pray our next neighbors don’t smoke. If anyone has a more realistic solution, please let me know because the real estate market still hasn't crashed to normal yet.

Secrets

2008-04-22T15:19:00.000-07:00

I decided I would start a section about pregnancy secrets. Of course there are a million books out there and they tell you about all of them, but when you are experiencing them, it takes on a whole new meaning.

For example, I read that flatulence was a side effect of pregnancy. I wasn't too worried about it since I generally eat a lot of veggies and well, I'm a gas machine. But lord! This baby gas - it could knock you out.

Last night, I was watching TV and a little fart popped out. It stunk. I mean, really stunk. I laughed it off by myself and continued watching TV. Then, I went to bed. Ever hear of a Dutch oven? If not, you don't have an older brother. Basically, I created my own Dutch oven and almost killed myself every time I rolled over. And this lasted all night. I mean, the stench WOKE ME UP. It was brutal. Luckily for Pete, he was in Texas for business.

When Pete and I were dating, I asked him what one of his favorite things was about me. He said, "That you fart."

I was flabbergasted (pun slightly intended). "Out of all of my great traits this is the one you focus on???"

"It means you're not one of those girls who never farts and you're comfortable being you around me."

Romantic? I'm not sure. But since I've been pregnant, I don't think he'd say that's one of my better traits as he sticks his head out the window for a breath of air.

I just wanted a glass of water...

2008-04-22T15:15:00.000-07:00

A 69-year old woman called 911 in Florida when she found an 8 foot alligator in her kitchen. My favorite part is when the dispatcher asks the woman if it might be an iguana or lizard. Yeah, one that could eat me!

Click here to get to the CNN page with the 911 call.

The First Photos

2008-04-21T16:17:00.001-07:00

One of the first pictures of the baby. Don't let the nice, calm demeanor fool you. That baby was moving all over the place. It's about the size of a lemon in this photo. Six more months until we meet...

PS: It has legs but those didn't show up in this photo, and man, those legs were kicking up a storm. Thankfully, I can't feel them yet.

The Selfish Mama

2008-04-21T16:13:00.000-07:00

Even though I’ve always wanted to be a mama, sometimes I get completely freaked out. Yesterday, we had lunch with my distant cousin, his wife and their 10 month old son. They live in a nice condo in the Valley, which is why we don’t see them more often (too far away). They say it’s rather small, but they have 3 bedrooms so in my world, it’s a decent size. As with most urban families, they are creative with space and aren’t accumulating tons of toys for the baby. We took notes.

Their son is wonderful, good-natured and smiley – despite that he was sleep deprived and had a cold. I can only imagine him on a “good” day. Since most of my friends don’t have kids in LA, it’s been ages since I’ve hung out with people with kids. When I lived in Boulder, it was part of life (of course these kids are driving and swearing now – okay, maybe not quite, but you get the idea). I’d forgotten how much EVERYTHING centers around the kid. We’d start a conversation about oh, eating gourmet meals, and then the baby would crawl off to something he wasn’t supposed to and the conversation veered back to the baby. This happened over and over and over and over and over again. On one hand it was completely fine. He’s sweet and they are good parents. But my lord, will I never be able to have a full conversation again?

Okay, I know at some point, I will leave the kid with Pete and get a respite with a girlfriend. I’m sure we will talk about mundane girl stuff and dating and food and, oh yeah, the baby. Because, let’s face it, the baby will be my life. Breast milk soaked shirts, throw-up on my shoulder. Yes, this is my future.

Already I fear the loss of me. The loss of my time (snickers from the moms reading this). As one friend already told me, the birth of our child will change me – in good ways. In ways I can’t even imagine. I have no doubt about it. No more 3 hour naps on Saturday for me, no more sex whenever we want (although the first trimester has been a libido killer), no more impromptu dinners or late walks to get tacos (late being 9pm… which might still work with an infant in a front pack).

Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m selfish. I like laying around on the weekend for hours and reading a book. I like sleeping in late or having quiet time in the morning while I make a surprise breakfast for Pete (given, I can do this with a kid… I think). I’m SELFISH! MOMS CAN’T BE SELFISH!

Okay, a breath. I’m better now. I’ll admit, in between hugging and kissing their son, my cousin and his wife told us how they had no idea how much they could love someone else. She said her heart hurt with the amount of love she felt for her son. To say they gushed about their son would be an understatement. They are clearly the poster parents for parenthood. And happy? If you could can happiness and sell it, they’d be the ones to get some from.

I’m sure I’ll miss the sleep. I’m sure I’ll miss my alone time with Pete, but I’m banking on the heart swell, the overwhelming love and of course, the way my kid’s face will light up when s/he sees me. It’s the reason people keep procreating, right? It can’t just be the tax deduction.

The First Glimpse

2008-04-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

We just spent the past 3 hours at the perinatalogists office. We had a genetic counseling appointment at noon, followed by a nuchal fold ultrasound and blood work. We didn’t quite understand why we had to meet with the genetic counselor, but we did. Basically, they scare the shit out of you by telling you all the ways the chromosomes in your kid could be messed up. They even have pictures of the chromosomes just in case you needed a visual aid. I was feeling pretty confident about the baby being healthy prior to seeing the extra chromosomes, but then I was thinking. “Oh my god. What if we have one of the kids with Klinefelts syndrome with an extra X chromosome?” They told us that the boys are thin and don’t have mental retardation, but they are infertile. Um, okay.

After being barraged by all of this information, but reassured that our chances for a non-Downs baby was 84% (I think), we were left to wait for the ultrasound, which would tell us more – like whether or not there are two babies. Pete was convinced there were, but alas, there is only one baby kicking around in my womb. (Praise Jesus!)

The ultrasound was so cool! I’ve seen the still pictures before of my nieces, but I’d never seen one moving. The baby was squirming all over the place. Kicking his/her legs, reaching arms up, flipping over. I got a good look at the ribs in one shot. But in some, the kid looked purely alien. It’s kind of freaky. Like, are you sure this one is mine? It’s not looking so cute at that angle.

The sonongrapher, who was so nice, said he thought the baby, who I am convinced is a boy, has a high probability of being a girl because of how his/her bits are angled right now. He said if it went straight, it “could” be a girl, but if it went up, it “could” be a boy. It went straight. The doctor told us at this point, it’s too hard to tell so it’s 50/50. We just have to wait either 5 more weeks for the amnio or 6 more for the major ultrasound where they check the organs. So, all ya’ll who want to get pink or blue things, you have to hold off for a little longer.

I’ll work on getting the ultrasound pictures scanned so I can post them and also send them out to all the relatives who want to see the baby. My mom told me I had to send a copy because she has my niece’s so she has to have this one, too. She’s not very excited for another grandkid. Nope, not at all. I think the blanket she and my Nana are working on is almost done. Seriously.

A Taste of Summer

2008-04-14T11:10:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles broke heat wave records this past weekend. I was starting to think this is going to be one super long summer if this is what it feels like in 85 degrees (apparently it was 96 in Santa Monica). Saturday, Pete and I packed our beach bag and wandered out to the sand. I decided I couldn’t sit out there without an umbrella, so I procured one on the boardwalk for $30, which I thought was fair since it is MUCH better than the one I bought at Rite-Aid for $12 a few years ago and, most importantly, I didn’t have to get in a car to buy it.

Anyway, we finally set-up camp on the beach. Got the umbrella up. The blanket and towels arranged. The chair positioned just so. But you know what? It is cold in the shade at the beach – even in 95 degrees! So, I stuck my feet in the sun, then put my back in the sun – anything to keep a little warm. After about 2 hours of adjusting body parts to get warm, I decided I’d had enough and went back up to the apartment. When I left Pete sprawled on the beach, I was a comfortable temperature. By the time I reached the cool of our apartment, I felt like I was on fire I was so hot. This was about a 5 minute walk at MOST.

I gratefully opened the door to the apartment only to find it was hot inside. We don’t have AC but the ocean breezes usually keep our place comfortable if you aren’t already a million degrees. I opened every window I could, I ate ice cream. I sat on the couch panting. It took me about 30 minutes before I felt normal again.

Needless to say, I opted out of the beach yesterday. Somehow, I’m going to have to figure this out or it is going to be long, boring summer trapped in my apartment LOOKING at the beach rather than sitting on it.

Only For the Rich and Crazy

2008-04-04T16:34:00.000-07:00

Last year, when I started reading The Complete Organic Pregnancy, I thought that I would be an organic mama. I’d only eat organic. I’d swath the baby in organic blankets. Dress the baby in cute organic clothes from Under the Nile or Kate Quinn. I’d buy a hardwood crib and an organic mattress. I changed my beauty products to chemical-free ones, which has not been an inexpensive endeavor. I was committed. Oh, the foolishness….

I’m still clinging to the idea of an organic mattress and hardwood crib, which will come in just under $1000. We plan on having two kids so the crib will get another round of use with number two. I figure the kid’s face will be smashed against the mattress a lot so that is probably important.

As far as clothes, I’m quickly jumping off the organic bandwagon. One organic onesie costs approximately $11. A pack of onesies from Old Navy? $7. The kid will wear it for a month, maybe three. We aren’t made of money. At that rate, I’ll have to potty train the baby at three months just to save on diapers so I can buy organic clothing. And yes, I’ve thought about cloth, but realistically, I know it won’t work. The washer and dryer are in the garage of our building, and I doubt I’m going to lug the baby and stinky diapers down two flights of stairs every day. Seriously. I’d have to be hard-core to do that, and clearly I’m not.

My normal, healthy, organic eating is on hiatus. Now that I am pregnant and dealing with nausea, I put whatever seems to taste good into my mouth. Today (and yesterday) this included a sausage, egg and processed cheese sandwich from my company cafeteria. I’ve eaten frozen dinners, which I hadn’t done since college (they’re disgusting). The other day, I ordered a side of fries with my chicken quesadilla. What? The 1000 calories quesadilla wasn't enough? In fact, I've renewed my friendship with French fries. Pre-pregnancy, I ate them once a month or so. Pregnant? Minimum once a week. MINIMUM. I keep telling myself my cousin lived on saltines for the first three months of her pregnancy and her daughter is a thriving 4.5 year old. My mom said she ate peanut butter crackers for three months with my brother. He’s intelligent, well-adjusted and not allergic to peanuts. As another friend said, “French fries from McDonald's made my kids, strong like bull!” So, there it is. Definitive evidence I am not screwing up my baby.

I’m doing the best I can for this little one. My roots are grey, my toes are unpolished, my beauty closet is stocked with natural, not-quite-as-good-as-chemicals-but-cost-twice-as-much products and I’m full of French fries. At this rate, my lack of looks combined with my bitchy demeanor, the kid will be lucky I’m still married by the time s/he arrives. But dammit, s/he will be healthy! The kid is thriving in my belly. I know it. It has to be, right?

Martha Knows Her Eggs

2008-03-31T16:29:00.001-07:00

I’m not a huge Martha fan, but I love flipping through her magazine and seeing the luscious images of immaculate cupboards, perfectly iced cakes and all of the floral arrangements. So, when one of her magazines falls in my lap, I always appreciate it.

Pregnancy carries with it an obvious need for added nutrition. I’ve been told everything from 65 to 100 grams of protein a day. This, my friends, is no easy task – especially when you only crave carbs. I’ve taken a bit of a laissez-faire attitude to eating this first trimester since my mother survived on peanut butter crackers with my brother, and my brother’s really smart. I figure when I feel better, I’ll eat better. (Please let that day be soon!) In the mean time, I eat a lot of scrambled eggs.

So, when I was flipping through Martha’s Spring egg edition (don’t recall the month – maybe March?), and there was a whole section on cooking eggs, I read it. First rule, never use a non-stick pan. Um, I always use a non-stick pan (I know, chemical party, but it’s easier). Use butter to coat the pan. Hmmm… I use a little olive oil.

This weekend, when I made eggs, I decided to put the rules to the test. I buttered up our All-Clad fry pan (it’s good to get married), scrambled my eggs and poured them in. I did everything exactly the same as the non-stick pan except for using the stick pan. And wow! Those eggs were the best eggs I’ve had in a long, long time. Fluffy, light, tasty. I can’t explain it. I can’t imagine a non-stick pan makes that much of a difference, but apparently it does.

I am spreading the gospel of sticky-pan eggs. (If you use enough butter they aren’t supposed to stick. I couldn’t do that. It just seemed wrong.) After putting the eggs on my plate, I immediately soaked the pan in the sink, and you know what? It wasn’t that hard to clean. Plus, the elbow grease was worth the better tasting eggs.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2008-03-27T17:33:00.000-07:00

For years, I’ve said, “I like my breasts, but it’d be great if they were just a little bigger.” So I thought. I was happily cruising along as a B/C (the sales people say C, but most tend to be gappy, but Bs are too tight). Now I’m a full C and growing. I think I’ll even crest into D before it’s all said and done.

At first, it was kind of cool minus the aching growing pains. They became a curiosity for Pete and me.

“Wow! Those are big boobs!”

“I know! And they just keep growing!”

And they do. I was sleeping on my side/stomach last night, but the position smashed my new big boobs so I had to move completely to my side. I thought I’d have to change my sleeping position eventually to make the belly happy, but nope, it’s the boobs.

Small boobs stay out of your way. Clothes button easily over them. Size small t-shirts cover my stomach. Not so with these knockers. My small t-shirts pull up, exposing my chubby, not-yet-pregnant-looking belly. The buttons on my blouses strain to cover the bigger girls. And reaching for things? The darn things block my arm all the time. I had to readjust my shampooing posture to accommodate these globes of growing flesh.

I admit that I am starting to get used to them. They fill out some of my tops a little nicer than the small ones, and the look of astonishment on Pete’s face when I’m standing naked after a shower? Priceless. Just wait until the milk comes in and they’re all for baby….

Bumpy Roads

2008-03-19T15:34:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine is having a rough patch with her boyfriend right now. I won’t go into details because they aren’t mine to share, but talking to her brought up one of my past relationships.

When I was in my twenties, I dated a guy for three years. We met at a party, went on some dates, and a month later said, “I love you” to each other. Four months into our relationship we moved in together. It was fun and adventurous since we rented our friend’s trailer in a trailer park. We laughed about how our house used to have wheels. We giggled when the washer was on spin cycle and the opposite end of the trailer shook like a carnival ride.

Eventually, we moved from Vail to Boulder. Although we’d both lived in Boulder before, my friends were long gone after graduation and his were happy he was back. Quickly, I found that the time we used to spend together in Vail was now spent with his friends or alone while he was with his friends.

About a year into the relationship, I started questioning things. Prior to this one, my longest relationship had been in college for six months. I was determined to have one that lasted at least a year. So, I ignored the questions and persevered.

That summer, I asked my cousin how she broke off her engagement, and she said, “When the voices got so loud that I couldn’t ignore them, I ended it. At first, there was a small voice saying he wasn’t the one for me, but I ignored it. Then, it got a little louder, and I told it to shut-up. Finally, it got so loud, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That’s when I knew.”

I’d recognized the voices, but I thought, “They aren’t that loud. Maybe they’re wrong.”

In the second year, we went to a couple’s counselor to try to make it work. He even moved out so we would have to make an effort to see each other instead of taking each other for granted. We broke-up and got back together about eight times until we finally decided we would stick it out until we were sure we wanted out. That was October.

By the following spring, I was wrought with emotion. I woke up at 5am, tossing and turning, so upset as to what to do. I would wait, tormented, until 6am so I could call my mom on the east coast in tears, begging her to help it get better. I fell asleep worrying, with a knot in my stomach, not listening to all the signs around me.

I booked a trip to North Caroline to see my mom and clear my heard. I spent the week talking about the future with my boyfriend in Boulder. It was like I was trying to talk myself into a life with him. The more I talked about it, the more real it became so I kept talking. My mom, being the amazing woman that she is, just listened, biting her tongue from saying DUMP HIM.

Finally, the week ended and I was on my way back to Boulder. I remember sitting on the airplane full of hope for my relationship. He picked me up at the airport, and things were good. I was happy to see him.

Then, back at my apartment, we were snuggling on the couch when the voices screamed at me, “He’s not the one for you! You have to move on!”

I looked around to see if he heard. He kept going on about how great things were, and how much he missed me.

“YOU HAVE TO BREAK-UP WITH HIM!” the voices yelled.

I sat up. And I knew. The voices were not going to let me ignore them any longer. It took me three more days to finally break-up with him, but I did it. It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and I wondered why I waited so long to do it. It was also one of the hardest things to do. He never hit me or cheated on me, which I used to wish for because then I would have had a clear answer as to why it had to end. In hindsight, he said things that damaged me, but I probably did the same to him. I had a lot of healing to do after that relationship. Sometimes I wonder if I’d listened to the voices earlier, would it have been easier?

I don’t envy my friend right now. Trying to figure out if a relationship should continue or not is difficult. There are so many variables, and everyone who listens and gives advice is carrying their own baggage. No one can see what it is like to be in the relationship, the secret goodness (or badness). It’s hard because in my experience, being unhappy meant that I needed to move on, but for other friends, that was just a layer before their relationship deepened. I listen to her, and like my mom, I try to bite my tongue from saying anything too positive or negative, knowing she has to come to a conclusion on her own – whatever that may be.

The Big Cave-In

2008-03-19T12:11:00.001-07:00

I did it. I caved. After a few weeks of unbearable pressure on the gut, I started wearing maternity clothes. I know, it’s completely and utterly premature, but this kid does not like ANY pressure on it. I did the rubber band trick, the bella band, the unbuttoning my pants when I sat and covertly buttoning them when I stood. Everything was unflattering and frumpy, plus uncomfortable.

So, I raided the maternity store closet and broke out some jeans. I thought those would hold me over for a little while. (They’re totally too big and falling off, but better than strangling baby.) And then to add to the collection, I got an email that Liz Lange is closing her Beverly Hills store. Everything in the store is $20. TWENTY DOLLARS!! Those are Old Navy prices! (Just in case you aren’t clear, this is the real Liz Lange, not Liz Lange for Target.)

I grabbed my purse and made a mad dash through spring break traffic to get to Beverly Hills over lunch yesterday. Beverly Hills is usually 15 to 20 minutes away during the week. Parking is generally not too difficult because there are plenty of public lots. The emphasis is on USUALLY. Add spring break, and it took me half an hour to get there only to find my favorite lot full. (Damn spring breakers!)

Finally, I found a spot and dashed over to the Queen of Maternity’s store. I was a tad disappointed, but not surprised, to find all the fun, colorful pieces gone. On the plus side, there were lots of great basics and friendly sales people to help find the pieces.

I managed to find 2 pairs of pants, a skirt, a blazer, a dress and a shirt ALL for under $100. That’s not too impressive at Old Navy, but the pants are regularly $175 and the jacket was $275!! I thought, “Do I really need a jacket?” And the sales lady pointed out, “For $20 you can’t lose.” So, I now own a maternity blazer.

Pete almost had a heart attack when I told him I spent $100 on maternity clothes until he saw me this morning. I feel pretty today. I have a cute outfit on that fits properly. The baby can breathe and so can I.

** Hopefully this will be the lasts of my posts regarding clothes because even I’m getting bored of them.

Oh the Vanity

2008-03-11T17:10:00.000-07:00

I completely understand the fat not cute stage now – and I am barely showing. To the untrained eye, I just look like I’ve been eating too much pasta and fried chicken. As suspected, a lot of my clothes don’t fit correctly anymore. My fitted t-shirts are now too short because of the new rack I’ve got, not to mention they highlight the bulging belly. My pants don’t really button, and the ones that do, I need a rubber band to make fit comfortably. My bras are too tight – including the one I just bought in an effort to have one bra that fits. Needless to say, getting dressed for work has become something I dread.

We planned this pregnancy, so I knew last fall that I wouldn’t fit into a lot of the clothes I admired. I solved that by limiting my spending to things I knew I would wear (jeans). In fact, in the past few years I haven’t bought many clothes. I had the website so my extra money went to buy clothes for that instead of clothes for me (the payoff is weeks away). But in the meantime, this means that my selection on clothing is limited. Incredibly limited.

I went shopping last weekend in hopes of buying a few pairs of pants to hold me over until I fit into maternity pants. The websites and books say that I’ll fit into them after the baby so not to worry about spending the money. And honestly, this time, I wasn’t that worried. But all the big pants look sloppy. Generally, I like my clothes fitted and tailored. I like body skimming clothes. Since I sew, I’ve even taken in blouses so they have a more fitted look. I spend money on expensive pants because the fit is better than the basic Gap pair (although, occasionally I’ve gotten lucky). Which leads me to my current dilemma: how do I dress cute, accommodate the baby that doesn’t like any pressure on it and not look frumpy?

I have no answer. Today, I have on a pair of cute jeans, a white blouse and pale green cardigan. I thought I looked preppy-cute when I left my house this morning. A trip to the bathroom at work proved otherwise. The rubber-banded button of my jeans is completely visible when I walk and my jeans are a little too tight, if you know what I mean. Did I mention the buttons on my blouse are pulling from the gigantic ta-tas I’m sporting? So much for concealing the pregnancy. Here’s the thing: I’m over it. I am at the point where I HAVE to wear clothes that are comfortable. I’m still not saying anything about the bun in the oven, and so far, no one has been rude enough to ask. I think my boss is on to me because he didn’t say anything to me as I inhaled a breakfast burrito at my desk this morning, which I never do (did).

And I wonder why my pants are tight.

The Site

2008-03-11T10:42:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, after paying off all of my debt and feeling incredibly free and bold, I decided to start an on-line maternity store. (Put the money in the bank instead of spend it? Are you crazy???) In my big-picture plan, I thought I could start this while working my day job since the Internet is on at all hours of the day, and then in a few years (or year in my plan), make enough to quit my day job to do it full-time. Then, when I was ready to have kids, I’d have a flexible job where I could have my kids around. (I was realistic enough to realize I would still most likely need a nanny to help, but in my mind, I was making enough to pay her, too.)

Anyway, without going into the minutia of starting the business, hiring web designers, getting decent photographs, dealing with a back-end that didn’t work right and again, the web designers who couldn’t fix it, I’ll let you know it fell flat. The inventory is languishing in the office closet (it’s a large closet) waiting for me to raid it for this pregnancy and to sell of the rest of it.

It’s kind of become like a large tumor I pretend I don’t have. “What? That thing? Oh, it’s nothing. It’ll take care of itself.” Or so I hope. I keep dreaming of coming home to an empty closet and a full bank account. Often, I forget all about it until either Pete asks me what I am going to do with it (“Stop asking me! I’ll figure it out!”) or miraculously, someone orders something.

It’s so bad I don’t even check the business email very often, but last week I did, and lo and behold! Someone made it through my unencrypted (it expired) check-out! New hope dawned! I sold a shirt! Perhaps I will revive the shop and unload this stuff at discount prices! Hallalujah! Of course, in between wanting to barf and sleep, I kept forgetting to pack her shirt. So, this morning, I finally sat down to pack up her shirt and send it off with heartfelt thanks. But the size of the shirt she ordered WAS ALREADY SOLD! Yes, I sell things to my friends straight out of the closet (there’s an idea – sell out of the trunk of my car) and I don’t always update the inventory on the site. (Well, I did, but that was on the NEW site that we had rebuilt, but no one knows exists.)

I’m starting to feel like I am always supposed to have an albatross. First, the credit card debt that I did a fine job of accruing, and now, the maternity inventory that I also did a fine job of accruing. I mean, finally, someone wanted to buy something! How, oh cruel world, can this woman want the same white t-shirt as my friend in small?! Where are the big people I keep reading about? Why does everyone want a small???

Frustration is an understatement.

Just Another Reminder to Vote

2008-03-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles is a very tolerant city. One of the reasons I like living here is the diversity. For me, that includes race, religion and sexual orientation. Since I live in a blue state with representatives (all women!!) that mostly vote how I want them to, I forget about the other parts of our country

Hearing this clip from Oklahoma representative Sally Kern made me shudder.

If you want to help, click here.

Riding the Wave

2008-03-05T15:05:00.000-08:00

No one can prepare you for morning sickness. We’ve all heard friends complain about it. Noticed when they dropped out of society until the triumphant first trimester ended. I had sympathy. I offered bland foods. I stepped out of delicious smelling coffee houses because they no longer smelled delicious to my pregnant friends. I even left a great show because the bar smelled like beer and Melissa thought she might barf. But my lord, nothing could have prepared me for the real experience.

The nausea comes and goes. Sneaks up on me and clobbers me over the head. And just as I begin to accept my fate of riding the invisible curvy road with no end, it ends. I’m still complaining internally, woe-is-me-ing myself when all of a sudden, I realize I feel fine. Then, I get excited that I beat the sickness. I start gloating and just as suddenly as it stops, it comes back. It’s worse than my brother’s most evil torture when I was a kid.

And here’s the thing: I know my morning sickness is mild. Oh, and in case none of your friends have enlightened you, morning sickness is a bunch of bullshit. The crap lasts all day, sometimes lulls you to sleep, sometimes wakes you up. It knows no boundaries.

When I found out I was pregnant, all 2.5 weeks ago (time is moving slllloooowwwwwllllyyy), I felt great. I felt great minus a few nauseous rumblings that were quickly quelled with food. I stupidly thought THAT was morning sickness. No sirree, morning sickness is turning green at your desk and wondering if you can make it to the bathroom to puke. Then looking around the copy room outside of the bathroom for a can to puke in just in case someone is in the bathroom, and in case you can't make it there, eyeing the recycle bin under your desk as a perfect puke receptacle. Yes, my friend, that is morning sickness.

I looked up “morning sickness cures” online, and found that there are a few things one can do: eat small meals regularly, eat protein, stay hydrated and rest. Okay, let’s look at this list. You want to puke. Spend just a moment thinking how much you want eat when you want to puke. Yep. Not at all. But here’s the thing: it really is salvation.

Yesterday, as I lay my head on my desk, groaning quietly, I ate a few pistachios, then an almond. I thought I would be making the run to the bathroom, but I managed to keep them down, and then about twenty minutes later, I could actually function. How novel! (And all of this while trying to keep it from the boss. Oy.)

Today, I am carefully watching the clock and eating a few nuts or peanut butter crackers every hour or so. Not a lot. Just a couple to keep the nausea at bay. I’m sipping Pellegrino, mint tea and water. And I feel…. okay. I’m not saying great, but better. If only I had a cot in my office to rest on...

I keep telling myself about all the women who have gone through this before me, and the beautiful baby I’ll get in the end, and I feel better. I feel bonded to both of them. I keep telling myself that morning sickness means there is a healthy baby growing in me. I am working on gratitude that this pregnancy came so easily to me, that I am joining the billions of women who are mothers. I’m trying to figure out how to accept it and stop fighting it. To finally cede control over to parenthood. This, I know, is just the first of many times I’ll need to let go. I just hope I don’t “let go” in the recycle bin.

Joining the Tribe

2008-03-03T16:03:00.001-08:00

We have all heard the quote about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes before you really know them. It sucks when I find out these old quotes “hold water.” (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) When I planned our wedding, I found myself looking back on events around other peoples’ weddings, and wishing I had acted differently. I wished I’d sent a better gift or offered to help more. I understood why my friends were stressed, but also calm. Even though I think of myself as a supportive friend, like the saying goes, until you’ve been there, you can’t fully understand it.

So it goes with pregnancy. In the late 90s, I started studying to be a doula, which meant that I read lots of books about pregnancy. I quizzed friends about their pregnancies and births. I even attended a birth, which included almost every intervention except a c-section. Stupidly, I thought I knew what pregnancy was all about.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! The joke is completely on me. My friend Lisa once told me about the “fat phase,” where you look fat not pregnant. I sort of knew what she meant, but I thought this phase happened around month three or even four before the belly popped out and looked cute. I hardly look fat now, but there is a definite bloat to my stomach. There is no holding it in anymore. And my favorite skinny jeans? Sayonara. They are history until next spring at the earliest. (Let’s be honest – summer - I’m no Heidi Klum.) Already, they push into my sweet, bloated belly, causing me to feel like utter hell and want to puke.

Last Friday, I wore them to work cleverly unbuttoned with a belly band. I sold the bella band when I had my online store, and thought how great! Wear my favorite pants longer? Of course! Brilliant! I still thought that Friday morning when I got dressed. By Friday afternoon, after indulging in a light lunch of quiche and salad, my stomach pushed out further and I swear, even further. By 6pm, I was almost in tears. When I got home, I raced to the bedroom, took off my jeans and slid the evil constrictor off. I groaned with pleasure. I moaned. I praised the heavens. Pete asked if he should come in and help me.

Today I am wearing a little black dress that is completely overkill for my casual office. After the bella band episode, I couldn’t bring myself to put on a waistband. I’m still trying to figure out how to make yoga pants look cute enough for work.

I won’t even start the tirade on my boobs yet. That’s another entry. And the nausea. I keep wondering how I can get off this ride that is making me so sick, until I realize I have to ride it to get the baby. A whole tribe of women before me knows exactly what I’m talking about. The tribe behind, be warned. It’s exciting, but nothing can prepare you for the experience. With all of that said, and a little trepidation, I am proud to be joining the Momma Tribe.

BFP (Big Fat Positive)

2008-03-02T07:36:00.000-08:00

On Valentine’s Day, I peed on a stick for the first time in my life. How I made it to 36 without doing it before, I have no idea. Blame it on my regular cycle combined with my "No babies, no babies" mantra. This time, I patiently left it on the bathroom sink for the allotted three minutes and laid back down with Pete while we waited. After about a minute, I sprang back up and went to the bathroom. I squinted and prayed for a second line. Faintly, a second line appeared. Pete and I looked at each other.

“Do you think that’s a line?” I asked Pete.

“I can barely see it,” he said.

“I don’t know. I think that’s a second line. I’ll do it again tomorrow morning and see what it says.”

It was all very calm and business-like. And we waited. I went to spin class with this potential secret growing inside of me, and to work where I continued to feel fine.

Friday morning I peed on a different brand of stick. A blue line appeared, but again it wasn’t dark blue like the test line.

I wasn’t as patient this time so I ran off to my friend the internet, and typed in “faint line, pregnancy test.” Sure enough, it told me that ANY second line means that you are indeed creating a child.

“Pete, I think we really are going to have a baby,” I yelled from the computer.

“Wow. That was easy.”

“Don’t jinx us for the next time!”

“Right. We should keep practicing.”

So, it’s true. We made a baby the first time we tried after preparing for it to take six months to a year. Apparently, we are in the 20% who hit the jackpot on round one. We are just now getting over the shock that we are actually going to have a baby at the end of October.

** It’s super early and we really shouldn’t tell anyone, but we did. And now I’m telling the internet because there is way too much going on not to write about it.

Mom's Weekend

2008-02-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

Yes, February is officially Parent’s Month in Venice. And yes, both of my parents hit weekends where the weather was less than perfect. Luckily, mom stayed an extra day to celebrate her birthday. At her request, Pete and I took the day off of work, and hell if the sun didn’t get the memo. We FINALLY had a gorgeous day on Monday.

The weekend was incredibly uneventful. My mom and I have a habit of lying around the house, eating and catching-up with each other. I swear every time we are together, there is a point when we glance at the clock and say, “Holy shit! How’d it get to be noon (or 1, or 2)???” The incredulousness never fails us. It happened again on Saturday. Mom and I decided to walk to the Third Street Promenade to get her t-shirts from Zara, but by the time we changed out of our pajamas, it had started to rain.

Rain and Los Angeles don’t meet very often so when they do, I welcome the opportunity to catch-up on movies, lounge in bed reading or just plain not feel badly that I’m not experiencing the wonderful sun. So, having guests on rainy weekends leaves me flummoxed as to what to do with them. Usually, I like to walk around the area –Abbot Kinney or Main Street or one of the piers that we are sandwiched between. There is lots to see within a thirty-minute walk from our apartment. People swing from rings, hula-hoop, roller-dance, surf, or are just plain freaky. We love it. But rain?

We ended up buying yarn at this cute store I pass on my way to work, coming home and watching an Oscar movie. We chose “The Valley of Elah” over “La Vie en Rose” only because we couldn’t knit and read subtitles. We should have scrapped the knitting. I agree with the Academy that Tommy Lee Jones did a great job acting in “Valley,” but it is DEPRESSING. I don’t like being reminded how awful humans can be to each other.

After recovering from watching the movie, we headed over to El Cholo for some Mexican food. I choose it because in the past I’ve had excellent enchiladas there plus it is lively and fun. In the past, I’ve gone during the week. In the future, I will go during the week. I am never going on a Saturday again. “Lively and fun” became ear-deafeningly loud. Excellent enchiladas were mediocore at best, which I blame on the volume of food processed on a Saturday night. Wrap that one up as an experience.

Sunday was more of the same (except this time we were disappointed by the very bland, poorly written Academy Awards – and yes, Hollywood needs a hug!), so no need to elaborate other than to say we squeezed in some beach time during a brief moment of sunshine. But Monday, Mom’s birthday, dawned gloriously. She must have asked for sun because we got a gorgeous day.

For any of you who think Los Angeles is a wasteland of cement, I have news. It is ringed by mountains most people never set foot on, which means, great, empty hiking trails. After a half-hour drive, we were greeted by deep green grasses and muddy trails, and we loved it.

Dad's Weekend

2008-02-27T10:33:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my dad came for a quick weekend visit. My parents, unlike most, are completely fearful of over staying their welcome. I think my dad even quoted that old saying about how you want to leave before the stink of fish starts So, my dad did a Superman-like visit. He flew in from the east coast on Saturday morning, and out on the Sunday red-eye. I’m a hard-core traveler, and have been known to fly in for birthday parties and baby showers, but even I stay longer than a night (at least 2!). I think we convinced him that we truly do like him, and we would LOVE for him to stay longer. Only time will tell….

Anyway, we had a great time despite the rain, cold and grey that permeated the weekend (he planned very poorly as the following weekend LA broke heat records with temperatures soaring into the mid-80s). After a fabulous lunch of German fare at 3 Square, a favorite local eatery, I dragged him to the Japanese market to buy ingredients for sukiyaki, which he taught me how to make on Sunday.

The market excursion, for me, was incredible. I love going to the Japanese market and buying random things to try like yam noodles, but most things I have no idea how use or even what they are since most of the packaging is in Japanese. Enter Dad. Not only could he tell me what most stuff was, he could tell me what to do with it. I was picking up all kinds of things and demanding to know how I could use it.

After the exciting trip to the market, we squeezed in a walk by the beach before heading off to a Mardi Gras party where we all ate way too much gumbo (soooo good!!!). Unfortunately, we didn’t take any photos because Pete showed up in his Christmas tree costume and I ended up with a Mardi Gras thong on over my jeans. I wonder what we would have done if Dad wasn’t in town….

Sunday was an ode to food. We started the day at the farmers’ market (I swear my dad likes the markets), then headed home to figure out how to spend the rainy day. We were at a complete loss since rain isn’t very common in the Southland. Luckily, Pete decided it was a good time to make spaetzle for us with our new spaetzle maker. Just as our bellies were expanding from the spaetlze, the rain gave us a reprieve so we headed out for a walk on the beach.

The temperature wasn’t that bad, but the winds were blowing hard and the sand was whipping us in the face. Unfortunately, I left the camera at home yet again because the light was magnificent that afternoon. The stormy grey clouds had bursts of sunshine streaming through and the winds made interesting piles of sand.

After walking home INTO the wind, we were all exhausted and passed out in front of the Super Bowl. It ended just in time for my sukiyaki lesson and dinner before taking Dad back to LAX to catch the red-eye home.

He said when he retired, he wouldn’t mind coming out to cook Japanese food for us for a week (pretty please!!). His only requirement was that he have his own room, which is just a little more incentive to buy a house. If only the housing market could crash back to reality.

The Old Lady

2008-02-22T15:20:00.000-08:00

I think I’m old. I mean, when did this happen? I look at photos of myself, and there are wrinkles next to my eyes. (I prefer “crinkles” because it sounds a little less permanent.) I can handle the “crinkles,” but my idea of fun has changed. Today is Friday and I’m excited for the weekend because it means I can watch movies and exercise. I used to get excited for parties and meeting guys, but not now. I have time to cook soup and maybe even bake some cookies. Really. It’s just LAME! And pathetic and sad.

I’m not so old that I think digital things are for “the kids.” I’m on Facebook. But, other than finding friends and giving friends a cyber cupcake, I’m not really sure what I am supposed to be doing with it, but I’m on it, which brings me to my point. I was bored so I started scrolling through some “friends” photos on the site. I have friends of all ages, and this one happens to be in her low 20s.

Before I go on, I have to repeat, “Ya’ll, I’m old.” I’m old and farty. Ten years ago I would have thought her photos were so cool, and they still are if I was flipping through an album while sipping a beer in her living room, but they are online. Where people at work can see them. Her pictures aren’t exactly raunchy or even too out there. She’s posing with her girlfriends at a bar, martinis lined up in front of them, cleavage hanging out. She’s almost kissing a girlfriend in another. Apparently, she either goes to a lot of costume parties or likes Halloween a lot because she has embraced the slutty costume whole-heartedly. Again, there in NOTHING wrong with her photos. It appears that she is having a blast with her friends, but my beef is that they are online for co-workers to see. Set the privacy settings higher, for god’s sake!!!

Why do people want to so much of their live their lives on-line? (Remember, this is coming from a blogger who writes about her life online.) Don’t they know that employers might be able to see things like their photos? Under likes, she has porn. Again, that’s fine, but do you want everyone to know you like porn, or is it just cool to like porn now?

I graduated college a few years before it was cool to like porn (unless you were a frat boy) or be a lesbian. I’m sure there were women watching porn and LUGs at my school, but it wasn’t main stream. When did all of this change? And more importantly, when did I become someone who looks at the generation behind mine and says, why do they think ______ is cool?

It’s true. I’m officially old.

Non-Toxic Update

2008-02-19T16:05:00.000-08:00

I’m drinking out of metal! One of my good friends read my post about the super-fund site I was drinking out of, and turned me onto Affirm Water bottles. I hopped on-line, and ordered 5 of them right away because you can never have too many bottles (plus I saved on shipping and handling since it costs the same amount for 1 or 5 bottles). I got 3 small ones and 2 large ones. I am planning on giving my water drinking Mama one of them for her birthday, and maybe the other to another water enthusiast. We’ll see.

Other than the fact they look almost exactly like the fuel bottles I used to take camping (back when I camped), they are great. They came with two different caps – a sports top and a screw top similar to my fuel bottle. I’m not a big fan of the sports cap mostly because I can’t squeeze the bottle to force the water out. I like to gulp water and it’s more like a trickle. I’m going to take the small one to spin class this week, which will be the true test.

Sometimes, there is a slight metallic taste with the first sip (and it doesn’t happen all the time), but overall, drinking directly from the bottle works for me. I would prefer a more exciting graphic on the bottle, or something more design inspired, but that’s just me being picky. Overall, I’d say get a metal water bottle. The pros definitely outweigh the cons. I just have to get used to it – especially the fact it’s smaller than a Nalgene (26oz. vs. 32oz.).

****************************************

Also on the testing front, I bought “healthy” nail polish this weekend. The verdict: I miss my chemicals. When I’m standing, it looks fine, but it’s lacking the luster and shine of a traditional polish. The ridges in my nails show through. Also, the color choice is sort of lacking. There wasn’t an eye-popping bright red or pink. I settled for a pinky, red, purple-y color that is nice, but subdued. The polish was $7.50 and the special remover was $8.00. (Regular remover doesn’t work.) I think I like my bare nails better.

There are more brands to try so I’ll keep you posted. This quest for natural beauty is sucking money.

A Taste of Hell

2008-02-13T17:41:00.000-08:00

Poison oak sucks. I can’t even pretend to not mind it. It’s been a week since I raced to the doctor, and you know what? I still have the crap. I still wake up itching. I fall asleep itching. In fact, my whole body itches in solidarity with the poison oak parts.

Two different friends told me about this miracle stuff called Tecnu, which washes away the oils and helps you heal faster. I think Pete and I thought it would be an elixir from the gods, and would wake to find milky, smooth skin after we used it. We’ve both used it 4 times (morning and night – maybe that’s why I’m itchy). The rash is subsiding slightly, but it might also just be time. I’m not sure it is quite the miracle worker I was led to believe.

Here’s the real kicker: the damn oil must be on something we touch regularly because now I have new spots of poison oak on my hands, inside of my right leg and my ass. HOLY CRAP!! I’M OVER IT!!!

We both feel like we’ve woken up in some version of hell. We’re scared to touch stuff in the house, scared to drive the car we used to take the hike (it’s been sprayed with so much rubbing alcohol it smells like it). Our laundry pile grows exponentially every day since we only use a towel and wear clothes once. Hell, Pete even stripped the couch covers to wash because he is sure he lay on the couch with his contaminated hiking clothes on.

This morning, when I told my friend we “pulled off the trail,” she asked if it was to get busy. All I have to say to that is, Thank God L.A. has too many people to even consider that! Ouch…

I’ve heard tales of using poison oak/ivy to wipe after peeing in the woods. All I have to say is, you have to have some pretty bad karma for that to happen.

So, 7 days down. Hopefully, less then 7 to go.

UPDATE: It's 9 days later and it is basically gone, but my skin still has blotches on it. The stuff is straight from the devil.

Oh the Itch

2008-02-08T15:02:00.000-08:00

I’ve always had crazy skin. It breaks out in a rash if the temperature changes. I was allergic to milk, wheat and eggs as a kid (and yes, it completely sucked). Besides being congested and slightly asthmatic, I got a rash behind my knees. If I ignored it and kept eating cookies and ice cream, it would spread up my inner thighs, then jump to the crooks of my arms and sometimes even under my arms. Add a little heat and humidity, and oh, those were the days.

Luckily, I’ve mostly grown out of the allergies (there’s hope for all those kids today), but I still get rashes occasionally. I’ve had eczema on my eyelids and an itchy rash on my belly, which were both treated by acupuncturists. (My system runs hot so I should avoid spicy things that “heat” my system. Add it to the list.) So, when I got a rash on the back of my arm and a few spots on my hip, I didn’t think that much about it. I just decided to start following my acupuncture diet (no wheat, no diary, no red meat, no spicy stuff, no sugar, no night shade vegetables – yes, there are still things to eat). In fact, I was kind of happy because it gave me a reason to lose some of the marriage weight I’ve put on.

Then, on Tuesday, I show Pete my hip in a search of some sympathy, but instead, he yells, “I’ve got that on my arm!” Bells went off in my head. I wanted to faint. I was sure we had some awful, contagious skin condition. I’m used to rashes that don’t spread, but this? My lord, I’d given it to my husband! We’re one of the gross couples with rashes! I quickly called the doctor, and rushed over that afternoon.

I was prepared. The quarantine we’d face in our apartment. The piles of laundry we’d have to do. I was ready. Just give me the antibiotics. But, she said it was just poison oak. Poison oak? From where?

Pete and I have been on a get back in shape kick (why does marriage make you fat?), and we’ve been hiking every weekend. Prior to meeting Pete, I hiked most weekends and never, ever got poison oak. EVER. So, a few weekends ago, we were hiking in Temescal Canyon after one of the drenching rains, and happily staying on the trail. Then, at the very end of the hike, there was this group of people with a net wading through the creek. It was an odd sight since a) if you caught a fish in the stream it would most likely be about 2 inches long and b) it would most likely be full of toxins. Of course we stopped and asked what they were doing. (The words, “Move along, folks. There’s nothing to see here,” ring in my ears.)

Apparently, one of them had seen a koi swimming in the creek earlier and they’d come back to rescue it. (You have to love LA. My street is packed full of homeless people and they are saving koi.) We didn’t stay long enough to find out if they found it, but we pulled far enough off the trail to step in some poison oak.

At least this is what we’ve deduced. My dad was here last weekend, so we didn’t go hiking. But, we did get poison oak. The only thing we can figure out is that it was on the shoes we wore for the walk we took with my dad.

Since Wednesday, I’ve been all over the net reading about poison oak and urushiol, the pesky oil it contains that can stay on things for YEARS and infect you. YEARS.

Since we aren’t 100% sure it was the shoes, we are washing everything. Pete started the laundry last night, washing all the towels and his clothes. I have piles of sheets to wash plus my clothes (fair division of laundry). I’ve sprayed the couch and our shoes down with rubbing alcohol. We’re hoping this covers any places the oils may be lurking.

Today, the spots are getting bigger, but softer around the edges – more blister-like. This is supposed to last 12-20 days. On the bright side, my obsessing has made the week fly by, but I have no idea how I’m not going to itch for that long. Pete’s already ripped the tops off of most of his blisters. I guess I did learn something from all my rashes as a kid. Although, it still feels great to just sit back and itch sometimes. Only 10-18 days to go…

Plastic: The Toxic of the Future

2008-01-30T18:20:00.000-08:00

Newsweek came again today. (I know, shocking since it is a WEEKLY magazine called NewsWEEK.) Last week, it warned me about Spokeo. This week, it’s plastics. As I reported before, I am trying extremely hard to avoid chemicals in my personal products and eat organic at home. I even switched to a Nalgene bottle at work instead of throwing away two plastic water bottles a day. I thought I was on the right track.

Apparently, hard plastic like my Nalgene bottle is akin to rolling around in freshly fertilized grass for the afternoon (and no, not the poop fertilizer). Bisphenol A (BPA) is seeping out of the plastic into my water and mimicking my hormones thereby screwing with my future potential children (and maybe even child-bearing???). This was not happy news for me (some scientists dispute it). Older bottles are worse because more toxic crap can leech out of scratches and heat from the dishwasher breaks the plastic down even more. In an effort to not create more waste, I am still using a Nalgene bottle from when I lived in Boulder (it was part of the uniform there). I left Boulder in 2001. The bottle is OLD. It is its own mini-superfund site.

How am I suppose to drink water? A glass bottle is the most obvious solution, but it’s breakable, and I’m clumsy. (I can’t even count the number of times I’ve dropped the Nalgene, but the permanent gouges around the base attest to it.) I found a website that says Sigg bottles are the best, but they are made from aluminum and my mom told me aluminum causes Alzheimer’s. The Sigg bottles are lined with enamel so the aluminum doesn’t leech into my brain, but what if it gets scratched?

There is talk of making a baby in our house lately so I am more aware of things mimicking my hormones or depleting a future son’s sperm count (thank you, phthalates). I know I can’t live in a bubble of non-toxic goodness because the bubble would be plastic (and lord only knows what I’d be breathing), but I’m working on it. It would be nice if the EPA helped a little, too.

** I’ll update my beauty quest soon (it is MUCH harder than I thought it would be – and expensive!).

Gifting the New Ones

2008-01-28T16:50:00.000-08:00

I’ll admit. I am horrible when it comes to gifts. I think about things. I go on-line to look at things. I come up with ornate, exciting gifts, but then I never manage to buy them. I have good intentions. I get birth announcements and I put them on my fridge thinking, “Next time I’m at the Gap, I’ll find a little something for Ella (or Logan or Luca or Conner or Cole or Chloe or … well, you get the point).” But the truth is, I almost never make it to the Gap, and if I do, I’m way too busy checking out t-shirts and sundresses for ME to remember the birth announcements on my fridge. And in the unlikely case I do, I have to do the math to figure out how old they will be when it is time to wear a sundress or snowsuit. (Side note: I prefer local stores or internet sites like Etsy, but then it's hard to return if they don't like the gift. Frugal people think like this. I don't want my gift given away.)

Weddings are far easier. People are almost always registered at Crate and Barrel or Macy’s, and if not, The Wedding Channel.com will tell me where to go if their website doesn’t. I simply scan the list of what the lovely couple wants, and a few clicks and a hundred dollars later I can check the task off my list.

Getting married changed my gift giving habits considerably. I was shocked at how many people who weren’t invited to our wedding sent us gifts. I know most people try to get married only once, and the hopes of a new marriage and all that stuff makes people happy, but we got gifts from co-workers who we don’t even hang out with socially. After I dashed off their thank you notes, gushing with how thoughtful they were, I felt ashamed of how many babies births passed me by with little more than an email saying, “Congrats! S/he is beautiful! I hope you can pee without pain soon!”

Really. Gracious. Elegant. Classy? I think not. Maybe Klassy, but that’s not something I strive for. So, I’m making a huge effort to be Classy and Considerate. I don’t want to fall into the sinkhole of superfluous gift giving, but marking major milestones like pushing a baby out (or having it cut out – how about just carrying a baby?) and getting married should be marked with gifts.

So, Ella and Chloe got new brothers in the past six months (I’m trying, people!) and I have two boxes under my desk each containing a little outfit. They’ve been there a week. I have part of the problem under control (gifts are purchased!), but now I’m wondering if the outfits will fit by the time I get around to mailing them out.

This baby gift giving is hard. No wonder I usually stick with blankets.

Kinda Creepy

2008-01-25T17:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was reading Newsweek and stumbled upon an article about a website called Spokeo. Basically, you can enter your friends’ email addresses, websites or a social networking site, and Spokeo will keep track of what your friends are up to with a running commentary on your home page. The home page is similar to the one on Facebook (Bob added new photos. Jane changed her Amazon wish list. Sally posted a new blog on MySpace.) Of course I had to go to Spokeo to see what my friends were up to.

I put in one of my many email addresses and let it search my friends. The list grew and next to each name was a small icon (Flickr, Google smiley face, MySpace, Amazon or a plus sign which dropped down all of the icons for my computer addicted friends – mine had a plus sign). I started clicking away. For most people, it said “No content.” The smart friends had restricted their MySpace page so I couldn’t see those (and one friend didn't match the content pulled up for her). But there was still stuff to see (most of it old). I saw photos of a friend I’ve lost touch with on her trip to Ireland and another to Maui. I saw videos of another friend’s kid.

The weirdest thing was seeing people’s Amazon Wish Lists. One of my cousins wants a book called “Conversations with God.” Another, who is in med school, appropriately wants books about being a doctor. Another friend with kids had bath toys, a stroller and a how to raise boys book on her list. I found my wish list that I created in 2002 (the lists state when the person added the item to their wish list, and most of them were added in 2006 or earlier) so my parents would buy me the fashion design books I wanted (they never did – thank god so I don’t have to feel guilty for not using them). I had completely forgotten about the list (apparently I’m not alone), but it tells something about me just like my bookshelves at home do. And at home, there are some books I don’t put on the shelves – just like I didn’t plan on anyone being able to see my wish list (innocuous as it is). I changed the privacy setting to PRIVATE so now only I know how boring I am.

I truly felt like a voyeur, however, when I saw an acquaintance that had “My Pregnancy Journal” on her wish list. Forget the Flickr photos. You know those are public when you put them up. Of course people might look at your pictures, but a pregnancy journal on a wish list? For a brief moment, I thought, “How exciting! She and her boyfriend are having a baby!” Then, I noticed she put it on the list in 2003. Did she miscarry? Was it for a friend? What happened and why did she want that book? (She doesn’t have any kids that I know of.) And what business is it of mine to wonder any of those things?

Anyone who uses a computer regularly knows that people can see what we are doing. (Ironically, Spokeo did not find this blog.) When I write, I am careful not to let loose if I am upset with a friend, or even mention a friend’s name (see pregnancy book above) because although I’ve decided to air my laundry, none of them have agreed to let me air theirs. And something like a wish list? I never would have thought that would turn up in a search. After plugging myself into Spokeo, nothing very interesting came up other than my Amazon wish list, my maternity website-based MySpace page (an acquaintance will wonder if that is my belly in the photo. It’s not), and my empty Flickr account. MySpace blogs show up, but Typepad and Blogspot ones don’t. I found rants from my friend Dan, who stopped blogging because his neighbors read one of his rants about them. (Maybe they use Spokeo?) (He said it’s still a little uncomfortable in the ‘hood.)

So internet, be careful what you post and expose of yourself in the cyber world. Copyright your photos on Flickr. Be careful what you write or wish for. And just to be safe(or curious), check to see what Spokeo pulls up on you.

R.I.P.

2008-01-23T17:29:00.000-08:00

Heath Ledger’s death shocked me. He was a young, handsome and successful father. But we all fight demons. Our own demons might seem small in comparison to others, but they are ours none the less. From what all the news reports and Hollywood rumors say, one of his demons was drugs.

He always struck me as a very normal person and someone I would probably enjoy hanging out with. I love that he and Michelle Williams chose to live outside of the limelight in Brooklyn rather than here, where paparazzi are a regular sight in certain neighborhoods. (I’ve even seen them scope me out to make sure I wasn’t someone worthy of a photo. I guess it’s a compliment, but I’ll stick with being a nobody.)

I am sorry he left this world as young as he did – especially with a daughter who bears a striking resemblance to him (yes, I am guilty of looking at the paparazzi photos).

If this tragedy does nothing else, please be reminded that if your demons start getting the upper hand, please find the time and energy to seek help.

The Most Depressing Monday

2008-01-22T13:58:00.000-08:00

Apparently, yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. Pete heard it on the news this morning. I wasn’t surprised. Yesterday, I was gripped by melancholy. Before yesterday started, I had grand plans. Pete had to work (I guess his company doesn’t deem Dr. King’s accomplishments worthy of a day off), so I had the entire day to myself. I planned on hemming some jeans (four pairs from the Citizens sample sale), maybe sewing up a baby blanket for a friend, getting my hair cut, cooking a little, doing a few loads of laundry, going for a walk or yoga. Basically, I was going to what any woman in the 1950s did while her husband worked (minus yoga) and I was looking forward to it. (Hmmm… what does this say about me? And I consider myself a feminist!) But then, the day started.

Pete got up, and I lay there immobile. It was my day off. I was allowed. I stayed there for another hour and a half. Awake. I finally pulled myself from the bed around 9am, just in time to take a shower before getting my hair cut.

The hair cut went well. My friend cuts my hair and I always enjoy seeing her. I tried my best to be upbeat, but it was like a dampness filled my head. I smiled, but it was forced. I felt awful.

I came home, and decided the only way to lift the blues was to meditate and ask for some help. So I did. I meditated for almost an hour. (Okay, my mind wandered A LOT.) I felt a little better, but the damp, heavy feeling still pervaded my body. So I did what all depressed people do, and I took a nap. Nothing like avoiding the problem. (Isn’t that one of the signs of depression?)

Luckily, my friend Heidi came by unexpectedly and we went for a walk and a tea on the boardwalk. Thank god she came by. Depression is selfish and when in the presence of others, it is hard to be solely focused on myself. After I listened to her about her life (hey, we all have things going on – I don’t have a monopoly on major decisions), I was able to finally start my laundry and make chili. It was 5:00. Needless to say, the jeans are still not hemmed, yoga never happened and sewing a baby blanket? Please. I might actually enjoy that. (I actually enjoyed making chili, but I’d be happy if I could wave a wand and have my laundry folded in my drawers.)

For now, I’m just glad to know I wasn’t the only one feeling depressed yesterday. Who knew there was a most depressing day of the year? More importantly, why isn’t it on the calendar so we can be ready for it?

In Gratitude

2008-01-21T18:11:00.000-08:00

Thank you for having a dream. The world is a better place because of you.
Happy Birthday, Dr. King.

The Business of Being Born

2008-01-18T15:54:00.000-08:00

I have been pro-home birth, pro-baby for a long time. Maybe all the hippies rubbed off on me when I lived in Boulder. Who knows... all I know is that in Los Angeles NOT having an epidural is like saying you don't want to ever eat again. Wait... that's normal for some women in LA. Hmmm... this is all starting to make sense. Anyway, I haven't seen the movie yet, but I am excited that Ricki Lake and director Abby Epstein are spreading the word that birth is not a medical condition.

The Good German

2008-01-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

For all the reasons I make a poor German, there are plenty of reasons I love Germany. I don’t want the world thinking I am anti-German. I’m just pro-food-that-makes-me-feel-good. Selfish, I know.

There are quite a few things the Gemans get right. Let’s start with chocolate. I’m not sure if it’s because Pete is full-grown and can eat whatever he pleases, but I am under the impression chocolate for breakfast is A-OK in Germany. And you know what? That’s A-OK with me, too. As stated before, Nutella is a mixture sent straight from the gods. Spread on fresh baked, warm pretzels? De-lish! Top it with homemade strawberry jam? Heaven.

In the grocery store, there were TWO sections for chocolate. How can you not love a country that holds chocolate in such high esteem?

I also love the greenways. Pete grew up in small town in southern Germany. His parents were farmers. Unlike the United States where a farm means you live in a lone house in the middle of your fields, agriculture has been around for hundreds of years in Germany. Therefore, the towns cluster around the castle and the fields cluster around the towns. The towns all seem to be about a mile or two apart, which is perfect for walking or bicycling so there are paths (a.k.a. greenways) that connect all the towns.

We walked twenty minutes through dormant fields to get to his best friend’s house. Along the way, we passed neighbors and friends who were also out for walks. I love that people walk to get somewhere – even if it is just to better health or to get out of the house. No one seemed to mind it was only 30 degrees. Not even me.

Last year, our trip was all about family. This year, in addition to the family, we found time to sneak away to Rothenburg. Pete had never been, even though it is only two hours from his house, but I had been in high school with my parents. (My house was over 4000 miles away, but hey, who’s checking? Plus, we didn’t have cows to look after in suburban Virginia.)

We stopped on the way back from visiting his aunt, so by the time we rolled into town, it was dark and extremely cold. Pete thought I was dragging him to some lame village where we would have a hard time finding a decent meal, but instead we found a magical little town. Apparently, it is one of the only towns that wasn’t bombed to bits during the world wars. It still has the wall surrounding the city, the amazing old buildings, the twisty streets and the gates that kept it safe. It was nicknamed the Christmas Village. The influx of tourists confirms that people love it. It was the only time during our trip that I heard more English than German. And it annoyed me. Go figure. I can finally understand people and I want them to go away. I’m crazy.

The wall around the city. Despite how bright it looks, it was pitch black. Hello flash!
The town center and the tree. One of the gates to the city.

Hopefully, we can continue exploring the surrounding areas one village at a time over the years. I was informed that France, Switzerland and Austria are all within two hours of his home town. All I have to say is there is a lot of world out there to see, and I plan on seeing as much of it as I can – including lots of Germany.

Hanoi

2008-01-09T16:21:00.000-08:00

Before we arrived in Hanoi, we were told how much we would love it. If Saigon is a bustling teenager, eager to try new things, Hanoi is the wise, older grandmother holding onto tradition. Hanoi is famous for its old quarter, and rightfully so plus, it is the capital and houses Ho Chi Minh’s remains. The city holds more charm than all of Saigon (and I really like Saigon).

Originally, we planned on spending two days in Saigon, hopping a plane to Hanoi and then coming back down the coast via five days in Hoi An and Hue, which are in central Vietnam. Both cities are written about extensively, and best of all, Hoi An has lovely beaches. I thought we could have the best of both worlds: beach and history. Perfect! Well, no one told the weather. I spent the week before we left tracking a typhoon that was headed for, you guessed it, Hoi An. I quickly added warm clothes to my packing list with the assumption we would head to Sapa rather than the beach (it’s good to be a planner).

Sure enough, the typhoon smacked into the central coast and flooded both cities. We heard crazy tales of leaving hotels in neck deep water, of pushing wives and luggage in small, round fishing boats to get to dry land. The best story we heard was the 500 crocodiles that escaped in Hue and were swimming around. At the time, they had captured fifty of them. It was then we knew we weren’t in the US anymore. Someone surely would have sued.

One day in Saigon, we watched as people were turned away from our guesthouse again and again. The floods had pushed all the central coast people north and south. Originally, we planned on just flying to Hanoi and finding a hotel. Watching them, we decided it would be best to book ahead of time.

Our guesthouse had an internet connection, so we went to Trip Advisor and found a hotel with a decent rating and rates. We booked it online and got our confirmation. Easy. We weren’t going to wander the streets of Hanoi. We planned ahead.

We arrived in Hanoi around 6pm and took a taxi into the city for $10, or so we thought. When the driver stopped the car, he told us $20 - $10 each. The injustice swelled in the back of my throat like barf pushing to get out. My bag was in his trunk. We were stuck. We had to give him something. Pete, rightfully so, starting yelling at him. I was silently freaking out. We didn’t have $20 anymore, but I had $15, which he finally took and set my bag free.

Bitching and moaning about getting scammed, we lumbered down the alley where our guesthouse was only to find it closed. Not like closed for dinner, but closed and under construction. CLOSED. As in never opened. EVER. I cursed Trip Advisor.

At that moment, we were wishing we’d gone to the tropical island of Phu Quoc instead of Hanoi. Luckily, the Hanoi Hostel was down the street, and full of helpful people. The owner/manager, a great Aussie – Mick or Mike, was awesome. I was slumped in the corner, defeated while Pete and he figured out what happened. Basically, the scamming isn’t limited to taxis. People submit bogus reviews to Trip Advisor, get listed, have people come to their hotels even if they aren’t that great or, in our case, open. Oy. Since it was our honeymoon, we lifted the budget accommodation requirement and told him we’d stay anywhere – even the Sofitel. But no. Everything was sold out. Everything.

Some sweet women from Australia offered us the second bed in their room, saying they could share and we could share (the generosity of humans never ceases to amaze me), but Mick/Mike, who’d disappeared, reappeared to tell us he’d found us a room around the corner for $55. **If you are a budget traveler and find yourself in Hanoi, please stay at the Hanoi Hostel – great folks. I didn’t see the rooms, but everyone seemed happy.

From there, Hanoi looked up. Our room was lovely – I mean, not the Sofitel or anything, but really quite nice. We had a balcony that overlooked the Cathedral.

The next morning, we tooled around the city, which is incredibly walk-able. We wandered through the Old Quarter and the French Quarter (I couldn’t figure out the difference or are they the same?). We had breakfast at this café that was hard to find, but once we did, we climbed to the top and looked out over the lake. We found another restaurant we loved, and sat upstairs looking down on the street as we sampled spring rolls. We quickly learned that most restaurants have upstairs, and that’s where the best tables are.

The following day we headed to Halong Bay, which shouldn’t be missed even if you hate tours, and then onto Sapa. After Sapa, we had one day in Hanoi before flying to Saigon and home to Los Angeles. But more on that later.

The American Wife

2008-01-07T17:07:00.000-08:00

We just got back from 10 winter wonderland days in Germany. It was gorgeous. The trees covered in light layers of white, lights twinkling. The Germans invented Christmas. Even with my thin, wimpy California blood, I appreciated it. I even took walks outside. Really. I did. But I digress. Theses are things that make me a good German: enjoying fresh air walks despite the temperature. (A balmy 20 something - when we left LA it was 75 and SUNNY.)

But really, I am a horrible German.

1. I don’t speak German. My three years of high school French followed by three semesters of college French and an extension course in Spanish do NOTHING to help me speak German except to think of the word in French or Spanish instead of German, which is, of course, no help at all.

One thing I love is that Pete’s family likes to sit around the table after a meal chatting. My family does it, too, and I think it’s so great. Bonding. Laughing. I mean, people don’t do this much anymore. Everyone is running off to meet other people or watch TV or clean or just get away from the people they are with. But after an hour of Pete or my sister-in-law translating, we all get tired so they stop translating and I’m left staring off into space. It’s kind of like when I was a kid and had to sit with my parents while they talked to some other adults about taxes or gas prices. I’d sit there and tap my fingers, zone out and wish to be dismissed from the table. Well, listening to people laugh when you have no idea what they are talking about feels about the same as being eight and not understanding taxes or the double-entendre joke. Basically, it sucks.

2. I am not and will never be a member of the clean plate club. This fact alone makes it impossible for me to be a German. I don’t know if it is residuals from the war or what, but the Germans do not leave food on a plate. I mean NEVER. Luckily, I have a husband and brother-in-law with hollow legs who clean-up after me and my wimpy appetite. But occasionally, even they are too full to cram the last piece of meat on my plate into their gullets. The servers won’t even clear plates with food still on them. I swear. I sat with my fork and knife placed in the finished position for not one, not two but FOUR passes of the server before she picked up my plate. I mean, really. I can’t eat three pieces of pork with creamy, tasty sauce, spaetzle, and salad all at once.

3. Meat. Every meal has meat. EVERY meal (at least during the holidays). I like meat. I eat meat. But not every meal and definitely not pork with every meal. Breakfast? Check? Dinner? Check. (It seems that there are only two meals and the cookie snack time, which is mercifully, meat-free.) I won’t even start talking about the two-meals thing. I graze all day. ALL DAY! I’m not a two-meal a day person. I’m more like 1 plus 6 snacks.

Breakfast German-style. It's tasty, but wow did I miss my smoothie.

4. Wheat and dairy aren’t my friends. Seriously. When I was a kid, I was allergic (as deemed by a real life doctor) to milk and wheat. Yes, birthday parties sucked since I couldn’t eat anything. Rice cake instead of chocolate cake? Welcome to my childhood. I’ve mainly grown out of my allergy, but my body still prefers if I stick to a rice based diet. Guess what the Germans eat with every meal? You got it: bread, cheese and/or cream. I only saw rice once, and it sucked, which might be why they don’t eat more of it. But they can bake some killer pretzels, rolls, cakes and cookies. And I should know since I ate them all. Often. Did I mention I put on at least five pounds? (I knew I was in trouble when I’d get back to the house and go straight for the sweats. Always a bad sign.)

5. I’m a light-weight. I can’t drink. If I have two glasses of wine, I’m either silly or have a headache. And I never know which it will be until I’m there so often I skip the alcohol altogether. Well, in Germany, ordering a pilsner with lunch is normal (at least during the holidays). Schnapps toasts? Sure! Remember how I said Pete’s family sits around and talks all night? I neglected to mention over beers (and wine).

In a moment of pity during our trip, I said to Pete, “It’s not your fault you picked an American wife who can’t speak German or eat wheat or diary or drink much. It’s all my fault.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly what I said, but you get the point. Yes, Pete married an American, but at least I'm not a vegetarian.

They even have meat cigars!!!

Merry Holidays

2007-12-21T12:27:00.000-08:00

Hopefully, all the presents are wrapped, your bags are packed or unpacked (if you’re traveling) and the tree is trimmed. Hopefully, you aren’t planning on frantically shopping for all of your gifts Monday. Allegedly, my great-grandfather would do this every year. Wait until Christmas Eve and knock it all out. God only knows the crap he gave. We all know the “pressure” gifts we’ve bought in the past. Hell, the stores know we cave under pressure. Why do you think Victoria’s Secret has the cute jammies packaged to go? Pottery Barn has frames pre-wrapped. (Which strikes me as strange since I usually give frames with pictures in them hence making more work. Unwrap, put picture in, rewrap. It’s a whole extra step plus feeling badly about unwrapping the nice wrapping.) The perfume gift sets at Macy’s? Those scream, “Help me! I’m clueless, but this looks nice and kinda smells good.” We’ve all caved and bought crap.

Our family is so lucky this year. First, they get a great picture of us from our wedding in a nice, wrapped-only-once frame. Just what they all want! (At least my mom does and I’m hoping we make the photo wall at my dad’s, father-in-law’s and brother-in-law’s. This is a milestone photo, people!) And then, they get some goody from Vietnam like a Tiger beer t-shirt or lacquered coasters or purses from the peddlers in Sapa. I mean, these are things people really, really want. (I swear they are cooler than they sound.)

So, I hope everyone loves the presents you give, and in return, you get all the goodies your heart desires.

Merry Christmas!
Happy Hannukah!
Fabulous Kwanza!
Wonderful Solstice!
Dreamy Days Off From Work!

May your holidays be drama-free and full of love and laughter.

Peace out ‘til 2008. I have to go drink some schnapps.

The Birth of a Hypocrite

2007-12-18T22:43:00.000-08:00

I’ve been told Los Angeles has one of the largest homeless populations in the United States. (40,000 is the estimate –that’s a TOWN!) Just in case you didn’t know that includes the infamous Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles and Venice Beach. From what I understand, the shelters are over-crowded and no one wants to pay to help resolve the problem.

Since it’s winter (yes, we have one) the homeless seek shelter (homeless does not mean stupid). As recently as last year there were areas on the boardwalk that offered refuge in front of stores. Many evenings, when Pete and I went for walks, we would see groups of people settling in for the night there. Now, there are metal gates that prevent them from getting cover. Where do they go? Parking garages – including ours.

In the past week or so, our garage (more like a large car port) became a homeless haven. When I left for work in the morning, I saw people lounging on a mattress, bikes propped up, people asleep between the cement parking stop and the wall. When I came home from work, they were either still there or back for the night. Everyone was really nice, and even said good morning and other niceties. But honestly, they bother me.

For all my life I’ve considered myself a liberal. I vote Democratic. I believe more funding should be spent on social services and education than the war. I believe we should fix the domestic problems before we meddle in more international ones. I believe there should be shelters and rehab facilities for people who end up homeless. I even think homeless have a right to someplace public to sleep. But then again, my garage isn’t public.

I’ve become one of them. You know, the “it’s all good as long as it isn’t in my backyard” people who claim to be liberal. It was easy when I didn’t smell urine walking to my car every morning. It was easy when I didn’t come home to a junkie puking in the corner by my neighbor’s car. It was easy when I had a washer and dryer and didn’t have to go to the garage to wash my clothes where the washers are conveniently placed so when I’m loading the washer, my back is to the door. There is nothing like doing laundry and looking over my shoulder making sure a crazy isn’t going to jump me (I’m not the only woman in the building who won’t do laundry after dark). It was easy when I could park my car at night and not worry that a person high on drugs wasn’t going to pee (or worse) on it. Before he knew better, Pete sometimes left his car unlocked. Once, he found a crack pipe, and once he found a person who’d been smoking a crack pipe. These things don’t happen in the suburbs.

It’s easy to be liberal when everyone is like you. I still believe the same things, but I thought I was a bigger, better person who could empathize with homelessness, and in theory, I do. I just don't want them in my garage.

I loathe to admit, but when I drove into the alley the other night and saw police officers herding the homeless out of our garage, I did a little cheer inside. And I hated myself for it.

A Birthday Experience

2007-12-18T16:16:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday was Pete’s birthday. I woke him up by yelling, “Happy Birthday!” I bounced on the bed asking, “You want your presents?” before running off to the living room to retrieve the little pile of goods I’d wrapped. You’d think it was my birthday I was so excited.

To top the day off, I took him to Wolfgang Puck’s steakhouse CUT in Beverly Hills. For our wedding, we’d received a $200 gift certificate for it, and I thought his birthday was a great excuse to go.

As stated before, I love food. I love to cook. I like reading cookbooks, cooking magazines, restaurant reviews and most of all, trying new restaurants. When I was single, my favorite pastime was dining out. Even when I was in high school, my friends and I would go to the American Café near Tyson’s Corner over a party some weekends. (I know, I’m a geek.) My favorite thing is finding great, authentic food at reasonable prices (of course), but I am not one to shy away from highly recommended, expensive places. Food is my one splurge. No matter how broke I ever was, I always found money for good food (to make or order).

Earlier in the day, I introduced Pete to the concept of King for your Birthday. For logistical reasons, we haven’t spent a birthday together until this one. Apparently, his family didn’t’ play this game. I mean, some years, my brother and I even stayed home from school because, hello! royalty doesn’t need to go to school. How unbecoming. (My senior year a teacher even called home and yelled at my mom for being a bad mother and I was actually sick – a first.)

Pete knew we had the gift certificate and he was, for the first time in his life, crowned king and quite enjoyed it. He ordered what he wanted without even a glance at the prices. I tried to manage what I ordered, but it’s not easy.

This is what we ordered:

A Kettle One dirty martini
2 glasses of Cabernet
A plate of beef sashimi (that would be raw beef to ya’ll) (Guess who ordered that?)
A fancy apple salad with dates and almonds (I think I can make it with some imagination)
A bone-in filet mignon
A bourdelaise sauce for said filet (yes, the sauces cost $2)
An aged New York sirloin
A horseradish sauce for said NY sirloin
A side of mashed potatoes
A side of roasted carrots and artichoke bits
A chocolate soufflé

We were also given delicious cheese puffs, great focaccia (though not a great pretzel roll so deemed by the German birthday boy), a tasting tray of four mustards for the steaks plus small pieces of sweets (a chocolate bar thing and a lemon bar). Everything was incredible (minus the pretzel roll). The service was almost impeccable except we were without a candle for awhile after Pete accidentally blew it out for the second time. (The first time it was promptly relit. Maybe they were trying to teach him a lesson? EAT IN THE DARK, YOU CANDLE-BLOWER-OUTER!)

The experience was truly birthday worthy. We had fun. The people-watching was excellent although a bit intimidating since everyone seemed to be a millionaire. I kept waiting for someone to shout, “IMPOSTERS!” and be thrown out.

I knew Cut was going to be expensive. It’s a steakhouse. They are all expensive (at least the ones without salad bars). Before we went, I thought back to a dinner I had at Mastro’s, another Beverly Hills’ steakhouse for $150 (in hindsight, no apps or martinis) and actually thought we might have money left over to pay for part of a meal at Chinois on Main (Wolfie’s restaurant we can walk to). Oh how naïve I was.

Our meal was the MOST expensive meal I’ve ever been a part of (and seen the bill). $322.53 (including tip). As I mentioned before, I splurge on food. I’ve spent $80 on myself for dinner more than a few times. We’ve had prix fixe Valentine’s dinners that cost $100 per person. But $160 per person???

*************************************************

When Pete woke up Sunday morning, he said, “Do you know what we could have bought with $300?”

“Yes. And we bought an experience we don’t need to have again.”

Yin and Yang

2007-12-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

I’m kind of cheap. I mean, I’m not the person at a group dinner splitting the cost of the appetizer, adding up my entrée and one glass of wine, loudly declaring, “I only had one glass of wine. I’m paying $20 instead of $40!” We all know that person. No, I’m not her. I guess I’m more “frugal.”

I hate paying full retail price. HATE IT. I hate it so much that last Saturday I waited not one, but TWO HOURS to get into the Citizens of Humanity sample sale. TWO HOURS!! (Okay, we left to check other sample sales and came back to our same spot in line the nice women in front of us held while they thought we were eating but it was still 1 hour and fifteen minutes.) On the bright side, I found four pairs of pants for $320 instead of $800, but come on! It was almost my ENTIRE Saturday! Do I really NEED four new pairs of pants? Probably not. (See? Frugal, not cheap.)

Which brings me to my yang. Pete is generous. I mean, really, really, makes-my-tight-fist-clench generous.

I’ll go online to buy a wedding gift for a wedding we didn’t attend, and think, “This lovely vase seems like a good purchase.”

“No, you can spend more.”

“Um, okay. The platter is nice, too.”

“Get them the platter AND the vase,” he’ll declare.

My little, cheap heart shudders.

To give a little perspective, I was broke for years after college (like twelve). I graduated and moved to Los Angeles, which isn’t the smartest thing to do without money or nice clothes or parents to live with. Luckily, Visa and MasterCard thought I should look stylish and eat at fabulous restaurants so they sponsored me. After I grew tired of all the trying so hard, I decided I needed to move back to Colorado. Again, Visa and MasterCard took pity on me and helped finance it. My pals Visa and MasterCard never wanted me to go without, and kindly stepped in to buy me new furniture for my apartment in Boulder. They paid for lift tickets for skiing. Dinner out with friends. The outfit I wore to go to dinner and the one for skiing. They were like fairy godparents. Until I had to pay them back.

I always worked over the years, but it seemed like none of the jobs paid very well. When I realized those nasty fairy godparents weren’t going to help, I battened down the hatches. Money squeaked out. I stopped spending as frivolously. I started thinking, “Do I need another pair of black shoes or could I send that money to Visa or MasterCard?” My mindset around money shifted completely. I learned to respect money, but it took awhile. It wasn’t like I just woke up and thought, “By Jove I’ve got it! Stop spending!”

And then finally, one bright day, after scrimping, respecting and limiting my eating out habit (it is bad), I found that I was no longer indebted to Visa and MasterCard.

Which brings me back to Pete. He has never been indebted to the ugly fairy god parents. He’s German. Europeans don’t understand the concept of getting in debt to build credit so he never did. He had low points in his financial life, but not with the noose of debt hanging around his neck. He approaches spending very differently than I do.

Which brings me to last night and why I am lucky that he’s my husband. My friend Heidi produced an indie film, and had a silent auction to raise money for it last night. He was intent on finding things to bid on, and we did. When I didn’t want to bid more for something, he would say, “But it’s for Heidi! It’s a good cause.” While I agreed, I didn’t see the need for us to have flip-flop coasters or pay over the retail price for a cool travel book (plus I donated a few items for the auction).

We ended up with the winning bid for a beautiful antique watch Pete had to have and winning the raffle ($50 gift certificate for a local restaurant). Unfortunately, most of the people there didn’t bid on anything, and things (other than the travel book) went for far under value. Thankfully, I have him in my life to loosen my purse strings and let some of the money flow. Not to mention, support my friends.

Saigon a.k.a. Ho Chi Minh City

2007-12-12T15:30:00.000-08:00

We arrived in Saigon late on a Sunday night and found out that Pete’s bag was still in California. So by the time we filled out paperwork, it was really late. Like midnight. Our first taste of Saigon, therefore, was really quite mellow. Our taxi driver introduced us to honking and optional stoplights (it seems as if they all are), and then, after passing the hotel I tried to get us a room in, dropped us off and pointed down an alley. He said our hotel was down there.

This is the alley AFTER we went down the creepy alley. Looks kind of nice in the late day.

To preface this, I spent hours reading forums on TripAdvisor and Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree researching places to go, money (what’s best to bring – answer: crisp $100US, $1 and $5 bills), and of course, safety. All over the boards are warnings about bogus taxis, getting dropped off at hotels that one didn’t ask to go to. The list goes on.

So, here we are at midnight in Saigon handing a taxi driver $8US to drop us off in the middle of the street and point us to an alley. Naïve American travelers? Yes. But here’s the thing: our hotel really was down the little alley.

I’m frugal. I don’t see the point in spending hundreds of dollars a night on a room I’ll barely spend time in. Most women, when it comes to their honeymoon, would have never agreed to stay anywhere besides top tier hotels because they only cost about $200 a night instead of $500 in Hawaii. But, I found us a room for $13 a night. Why spend so much on a hotel when we could spend that on more travel or great meals? This is the same mentality I use when booking coach tickets.

Sometimes my frugality bites me in the ass. This would be one of those times. Our lovely host led us to our cell, I mean room, on the first floor. It was just large enough to fit a double bed, small refrigerator and small wardrobe. I was glad Pete’s bag was missing. It wouldn’t have fit. Did I mention the window looked out onto the hallway and had BARS ON IT?

Pete’s clothes were in California. We were sleeping in a cell. This was our HONEYMOON. If I hadn’t been so tired, I might have cried.

The next morning, we asked our host if he had any other rooms with windows looking OUTSIDE and also, higher in the building because we heard everyone stomp to breakfast and their plans for the day. He showed us a nice room on the third floor with a window to outside, but he told us it was more. It was $16 more. I thought this was a little steep, but at that point, my cheapness was keeping quiet. We moved our (that would be my) things to the new room with the hope Pete’s would arrive that day.

The first day was like being thrown into a circus ring with all the shows going at once. Saigon has 3 million motor scooters (motos), and they function similarly to cars. People pile whole families onto them, shopping bags, refrigerators, bookshelves – you name it, it goes on a moto. Coming from a country where kids stay in car seats until they are 80 pounds, it shocked me to see toddlers sitting between their mom or dad's legs or STANDING between mom and dad as they zipped and dodged across the city. Most of them didn't have helmets. It was mind boggling.

Once we processed the moto craziness, we realized we had to wade in to cross the street. All intuition and rules about crossing the street had to be abandoned. The only way to cross through the madness was to step into it. Luckily, motos are agile and weave around pedestrians. We paused for buses and large cars to pass, but otherwise, it was best to keep moving. I admit, the first time we crossed a major street, we followed a local woman who was about, oh 90. Please note, we didn’t help her across; we followed her. Trembling.
Note the family crossing the street with traffic flowing. Totally normal.
We spent the day alternately getting scammed since it was our first day and we didn’t know better, avoiding crossing the street and absorbing the chaos around us. It was incredibly overwhelming, and at the same time, exhilarating. Aside from the fact that there are cars, people and buildings, it was like nowhere we’d ever been before. It was organized chaos. And we loved it.
This is my "stop taking my picture and let's get some food" face. I'm very serious about food.

My Husband

2007-12-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

When I started this blog, my husband thought it was a really bad idea. He doesn’t like the idea of personal information available for public consumption, and because of that, I try my best to keep our lives slightly veiled. I published a post prior to leaving for Vietnam that said how long we would be gone for and how excited I was. I wanted to share the excitement, but then, I started thinking about it all. What if someone was reading my blog and knew we were out of town…. All the “what ifs” starting creeping in, so I deleted it.

Although he has warmed to the idea of my posting about our lives, he asked me not to use his name, which is why I refer to him as “my husband.” I hate writing that because it seems so… well, unlike me. I thought about just calling him, “The German,” but that’s a nickname I would have given him if we’d dated and it hadn’t work out.

He has a German name that isn’t common in the US, so he saves himself time at restaurants and coffee shops by simply telling them his name is Pete. So, to honor him, I won’t call him by his real name. From here on out, he will be known as Pete.

Oh right... there was a war.

2007-12-03T17:00:00.000-08:00

In school, I never learned much about the Vietnam War (called the American War there). My school district made time for the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, a brief snippet of the World Wars, and a quick, off-handed reference to the Vietnam War. Maybe it was too close for comfort. Maybe some of the district planners were there, or lost family there. Hopefully, Ken Burns will make a documentary so I can fill in the parts I don't understand.

It's hard to avoid the War in Vietnam. The main tourist attractions in Saigon and Hanoi center on it. We duly played tourist and went to the museums and landmarks.

In Saigon, I had a quick lesson from the winner’s point of view at the War Remnants Museum. I felt awful being an American. I am not a flag-waving American, but I am happy to be one. Looking at the pictures of the defoliation destruction, the birth defects caused by Agent Orange and the devastation that the war caused made me sick. Recently, I watched Ken Burns' documentary on World War II (it's amazing if you haven't seen it), and in it, veterans talk about how during the war, they did things they are ashamed of. Because of that documentary, I felt I better understood the savagery of war, but still, it’s awful. And whoever thought we could beat the Vietnamese had never spent time with them. Small, strong, stealth and proud - I couldn’t imagine battling them.

The Cu Chi tunnels only furthered my thoughts on that. Over 20 years, hundreds of miles of tunnels were dug that went down 3 and 4 stories. They included rooms for meeting, making weapons, sleeping, hospitals and cooking with the smoke vented far from the actual kitchen. It was ingenious - and hellish. The tunnel openings were about 12”x8” and completely camouflaged by leaves. They created escape routes and, in places, made the tunnels narrower to prevent the larger American GIs from crawling through. (They've since widened the tunnels for the tourists.) We went though about 40 meters of tunnel. Crawling through, I put my hands on the wall in front of me to feel where I was going (or used the light from my camera). It was pitch black and hot. Sometimes, they stayed underground for weeks. I was happy to be out after 5 minutes. How do you win against this?

Where's the opening?
The opening we went into was dramatically larger and had stairs.
It looks bright only because of the flash. It was pitch black. Note my wide-open psycho eyes.
At one point of the tour, there is a rusty skeleton of a bombed-out American tank. The tour stops, with the tour guide telling us that it is a defeated American tank. Since litigation isn't as popular there, people are allowed to climb all over it. I've never been in or on a tank so I took the opportunity to climb on it. While I was on it, I couldn't stop thinking that someone's father, brother, son or husband died here, and now I'm climbing on it like it's part of an amusement park. It was haunting.

The whole thing was kind of creepy: laughing and posing for pictures in tunnels (snapping away blindly and hoping the camera is facing the right direction) that people hid in, climbing on tanks, seeing traps that ensnared Americans, shooting guns (we didn't because we decided that was something we could do in the US with safer, newer guns), and making sure to stop for ice cream. And despite all of that, it's interesting and I'm glad I went.

We also went to the Reunification Palace, which was taken the day the US evacuated (April 30, 1975 for those who, like me, had no idea). I still don't know all the details of the Palace other than the "puppet" leader (so called because they say the Americans were really in control) lived there until they assassinated him. Then, the new regime moved in and redecorated the place (and the 60s decor remains to this day). There were two stories underground that served as a mission control. But apparently, I was paying more attention to the 60s sofa than the lecture because I don't remember the details.

Cruising the halls of mission control 2 stories down. Much more comfortable than Cu Chi.
By the time we were in Hanoi, I wanted to avoid the war stuff, but again, it is the main stuff on the tourist map. After wandering the French Quarter and walking around the lake, we decided we needed to check out some more history. Unfortunately, Uncle Ho (Ho Chi Minh) was on vacation in China getting a little work done. Otherwise, we would have gone to see him at his mausoleum. I mean, how often do you get to see a dead person?

We decided to go to the infamous Hoa Lo Prison (a.k.a. Hanoi Hilton). The Vietnamese don't mess around. They put mannequins into the racks that people used to be in just in case your imagination went on hiatus with Uncle Ho. My personal favorite was peering into small cells, and getting the crap scared out of me because a life-like mannequin was chained-up inside. For years, the French used this prison to house Vietnamese, and that is the main focus, but the part that most interested me was that it was used for POWs during the Vietnam War. John McCain was in the “Hilton” from 1967 to 1973. I had no idea he was there for so long. From the photos and information, life in the “Hilton” was pleasant and full of comforts. I haven't done my research, but I find this hard to believe. I mean, it was a WAR.

After all the war sites, going to the War Museum was overkill (and I wish we had skipped it for the art museum). Although it covered all of the Vietnamese wars, there was a large portion dedicated to the American war. It was interesting to see information on the American anti-war protests in support of pulling out of Vietnam. I never would have thought those would end up in a museum in Vietnam. Outside, they had the requisite US Army helicopters, tanks and planes they recovered during or after the war.

All in all, it was a lot to process. The death. The hand my country had in it. The rebuilt country. The bad curating. Someone needs to tell them to unfold the uniforms and put them on mannequins. I could only handle so much before I needed to sit outside with a coffee, and the Vietnamese definitely know how to make a good coffee. But more on that another day.

Sapa: Flip-flops and Socks

2007-11-29T19:14:00.000-08:00

I planned on writing about our trip to Vietnam in chronological order, but that’s not how it’s coming out. I wrote a crap bit about Saigon, our first stop, but like I said, it’s crap. I was writing a letter of thanks to Robert Reid of Reid on Travel when this bit started flowing. Not one to deny the flow, I kept going and stayed late at work. So, here are excerpts from our honeymoon in Vietnam.

The only part of our trip that we splurged on was Sapa. We booked our tour with one of the nicer tour agencies, Exotissimo. For train tickets on the sleeper train (1 night there, 1 night back), a night in a nicer hotel (don’t recall how many stars), a guided trek, two meals and a private car to and from the station, we paid $134 each. Yes, Vietnam is cheap.

I felt like a VIP. Someone met us at the station in Hanoi with our tickets (we were in Halong Bay the days before and couldn’t pick them up) and walked us to our berth. At the station near Sapa, we were greeted by our guide who took us by private car to our hotel. He said we’d be able to check into our room before our trek (we arrived at 6am and didn’t trek until 9am), but it wasn’t available. My husband got a little pissy since he wanted to take a nap. I just wanted to wash my face so I was ecstatic that he arranged for us to have access to a bathroom with hot showers.

Compared to Hanoi and Saigon, Sapa was freezing. I have no idea what the real temperature was, but I’d guess it was around 50-ish. Again, cold in California is 60, but it felt colder than that. I piled on the layers of Patagonia tops I’d brought, a hat, a scarf and anything else I could think of to keep warm. My tough German husband wore shorts, a t-shirt and a cotton sweater. I pushed my raincoat on him. I’ll be a hell of a mother.

Our car and guide picked us up and drove us to the trailhead. Even before we got out, people were swarming around the car. Our guide explained that the local people (ethnic minority Black Hmong and Red Zao) would try to befriend us so we would buy their stuff. They’d ask, “Where you from?” and use our naïve friendliness as an excuse to badger us for cash. We were to answer, “No, thank you” to everything. In LA, I feel poor because I can’t imagine spending $1000 on a sweater. Seeing as the average annual income in Vietnam is around $700 (how's that for perspective?), we were walking dollar signs.

As soon as my dollar-sign and I got out of the car, we were surrounded by sales people. Their native dress is gorgeous, and I found myself wanting to take pictures of them like they were specimens in a zoo. We were dollar signs; they were objects. Sure enough, we were met with a cacophony of “where you from?” and “what you want?” We answered as the guide told us to, “No, thank you,” and pushed through the crowd. It must be a little like celebrities feel pushing through fans.

Every trekking group ends up with some escorts. We had a pair of young women who first asked us the questions that we ignored. They just kept walking with us, defiant to our indifference. They waited while we took pictures. They waited while our guide explained things to us. They waited and waited and waited until we finally bought some things from them, and then finally, I could take their picture.

All of a sudden we were surrounded by kids with smaller kids strapped to their backs trying to sell us stuff. They were like locusts circling us. I don’t know if they were too young to travel on, but eventually, they left us, but we picked up two more women. If you are ever worried about hiking alone in the mountains of Vietnam, don’t be. There is always someone to hike with. You’ll have to buy some goods, but you’ll have a companion.

For lunch, we stopped at a home-stay house. I was a little concerned as to what we would be eating, but our guide took our lunch out of his backpack. It was a simple, American style lunch, but tasty. It was the plum and rice wine we drank with our hostess that should have concerned me. Towards the end of our lunch, she offered us some plum wine, which we couldn't refuse. We raised our glasses and shouted out the cheer we’d learned in Halong Bay. “One, two, three (in Vietnamese), YO (or ZO)!” We did this about, oh, twenty times with plum wine and then rice wine and then beer.

After about two hours (our hiking companions waited for us), we staggered off for the remainder of our hike. I don’t think the drinking is included in the tour, and many people would probably want to skip the heavy drinking lunch. In hindsight, I would, too, since I don’t remember the second half of the trek.

The bits I remember after lunch include this: much hollering in French (don’t ask me why this started. I don’t recall.), thanking South Africa for helping me walk (somewhere we met up with two sisters from South Africa who we started calling just “South Africa.” We were “Los Angeles” and our guide became “Vietnam.”), arriving at a shop/restaurant and getting on our private bus with “South Africa.” Luckily, there is photographic evidence of things that happened. Even with those, the afternoon is blurry. NOTE: I do not recommend getting shit-faced drunk in a foreign country (or anywhere) with all your money and two cameras on you. I consider us incredibly lucky that we ran into “South Africa” and didn’t get hustled by anyone.

Being led on the trek by "South Africa" and followed by our companions.

That night, being a Californian, I thought I could wear jeans, a fleece and flip-flops to dinner (unfortunately, “South Africa” took the train back to Hanoi so couldn’t join us). It was freaking cold, so I bought some socks for about a $1.50 and let my Asian genes flow by putting them on with my flip-flops. My husband was on a quest to eat as many strange things as he could, so requested the guide take us to a restaurant that served snake. He did one better: he took us to his friend’s birthday party at an apartment 2km from Sapa. I know this because we had to walk back to town. In flip-flops and socks.

We hopped on his motorbike with him and buzzed off into the night (yes, there were three of us on one bike). Then stopped. I thought our American asses weighed too much for his little scooter, but it ran out of petrol. (that’s gas, if you only speak American English like my husband.) He hailed his friend over, and the friend drove us up to the party. We were sitting on the back of a scooter with a man we didn’t know cruising up a mountain in a country where we didn’t speak the language. The road turned to dirt. The houses thinned until there was only one every 100 yards or so. I started wondering what a Vietnamese “Deliverance” theme would sound like.

Finally, he turned left into a driveway. It was foggy, and I couldn’t make out much except for a large concrete slab, a larger house and the smaller building where we entered. We walked into what I presumed was a kitchen. A group of people zipped into coats sat around a feast of bowls and plates piled with food. At either end of the circle, there were two bowls filled with rice wine that they dipped shot glasses into. I felt like shit from all of the drinking we did earlier in the day so I declined. My large, still drunk husband dove in with gusto. They loved it.

Guess which one's with me.

There was no snake, but there were small birds (they said doves) cooked (broiled? Bbq’ed?) with their heads still intake. To me, they looked like unlucky fowl found after the Malibu fires. Apparently, they tasted great. My husband popped one into his mouth and went to town. Head and all. I wanted to throw up.

On the other side of me sat our guide with a boiled chicken head. He explained to me that in Vietnam, the head is a delicacy and proceeded to pluck the eyeball out and knaw on the skull. I was hung over with a queasy stomach and almost wretched. Every two minutes or so, someone would want to do a toast, so cheering would ensue and more rice wine was consumed. My husband, game as he is to try foods and drink wine, became the center of attention. People wanted their photos taken with him and everyone wanted to do a toast with him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of sitting on a cold floor (the mat wasn’t big enough for all of us), we moved to someone’s bedroom. It was sparse with just a bed, desk and a small rack for clothes. It put life into perspective. Our apartment in Los Angeles is a palace in comparison. We sat around on the bed and a few chairs drinking tea before I finally said we needed to head back to our hotel (it was the nicest hotel we stayed in the whole trip).

But before we could start our walk back to town (there was no way I was getting on a scooter with anyone there), they wanted to show us where they worked. By this point, I was cold, tired, hung-over and slightly annoyed with my drunken husband, but of course we went. It was the polite thing to do.

We walk out to the large building. Someone opened the door with a key. It was dark inside before they turned on the lights. No one was around but us, and it felt eerie. We stampeded up to the second floor where they opened the door to a lab with another key. All the while, I am chanting to myself, “We are safe. We are safe. We are safe.” They work in bio-technology and do research on potatoes. The room smelt loamy. Inside, were racks and racks of beakers filled with potato sprouts. I felt like a fool.

We finally made if back to the hotel around midnight. Despite my paranoia, I made it back without stepping in any puddles.

The next day, completely unjust, I still felt like shit and my husband felt fine. After choking down some breakfast (fried rice works well in place of greasy eggs and toast), we wandered around town and stumbled upon the market. I love food. I love cooking and I love farmers markets. One of my favorite things to do in other countries is to check out their markets. Sometimes just for the shock value. Sapa did not disappoint.

The vegetables shimmered in the drizzle of the morning, looking fresh and scrumptious. The meats… the meats reminded me that we aren’t that far from life when we eat meat. Gone were the sterile Styrofoam containers. Instead, pig heads sat next to cuts of pork. Intestines piled in baskets next to the tables. Chicken and duck feet stuck up in the air, with their heads lolled to the side, beaks intact. There were live chickens and ducks in basket cages waiting their fates, but worst of all, was the dog. We knew it was dog, which is an expensive and well-liked meat in Vietnam, because the skinned paws and head were sitting next to the meat.

A few hours later, after finding the one pub in town with heat, we drank tea with other foreigners waiting for the train to Hanoi when the power went out. Without a hiccup, the bartender grabbed a battery powered light and stuck it on the bar. Someone else lit candles in the stairway and bathrooms. Power. Just one more thing we take for granted.

Sapa wasn’t my favorite place in Vietnam. It was beautiful, and I’d imagine even more so if we could have seen the views of the distant mountains, but I definitely have the most distinct memories from there. If we’d had more time, and it was warmer, it would have been interesting to go further into the mountains, off the beaten path, but at least our dinner provided an experience not included in the guidebooks.

mini mac

2007-11-27T21:01:00.000-08:00

While traveling, I thought, "Wouldn't it be great to have an iPhone or an iTouch to surf the web with the free wi-fi and maybe even BLOG?" Well, my job involves lots of computer stuff so one of my kind co-workers loaned me an iTouch to play with. The first thing I did was to see if I could post from it. The last post is what I managed to do.

I surfed around for more information on it because seriously, this is BASIC. I found there is mobile blogging, and sent off an email to get access. What I got was a really lame blog name and no access to this blog. I'll keep playing around to see what I can do so I can post to THIS blog from the road. If it works out, I might just sink a little deeper into the cult of Apple. Until then, I'll post from my iBook or Mac Mini (and possibly even from the evil PC at work).

No matter what, the iTouch is damn cool.

iTouch

2007-11-27T20:27:00.000-08:00

Maybe a week...

2007-11-09T16:28:00.000-08:00

This woman wouldn't last a week in Hollywood, or should I say her bosses wouldn't? I mean, four months? Seriously. This was the first time the woman verbally abused her. THE FIRST TIME. Your skin has to be thicker than that to work as an assistant. I know. Lord, don't I know. Every assistant in this town knows.

Crossing the Line

2007-11-06T13:59:00.000-08:00

The WGA went on strike on Sunday night. This doesn’t really affect me since I am not a late night TV watcher, and honestly, the shows I watch, well, I can live without them. From what I know, I am on the side of the WGA. Why shouldn’t they get a piece of all the pies they are a part of? All I hear is that digital is the next wave of entertainment. It seems only SMART to want a part of those residuals. Wouldn't anyone?

Today, as I drove across the line on my way to work, I wanted to shout, “Hell yeah! Hold out for the money!” But, I can’t really yell that as I cross the line into the studio where I work. At the end of the day, I need my paycheck and my day rate is a lot lower than most of the unions in Hollywood. So, for any writers out there, I’ve got your back. Silently, but I’m with you.

Saturday in Venice

2007-11-04T14:19:00.001-08:00

I peruse lots of blogs and I love to see where people live. Yesterday, I finally remembered to bring my camera with us when we went for a late afternoon walk down the famed Venice boardwalk on route to the bank. Here are some of the images.

Me, begging for the camera back after a paparazzi-style attack.

An Autumn Poo

2007-11-02T16:30:00.000-07:00

I moved to Los Angeles five years and 4 months ago to work in fashion. FASHION, people! Not entertainment where I currently work and could care less about. FASHION! And currently, I could care less about that, too.

When I started my job I was determined not to look like an assistant. This meant no obvious all Gap or Forever 21 outfits. This meant classic, well-cut trousers, expensive shoes (expensive for an assistant). This meant no boring, lame-ass outfits. I might be an assistant, but I could look like an executive. This was my mindset.

Currently, my division has changed to one more closely related to Silicon Valley than Hollywood, and slowly the attire in the department has slid closer to Silicon Valley than Hollywood. This means instead of casual Friday, we have casual Tuesday through Friday and sometimes even casual Monday. I wear a lot of denim and flats. I live in t-shirts (Club Monaco makes a great one for only $22 vs. the James Perse ones I like that are $48). It’s so casual around my office now that when I put on a very current pencil skirt, heels and stylish sweater, my boss asked where I was going later (an interview? Dinner? Why oh why did she shun the denim today?). It just didn’t make sense.

So, I’m wondering, when I dress like a poo, am I depressed or do I just not care anymore? Or does not caring anymore mean I’m depressed? It’s so confusing. Not only do I not look like an excutive, I look like a poo. An autumn poo from Banana Republic. What happened????
Please excuse the camera strap. I'm learning how to use a new camera and the other shot came out worse.

All Hallow's Eve

2007-10-31T17:10:00.000-07:00

I must be getting old. I feel really boring. To celebrate Halloween this year I carved a pumpkin (not the easy task I recalled from childhood). I didn’t even venture to put on a wig. In some blast of nostalgia, I wore an orange sweater to work today. Who knew I had it in me?

But back to those orange gourds we like to carve every year. “We” being Americans, not me. My friend Heidi hosted her annual pumpkin carving party last Friday. In years past, I’ve skipped the actual carving part for socializing and eating. This year, I decided to carve. I started tenderly scrapping the innards of my pumpkin with a spoon. Carefully avoiding getting too mucked-up with pumpkin guts, but after a few futile attempts, I remembered why I always stuck my bare hand into the pumpkin. It is just plain easier, and honestly, more fun.

All the tricks starting coming back to me. The spoon handle kept getting caught on the inside lip of the pumpkin making it difficult to scoop efficiently. This little thing brought me back to the kitchen floor of my childhood. Unfortunately, not enough to recall how to design a good jack-o-lantern face.

I’d forgotten to not only look for the smooth side of the pumpkin, but the side that tilted up. I came up with a lame attempt that sort of resembled an alien face but not really. My only saving grace was the star I dug out last minute at the urging of the only person there who had never carved a pumpkin before, and chose to stay that way.

After everyone is done carving, Heidi judges a contest and gives prizes. They judging is based on her criteria like the obvious best jack-o-lantern, but also the best effort, best recent return to carving effort and so forth. It’s a contest everyone wins.

The winner of it all? My German husbands mini-white gourd that he turned into a gorgeous candle votive. I had no idea he has it in him to create such beauty. Given, it was very symmetrical, but still. I had no idea I married an artist.

(And no pictures to show the results!! I accidently deleted them. Oops.)

Pregnant or Just Fat?

2007-10-26T14:45:00.000-07:00

I like to keep my life simple. I like to be semi-organized and schedule all my annual appointments in the fall. No idea how this started, but it seemed to have fallen into place nicely. Just recently, I’ve had my eyes checked and a pap smear. Plus, I interviewed a doctor to possibly be our OB when we are ready to have a baby. So, I’ve been out of work a lot lately for all of those doctor reasons.

At my wedding, my friend Maggie blew out the side zipper of the dress she wore to her rehearsal dinner. She got married a month and a half before we did. She was planning on wearing it to our wedding, but her wedding body had morphed into married body. We laughed our asses off as she was half hanging out of the dress in a panicked attempt to get out of it after the big blow out. The honeymoon happened. Life happened, and well, the gym just wasn’t as important. When you’re not planning on having lots of people looking at you, you don’t care as much about what you look like.

Luckily for me, I was sick in the months leading up to the wedding so I was in the worst shape I’ve been in in years. No definition in my arms. Puffy tummy. I was what I refer to as skinny fat. I still looked good in clothes, but had almost no muscle tone. Because of this, I thought the only thing that would decline after the wedding was my skin, which I spent lots of time working on pre-wedding.

Wrong. A big fat wrong. I put on some capri pants this morning that I like to wear because they are comfortable. They are tight. They are no longer comfortable. I’ve noticed jeans that I used to love to wear are grabbing a little more than they used to. Comfy, but only when my belly hangs over the top. So not attractive. What happens when you get married??? If my rehearsal dinner dress had a zipper, I could probably blow it out right now.

It’s fine. I’ll survive. I have to readjust my eating so instead of a big lunch and big dinner, I have a small lunch and a big dinner. The best part is that the combination of doctor’s appointments and extra pounds have my boss looking at me a little differently. I just know he’s wondering is she pregnant or just fat?

To add to his pondering, I'm purposely wearing loose clothes and complaining about being tired. I figure I’ll milk it until I really am pregnant or he figures out I’m just married.

A Sweet Breeze

2007-10-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

Life is rough in southern California right now. Luckily, I live in a fully concreted-area (I never thought this lucky until recently), so we are only dealing with smoke from the fires. We didn’t have to evacuate or wonder what possessions are worthy of packing with a five minute notice. We are lucky.

Unfortunately, lots of people are not. Every day I watch the news and look at images of walls of flames engulfing trees, houses and hillsides. The skies are overcast because they are filled with smoke. A fine layer of ash coats cars. And this is miles from the fires. It feels like it will never end. And I am one of the lucky ones.

Last night, we went to bed with the window facing the ocean wide open. I thought about closing it because the news says to keep the windows closed right now due to poor air quality, but it was hot so I decided to leave it open. I had crazy dreams of people smoking in our apartment, of the apartment being on fire and my neighbor Bianca running down the hall to tell us to leave. I woke up to our room filled with smoky, humid, ocean air. My lungs felt like hell. I can only imagine what the people closer to the fires feel like.

I got up, closed the windows and said a thank you to Mother Nature for shifting the winds. A cool, off-shore breeze full of humidity and hopefully, a break.

Beauty Update

2007-10-11T11:48:00.000-07:00

I'm in love with Eminence products. After just one Stone Crop Masque, my skin looks better. I also got a sample of the Stone Crop moisturizer, and I love that, too. It smells a little funny. Maybe because it isn't drenched in perfumes, but the smell is natural. It's nice. It's just not flowery-sweet. The packaging seems a little cheap compared to the fancy products I've used in the past, but if they are spending the extra money on the product rather than the package, I am okay with that.

I just ordered the Rose Hip Moisturizer that was recommended by my facialist (does her giving me two count?). I can't wait.

Back to the Kitchen

2007-10-11T11:47:00.000-07:00

Weight has never been an issue for me. The only time I’ve ever been significantly larger than I am now (and I’ve been this size give or take 10 pounds since high school) was one summer during college that I spent in Nantucket. We didn’t have a car so we biked or walked everywhere, which would lead one to believe I would be the thinnest I ever was. I wasn’t. I was fit and fairly lean, but I packed on the pounds. I ate Ben & Jerry’s every afternoon, and washed it down with beer in the evening. Upon arriving back at the apartment in a drunken haze at night, I would make myself toast from locally made bread slathered with jam and butter. It was fantastic. And by August, I was the largest I’ve ever been. The pictures don’t really show it, but the clothes I wore were all 3 sizes larger than the ones I wore at the beginning of the summer. And still, by American standards, I was average – even trim. For reference, size 12 Gap pants fit. Snugly.

I was, for me, huge and a size 12. The irony is that today, because of all of the additives, high fructose corn syrup and cheap fast food, this is average for America. I’d even venture to say on the small side. Two-thirds of America is over weight. Recently, I saw photos of the rural poor in the United States. The thing that most struck me was the roundness of people’s faces. The soft double-chin that the husband and wife shared. The plumpness of their child. These photos contrasted dramatically in my mind with the ones Dorthea Lange took in the 30s. Her subjects had thin chests. Gaunt faces.

As recently as the 1970s, poverty was marked by thinness. Bones jutting out. Pronounced chins. Belts tightening the waists of too-large pants. Poverty today is plump. It’s fat. It’s filled with corn and corn by-products that people unknowingly eat all day. The meat we eat is fed corn even though cows can’t digest corn unless it is altered for their systems. All of the soft drinks we drink are filled with corn syrup. Ketchup, cereal, crackers. It’s hard to find a pre-made food that doesn’t have a corn derivative in it. Xanthum gum? Made from corn. And all of this corn and food processing are making people fat. It’s cheap now, but at what cost later?

I read books and articles on this plight, and no one has a solution that seems like it will work. The problem is that we are all used to the ease with which we obtain a completed meal. Changing our diets as a country means changing the way we live.

Recently, I decided that I needed to cook dinner every night except Friday and Saturday when we tend to go out. It is hard. I am exhausted from work, and usually just want to watch television with a bowl of cereal. The other night, I arrived home with a menu in mind. I turned on some music and started cooking. Twenty minutes later, when the tacos hit the table, I was relaxed, happy and hungry. My husband and I happily ate the healthy version of Mexican. We talked. We connected. I felt nourished.

Beauty Update

2007-10-08T17:10:00.000-07:00

Turning natural is harder than I thought. No sodium laurel sulfate means no sudsy shampoo. And long hair and no suds feels like I’m washing straw. I don’t like it at all. So, I just don’t wash my hair much anymore.

So far, I am on board with Dr. Hauschka. The Burt’s Bees? I’ll keep my chap stick, but the shampoo? I’ll pass. I didn’t even make it to the night cream I was so unhappy with the shampoo. I’m making a return trip to Target. For now, I’m leaning towards the high-end organics and things from my kitchen.

I’m waiting for an Eminence masque to arrive with samples of moisturizers. If they work, I’ll be using Eminence and skipping Target. I don’t know why I thought I could use a $14 natural moisturizer when I haven’t spent less than $35 on chemical-laden one.

The quest continues....

Beauty Quest

2007-09-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

In researching things for my side hustle, I got a book called The Complete Organic Pregnancy (great book!). It scared the shit out of me. There are chemicals everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Since we are planning on having a baby in the next year or so, I decided to start implementing some of the things they suggest such as using a natural dry cleaner, banishing chemical cleaners and using all-natural, paraben-free beauty products. The first two are no brainers and super easy (especially since my housekeeper uses the cleaning products).

The beauty products… well, I love products. Not love LOVE like people who blog about them, but I wouldn’t want to know how much I spend on them annually. When I went to Japan, I came back with two different shampoos, two kinds of smoothing cream and lots of make-up (the clothes are too small for tall Americans). Sephora makes me dizzy with possibilities. So, limiting my cosmetic purchases is, well, kind of like punishment. And kind of like a giant scavenger hunt.

During this hunt, this quest, this desire for paraben-free, silicone-free shampoo and lotions that works really, really well, I’ll post my results.

Since my husband is German, I feel a kinship with Dr. Haushka (that, and the fact I can get it much cheaper when I am in Germany). People are almost cult-like with their praise of his products. Last winter, I got a face milk (looks like this but not 100% sure it is the same thing since mine was in German and I used it all up and threw out the bottle) that was okay, but didn’t WOW! me. Recently, I tried the Rose Day Cream (I paid $39.99 at a local natural store and it's $20 on Sephora?!!). I give it a resounding thumbs DOWN. It was greasy feeling once on my face, and the cream is so thick, it’s hard to get on, which might be why it felt greasy. I probably put way too much on. I also have this crazy skin that breaks out in a fine rash, or in this case, cystic pimples if it doesn't like a product. Once I find a moisturizer I like, I usually stick with it for a long time. In the past, I’ve been a fan of all the Orlane creams, and now I am using Bioelements (hey! looks semi-natural!), which has an SPF of 15(until it runs out). Many of the natural face creams have no SPF because, hello! it is full of chemicals. The woman who gave me facials (all 2 of them) before the wedding recommended mineral make-up for sunscreen, but I haven’t gotten that hard-core yet. Eminence makes one that is all organic.

So, I am taking back the Dr. Haushka and trying Burt’s Bees Royal Jelly Night Cream ($14.99).

Currently, I am also testing:
Dr. Haushka shampoo
EO Conditioner
Burt’s Bees Shampoo (just bought today)
Burt’s Bees Conditioner (just bought today)
Burt’s Bees Cleanser (just bought today – guess who went to Target at lunch?)

On a side note, I also tried Stella McCartney’s line of moisturizers and they irritated my skin, too. (They were samples and I don't recall which one.) I’m trying to hold back on spending a million dollars on the Eminence line, but I’m heading that way.

Cheap thumbs up: honey as a exfoliater/masque. I tried it this weekend with some local honey I got at the farmer’s market. I just smeared about a tablespoon on my freshly washed face, let it sit for about 30 minutes while I watched TV, and washed it off. My skin looked great and felt good, too. Plus, I kept creeping out my husband by asking if he wanted to lick my face (he didn’t).

After linking to all the products I am using, I could have saved a ton of money if I'd just bought them online. Things are much cheaper than the natural pharmacy I went to in the Palisades, which, due to high pricing, will remain nameless for now.

Birds of a Feather

2007-09-17T12:16:00.001-07:00

When I was single, I dropped married friends. I didn’t do it on purpose, but slowly, after a few invitations to do things got turned down, I just stopped calling. Then, on a whim, I’d remember how cool the person was and call again. We’d hang out, have a great time and promise to see each other more often. Then, as before, they would be busy with their husband and I’d stop calling again. It only seems to get worse with kids.

Or maybe it was a combination of them wanting to spend time with their husband and us not having as much to talk about. When I was single, I’d spend hours talking about who I was dating, analyzing why he did or didn’t call, wondering if it was going to work out, wondering if the woman at his office was indeed “just a friend.” I’d hike along with friends listening to them agonize over their recent asshole boyfriend and I’d empathize and tell my most recent asshole boyfriend story.

Once, when I was dating a great guy/asshole, I was bemoaning why he didn’t call more often and why he never asked me out in public with people if I meant so much to him when one of my married friends said, “Forget about him. There are much better guys out there.” WHAT??? FORGET ABOUT THE ASSHOLE?? Does this smug married woman have any idea what it is like to date in your 30s? She met her husband at 24 and married him at 30. They had their ups and downs, but she never had to face her 30s single. She was clueless. Needless to say, my calls to her, her husband and two kids grew less frequent. Clearly, we were in different stratospheres. And clearly, she did not understand me.

Or did she? When I finally met my husband who is not an asshole, I finally started to understand her comments. They weren’t said to be smug or demeaning, but because she could see what I couldn’t.

Sunday, I hung out with three single women. All amazing, beautiful, successful, smart women. And all single. (Stupid men.) And I felt like… well, like a fish out of water. I felt like when I opened my mouth I was on watch. And then, just like a smug married, I made an incredibly insensitive remark. We were talking about population control and how people shouldn’t just have kids because society says you should. One of the women said she didn’t’ think she wanted kids, but she better decide soon. I said, as the conversation pulsed along, “The decision might be made for you.” She shrugged. Simple. The conversation continued for a bit, and we all broke apart and headed our separate ways.

Then on my bike ride home, it hit me. That was a smug comment. I knew the feeling because I’d been there recently. I know what it is like to look down the barrel of motherhood. The clock is ticking. There is no man on the horizon, and the idea that motherhood – the most innate of all things a woman is supposed to be – might possibly pass by. The last thing you need is to be reminded of the clock. I know the comment came out as insensitive. Out of touch. Smug.

Maybe there is a reason married people and singles don’t hang out as much as they did when everyone was single. We’re just in different places, and sometimes, it's hard to understand the other place.

Colorado Dreaming

2007-09-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

Autumn. Fall. It brings to mind warm sweaters, cool nights, leaves changing. That is, if you live somewhere with seasons. When I moved to Los Angeles over five years ago, I grinned when I realized fall meant a light sweater at night, no crowds at the beach and a new television season. I used to hike almost every weekend, and even nature in Los Angeles changes with the seasons. It is just more subtle. And I was happy with this.

All of this seems to have changed. I got married. Friendships got magnified. Between my wedding and my friend Maggies’s wedding, I spent most of the summer on trips and adventures with my Colorado friends. I love lots of things about Los Angeles. The year-round farmer’s markets. The Pacific ocean outside of my window. An endless choice of restaurants and shopping. But this year, I’m missing the cooler weather and my pack of friends in Colorado.

I talked to my friend Tricia who lives in Vail this weekend. She was talking about walking around in the village, the covered bridge, the place where we celebrated New Year’s eve 2001. She told me she’s taking a wagon ride to Beano’s cabin in Beaver Creek tonight. And all of a sudden I could picture it all. I could feel the cooler air and imagine walking around Vail near the creek; the aspens turning gold. Aspens catch light in an amazing way. It sort of bounces off the leaves, filtering the light so it twinkles. When I used to camp, I loved waking up in an aspen grove just to see the morning light.

It all made me miss Colorado. Of course, when it is 10 degrees there with a blizzard of snow, I’ll be happily walking around in flip-flops, but today, I miss Colorado and I really miss my friends.

Gratitude and Lunch

2007-09-12T16:56:00.000-07:00

Since I couldn’t have twenty bridesmaids, I decided to have a bridal luncheon honoring the women who make my life wonderful, full and hysterical. They are the women I call most often. The ones who saw me through way too many bad relationships, job changes, times of poverty and deep debt, the loss of my stepfather, graduations and of course, the development of my relationship with my husband. To me, this luncheon was incredibly important. The luncheon, just as I envisioned it, was sort of magical.

My mom and I decided to have the luncheon at her mountain house – the one she lived in with my stepfather that she now rents out as a vacation rental. This is the house that I thought of when I started thinking of North Carolina as home instead of Virginia. The house itself is nothing spectacular. It’s an A-frame house two miles up a dirt road. But once there, it is peaceful with a breath-taking view - on a clear day, it's a seventy-miles view. It was the best place to escape to after finals in college. In the winter, I would snuggle down into bed and sleep all day. Since it is about thirty minutes from town, the most there is to do is relax, take walks and relax some more. I couldn’t imagine all my friends flying to North Carolina without seeing this part of my life.

I felt like utter and complete crap the Friday before the wedding. I was fighting a cold and popping pills like a strung-out junkie. When I pulled up to the house with my friend Jen, people were already there. My sister-in-laws (I have 3 now!), aunt and mom had set everything up beautifully. My best girlfriends were mingling in the living room and on the deck taking in the view. My 90-year old grandmother chatted with them. All of these amazing women were in one place. And all celebrating me and our friendships.

Before we ate, my mom wanted to do a blessing. We gathered in a circle on the deck, and I took a few moments to introduce everyone and to say how I knew each person. All of my friends had heard of each other so it was great for them to put faces with names. Jen was my best friend at the University of Colorado. Cheryl was my oldest friend - 34 years of friendship! Krista and I met in the dorms freshman year. I met Heidi in Hollywood. Tracy is my local friend - a true North Carolina native who procured the moonshine for the wedding. Tricia, one of my always happy friends, is the one, ironically, I've shared the most grief with. When I met Maggie, we didn't like each other because we were in the shadows of our ex-boyfriends and blind to how cool each other are. Rebecca was my "husband" when I lived in LA right after college. She picked up the bills most of the time and I cooked and cleaned. Kristin is my calm, cool friend who I love to talk cooking with. And my cousins who were like sisters to me growing up. I didn't mention everyone, and if any of them read this, they know just by being there how important they are to me.

For 35 years I was mostly single, and these women made life so much more fun. They supported me when I was going through changes, but most of all, they kept me laughing. After lunch, I handed each woman a card I’d written for them thanking them for being in my life. Then, in a nice quirky turn, my aunt suggested everyone say why they liked me.

I sat like a queen at the front of the living room, sipping hot ginger tea on a 95 degree day in an effort to be healthy for the wedding, and listened as friend after cousin after friend told stories about me and said how much they loved me. It was amazing. My aunt said, “Only on your wedding and your funeral do all your friends come together. How lucky you are to be alive now to hear all the good things they are saying!”

Amen, Aunt Karen. I am incredibly lucky and blessed.

(And thanks to ginger tea, sudafed, nyquil and antibiotics plus a little wedding magic, I felt great on our wedding day!)

Breathing Space

2007-08-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

I promise I will write about the reception. I swear. I will do it. Just not yet…

A week after we were married, we moved. Stupidly, we decided to take our honeymoon in November when I am sure we won’t think it a stupid idea. So, three short days after saying “I do” in the honey pot, I walked back into my office. DO NOT MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE!!!! It was foolish. Stupid, and completely took away my wedding bliss buzz. Ride the bliss wave as long as you possibly can!!! Maybe the fall will be harder when you get back, the wedding hangover more severe, but dammit, just go for it.

On the bright side of being home (no bright side to work) instead of say Hawaii, which was getting blown around by Hurricane Floyd or the Caribbean, which was getting slammed by Hurricane Dean, or even parts of Mexico that Dean was aiming for, we were safely in Venice Beach. Boo! Hiss!! It’s home! But, a neighbor nicely pointed out that while we were getting hitched, a bigger, larger, greater apartment was being painted down the hall from ours, and it was available to rent.

We quickly called the landlord, and before I could say “Pack my stuff again?” my husband was moving boxes down the hall. It was as painless as a move can be. No packing involved since you can just walk your stuff down the hall. We didn’t empty drawers; we carried them twenty feet to the north full of stuff. Pad plates? Please. I stacked them in empty wedding gift boxes and walked slowly down the hall.

The best parts about the new apartment? Let’s see… where do I start…. There is a door on the bedroom! Shocking, I know, but we had a loft bedroom before which might be great for a bachelor, but two people with completely different schedules? Let’s say hell might be similar. And a bathroom right next door to the bedroom! We had to walk down the loft stairs to get to the bathroom before, and when you have puke coming up, stairs are the last thing you want to navigate. The kitchen actually has counter space and room to store things. We had to supplement with shelves, but they work in the room and even look kind of nice. The only thing that makes up for the piece of shit electric stove (I still dream of a gas one) is the view of the ocean from the kitchen window. It makes the day better to start by seeing the sand and the sea while drinking juice.

With the broiling heat of summer, the fact we have windows on two sides of the apartment creates a wonderful breeze. We actually sleep with a down comforter! In AUGUST!! Best of all, we have a loft that is an office, which means all the other parts of the house are used for what they were designed. Kitchen table nook? Filled with table and chairs for eating. Living room? Couch and TV for lounging. Bedroom? Bed and dressers for dressing, sleeping and getting busy. The bathroom? Well, there’s even a linen closet in there!

Needless to say, I love our new apartment. We even have two parking spaces which, in Venice in the summer, is almost like having a pot of gold. I feel like I can finally breathe in the new space. We can both fit, and best of all, we can both grow.

It’s so much better than this.
My husband and brother working side-by-side in the old place. Note the dining table next to the couch, next to the desks, next to the kitchen plus the bookshelf OUTSIDE of the kitchen with kitchen stuff. Thankfully, all part of the past.

The Honey Pot

2007-08-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

Like most brides, I think our wedding was wonderful. We were surrounded by family and close, amazing friends who came in from everywhere (Germany, Colorado, California, Massachusetts, Virginia, New York , a 19-hour drive from Wisconsin!, Arizona and more places). It was like being in a honey pot –surrounded by so much love and support. My mom and I joke about the honey pot – being surrounded by love. I feel like that when my mom is in town, and I have her and my husband (!) with me. A wedding is the mack-daddy of honey pots.

My beautiful cousins (who could wear whatever they wanted in the pink/orange/red family) served as bridesmaids and nieces and a best friend's daughter were our flower girls/pink princesses.

Talk about laid-back, the groomsmen were chosen that week. His brother, his oldest friend, my brother, my cousin-in-law, plus a nephew for the ring "helper."

I don't even know where to start recounting our wedding. It's so much to take in and experience. It felt like a whirlwind - like time was on fast-forward. People told me to videotape it because I wouldn't remember much of it. We didn't, but I do remember the main parts of it. I had fun. In fact, I had a blast. I was grinning from ear to ear all day. I was nervous waiting to walk down the aisle, the first and only time during the whole process. I could hear the violin, and then people cheering for my husband. We asked our family and friends to call us to the wedding with nicknames, pet names and our own names. It was amazing to hear my husband's name being called, to see him enter into the garden, and say, "I can't hear you!" The crowd loved it, and cheered louder.

After I entered, he kissed me. Whoops....

My dad, my mom and I waited in the wings for my name to be called. The crowd let out whoops of joy, calling my name and the nervousness I felt earlier disappeared. I entered the garden between my parents, and was flooded with love and jubilation. I was smack in the middle of the honey pot, and life couldn't have been grander. My future husband stood in front of me, my parents were beside me and my closest friends and family plus my new family surrounded me. It was, to use a cliche, heaven on earth.

As I stood, reciting the vows I wrote for my husband, I looked into his eyes, and the rest of the people melted away. It was just us, together, saying how much we love each other, how important we are to each other and how excited we are to take this journey together.

And then, bam! We were married! And the party started, and the chaos kicked back in as people moved from the garden to the tent and the photographer gathered the wedding party together for more pictures. I never saw the tent before everyone walked in. In fact, I never saw the garden until I walked in. The flowers that were supposed to decorate the alter were missing. The sake and cups for the sake ceremony were missing. And none of it mattered. It all looked beautiful and worked out perfectly.

We're married!!!

More on the reception later....

The Breck Girls

2007-07-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

My bachelorette weekend was everything I imagined and more. I feel incredibly blessed to have such a great posse of women in my life. A huge thank you to all of you who made my last single-girl trip one for the memory books.

We might be older, but we’re still fun….

Heading up the mountain for the shortest hike ever.

Pre-dinner Breck Girls. It was waaaayyy to light out for us.

We even had a sponsor from Kentucky who put on my super panties. (No idea why this pic isn't bigger.)

Walking up the street for some danicing.

Getting ready to "throw my panties to the wind." It's a Mexican tradition that we've completely bastardized. Rumor has it the panties are supposed to be sexy, not super-sized.

Growing-Up. Sort of.

2007-07-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

We are 16 days from the wedding. I know because my registry at Crate and Barrel tells me so. And yes, when I am bored, I look to see what people have bought and not bought.

My stress level is amazingly low right now. I think there is a pulse of adrenaline flowing through me like a steady drip of an IV, but I am used to that now. There is enough in my system to keep me from falling back asleep when I accidentally wake at 6am, but not so much my hands jitter from it. I try to take it as it comes.

Tomorrow, I jet-off to Colorado for my bachelorette weekend. My friend Krista has been incredible with spear-heading the event, planning it, emailing the 10 women to coordinate things plus letting us use her family’s condo in Keystone. It’s not exactly Vegas, but I’m not exactly 25. I picked Colorado over Vegas partly because I knew more of my friends could make it, but mostly because I like Colorado more than Vegas.

I know they have some craziness planned for Saturday night. We’ll be hitting the streets of Breckinridge, and I’m guessing, since it is off-season, we will be a sight. There are no drunken spring-breakers to compete with. I told them no veil, no penis necklaces and no list of men I have to kiss or get underwear from. When did I get so old?

On a trip to Boulder a few years ago, we went to my favorite used clothing store where I always score things like Prada shoes. On this particular trip, I found a navy, marabou bolero. And I had to have it. In some small place in my brain, I thought I would wear it out in LA. It was fabulous.

Little did I know how fabulous… later that night, after way too many car bombs (the drink, not the explosive), the bolero became a prop in a series of modeling shots. Let’s just say it took on a life of its’ own. So, in honor of that night, I decided that I am wearing this gem for my big night out on Saturday. I can’t decide if I should take it a little classier with a just a plain white tank, or a little cheesier (does it get more cheesy than a marabou bolero?) with a gold tube top, jeans and gold sandals. I am bringing both get-ups so they can choose.

My friends like costumes so I am thinking (naively) that I am beating them to the punch. Plus, I’ve NEVER worn the jacket except for our modeling shoot. It’s amazing how easily women can entertain themselves. So, if you happen to be in Breckinridge this weekend and see a woman with a marabou bolero on, stop and say hello.

Dewy vs. Shine

2007-07-16T16:18:00.000-07:00

A bride should glow. She should look dewy and fresh like spring time. Or so the make-up artist at Barney’s decided. He said I should have a little shimmer on my upper cheeks so that when I turned just so, the light would catch and I’d look like I was glowing. He charges $300 for wedding day make-up so clearly, he should know how to look on a wedding day. The woman my mom has lined up for me in North Carolina charges $45. I mean, it’s North Carolina and not Los Angeles, but I decided I didn’t trust an NC make-up artist especially if she’s so cheap. Did anyone hear that bullet go into my foot?

Hair, I will pay for. I will live if it looks a little funny because honestly, I can’t do my hair to save my life unless we are talking a pony tail. But make-up? Make-up is like art. I’ve even been complemented on my make-up.

So, when we were at Barney’s last weekend, I decided to handle the make-up issue. I headed over to the Sue Devitt counter, who makes really nice make-up, and let Daniel take over my face. He took a whopping hour and a half to put on my wedding day face (including starting, removing everything and starting again). I looked, if I may say so, radiant. He did my eyes in this glimmering gold, but not Goldfinger gold. Just elegant with a chocolate brown liner and lush, thick black lashes. My lips were painted a bright, YSL red (their color was better – loved that he wasn’t limited by his own brand). My cheeks glowed and shimmered.

I happily purchased the items that weren’t in my make-up arsenal ($195 later the $45 NC make-up artist was sounding okay) and headed home.

I decided my mom needed to see how great the make-up looked so I insisted my fiancé take some pictures of me to email her. In the pictures, my face didn’t look glowing or dewy. I looked like a big, greasy, shiny mess. The flash bounced off my cheek, illuminating it in a bad, non-glowing way.

On the bright side, I stopped to get some tacos for lunch while made up like a bride. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any cash, so I couldn’t get anything. I was getting ready to walk away when the counter guy forced chips and salsa on me for free, insisting that I should have something. It may look shiny, but I looked good enough to get free food. If only it photographs as well.

Lipstick would help deflect from the "dew."

The Earrings

2007-07-15T13:32:00.001-07:00

After much searching (mostly online), I found these gorgeous earrings by Dana Kellin at my friend Jessica's shop Chelsea in Boulder. If you're ever there, you should stop in.

I think they are so elegant and pretty and special... and I couldn't be happier that things are finally falling into place!

Now, I only need to find the ring....

The Elusive Shoes

2007-07-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

It’s beginning to fall into place. This week, I’ve checked off: shoes, make-up and jewelry (posts to follow).

The shoes eluded me. I’ve looked for shoes in Barney’s, Nordstrom’s (Los Angeles, Austin), small boutiques (Los Angeles, Austin, Boulder), in magazines and on-line where, I thought I found some. They arrived yesterday, and were lovely. Gorgeous. And a size too big. I went into a panic when I couldn’t get on to their website to see if they had a smaller size available. So, last night, in an obsessive fit, I went to DSW, which was fruitless, and Nordstrom Rack, where I found…. TA-DA! My wedding shoes!! Yes, in amongst the piles of crap shoes with missing straps, scuffs and general ugliness, I found the perfect shoes for our wedding location. Low, wedge-heel silver sandals. I never would have looked twice at them in Nordstrom, but at the Rack, I had an open, desperate mind.

They kind of exude Miami grandma, but I swear, they are cute in person. Or at least cute enough. Last night, I thought they were even a little sexy.

I also found of pair of completely cheesy, bride-like flip-flops with pearls on them. Oh, I’m a bride!! I’m a bride!!

Mama Love

2007-07-11T17:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I asked my mom if she could think of anything else I needed to get in LA for the wedding since I only have two more weekends here to run errands. She goes, “Like what?” Like paper lanterns people hang in trees or ribbons for center pieces. We have Chinatown and Little India. Did I mention Little Tokyo or the fabric district?

“What for?” she asked. It was then I remembered who I was talking to. My mother, wonderful, loving, caring, funny mom, is not the party giver in my family. She always made the house look pretty for my birthdays. She used to layer three different colored square cloths (emerald green, fuchsia and golden rod) from Japan on our long wooden table. She put bright yellow branches of forsythia in a big vase. It was more natural, and I loved it. She is not into the minute details of weddings or large events even though she has an amazing eye.

For my brother’s wedding, she kind of freaked out. Actually, she completely freaked out. She sprouted horns and a crazy look in her eyes. They kind of glowed with hysteria. At the time, I was working as an event planner in Colorado. I threw weddings as a career.

My brother’s wedding was in the middle of a July afternoon on top of one of the Smoky Mountains. It was decided we should have water for the guests during the ceremony so I suggested we get small water bottles, fill a tub with ice and let people grab them. To which, my mother replied, “Sarah, I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

Um, okay. Sorry for the completely ridicules, off-the-wall suggestion. Next time I’ll suggest digging a well and making people lower a bucket and haul their own water.

Needless to say, I approached the planning of our wedding with my mom with some trepidation. As the months passed, mom proved the horns a creation from her past boyfriend (luckily out of the picture). She realized that I like spreadsheets. That I make lists of questions. That I am slightly insane when it come to planning. Let’s be honest. I don’t make the big bucks as an executive assistant without some planning. With my brother’s wedding, she felt like she did everything. This time, she feels like she isn’t doing anything, which isn’t true. She follows up on the emails I send her (email! My mom! Checking it regularly!), she calls the people I ask her to immediately.

People look at me like I am crazy when I say that my mom is doing a lot to help me. Like, hello! Moms live for this shit. Most moms might, but not mine. Mine prefers a quiet afternoon canoeing on the lake, floating on our backs in a cove. She prefers a yoga class followed by a night of contra dancing. She prefers going to the movies with me and eating a dinner of popcorn and Junior Mints. But she’s happy to help because I am happy.

Now, if we can just find her some sassy shoes for dancing. She’s not looking for Manolo’s or Jimmy Choo’s. She’s looking for good shoes that will turn and flex and support her feet while looking pretty. She said she’s not wearing her black contra dance shoes with her pink dress, but I said I didn’t care if they made her happy.

Health Watch 7.10.07

2007-07-10T16:27:00.000-07:00

I think I’ve eaten half my office, which I keep well-stocked, and have no desire to stop. As usual, I started out great: Greek yogurt with fresh peaches and blueberries and a drizzle of local honey. So delicious! Followed by half a bag of goldfish crackers that for some inane reason I occasionally crave. I THOUGHT I was going to have a nice homemade salad for lunch, but then my boss offered to buy me a gourmet sandwich from this delicious deli so of course I ate that instead. But only half. Of an enormous beast. And I skipped the chips, but they are still taunting me. Then, I needed a little chocolate to wash the sandwich down so I had a mini KitKat bar. I was hungry again fifteen minutes ago so I ate a box of animal crackers. I am seeing a pattern here: “kid” food a.k.a. comfort food.

Now, I’m eyeing the goldfish again and I still have to eat dinner. At least I made it to yoga this morning. Did I mention the wedding is a month away? Most women stop eating and work out five times a day. Me? Please. I stopped working out and started eating crap. Why be the same as everyone else?

Anyone know why we crave crap when we’re bleeding?

UPDATE: I finished the other half of the sandwich for dinner. All in all, not TOO awful.

Real Planned Weddings

2007-06-25T22:55:00.001-07:00

My friend Megan got married in March. In my haze of wedding planning, I forgot to post pictures. She got roped into having her wedding on HGTV. I can't remember the show, but something about landscaping. So, all they had to pay for was their clothing, the food and the alcohol. HG TV paid for everything else. I was jealous until she told me they had to do all of these interviews about how they met, picked a wedding planning and all the other things that make for good TV.

I haven’t seen the show, but the wedding was really pretty.

Flowers

Looking from the cake back to the "alter" and the pool.

Austin

2007-06-25T22:53:00.001-07:00

I meant to post this right after our trip to Austin, but never got around to it since I was deathly ill (and no one in Austin got sick!!). After rooting for the Longhorns in the NCAA championships, I feel it only fitting that I comment on their fair city.

Shock. Yes, I am in shock. I like a part of Texas. As a former Coloradoan, this is akin to saying I am in love with my brother. It's just wrong.

Austin is everything that people hype it to be. Great people, fun places, easy to get around. I’d been before but in the whirlwind of a wedding. I didn't remember the river running though it, which I loved. It was hot and humid, and people were all over the water like little bugs skimming on top. I felt like crap, or else I would have joined them.

We scarfed down greasy, Tex-Mex, which tasted delicious, but I still prefer Cal-Mex (don’t forget my health watch). I sampled queso. I like cheese in most forms, and queso fit the bill. Cheese and chips? I’m sold! Thank god that isn’t part of Cal-Mex or I’d be the size of a house. And there were a lot of people of the large variety there, but they didn’t stop me from ordering the deep-dish apple pie for dessert at dinner.

It was awesome to see my friend, meet her son and spend time with her husband, who I swear I’ve only hung out with at weddings. I loved their parenting style and their adorable son. They took us to a barbeque at their friend’s house, and guess what?! Their friends were nice, too!

I could almost see myself living there. I started to picture it. But the fiancé still loves the ocean so it looks like we’ll stay within walking distance of it for awhile. But believe the hype about Austin. It’s in Texas, but it isn’t really Texas. It’s Austin.

The River in the middle of the city!!! Picture paddling a boat on it... Ahhh.... summer.... Clearly, someone has a sense of humor.

And don't forget. Austin is the state capital.

The Story of the Ring (con't)

2007-06-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

A ring. A symbol of love. The symbol of an everlasting circle. The diamond ring. A symbol of just how much he loves you. A broken diamond ring. A symbol of just how much a pain it is to get one of these things right. The ring, not the relationship. He’s still very much the right one.

In the big picture, the search for the ring is a cakewalk compared to finding the giver of the ring, but seriously, is there a bride out there who has had as many issues with her ring as I have?

Let me recap. I stupidly decided I HAD to choose my ring. Just HAD to. Then I realized that there is a reason brides don’t do this. Guilt. When I saw those price tags, I envisioned a new car. And a car is much, much bigger than a ring. Then I had to have an organic looking ring made by an independent jeweler. Of course the jeweler I picked is in CANADA so we paid FedEx TWICE to look at the ring. And FedEx to Canada isn’t cheap. Then, in a moment of clarity, I found the setting I wanted just two miles from home. We bought it, and sent it off to New York to have a diamond from a dealer set in it. My brother flew it out here (I’m skipping about a million steps in between like my friend taking it out to Brooklyn so my brother could bring it to me), and Ta-DA! I had a gorgeous ring with a stunning diamond. I was ecstatic. I FINALLY felt like a bride and had a shiny ring to show off.

Then, TRAGEDY. I was doing extreme power lounging on the couch last night while watching bad reality television. In a power lounging readjustment I felt the weight on my hand change. I looked down, expecting to see a loose diamond freed from the shackles of an engagement ring setting. But no, I saw the WHOLE SETTING broken off of the ring. BROKEN. SNAPPED. NO LONGER WEARABLE.

My sweet, concerned fiancé noted that I shouldn’t have put all my weight on it when I changed positions. I AM ON A COUCH ON PILLOWS. I BRUSHED MY HAND ACROSS A PILLOW. A PILLOW!!!! And the bloody thing broke. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn’t this ring supposed to last me until I DIE? Clearly, I’m going to do a lot more than lay on the couch before I die.

Why does this have to happen three days before I fly to Colorado for my friends’ wedding and showing off my ring? Really, WHY??? At least it didn’t happen three days before OUR wedding. A small glimmer of light.

Look, girls! Check out my fancy ring!

Behold the Power of the Prune!

2007-06-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

For anyone keeping track or wondering, I started coughing and making stupid health decisions prior to Memorial Day. Today is the first day of summer (officially) and the damn illness is hanging on by a thread. I’ve tried battling it with everything: antibiotics, acupuncture, herbs, vitamins, cough syrup (2 kinds of OTC, herbal and hard-core-prescription), ginger tea, lemon and honey tea, nasal spray, sleep and more sleep. And one of all or the combo bound me up like nobody’s business.

So, I battled that with lots and lots of water, which did nothing. Then my grandmother suggested prune juice. Yes, prune juice. Like old folks drink to stay regular. Like my grandma drinks because her medications bind her up, too. Like, yuck. It's brown.

Let me tell you. Those old folks know something. I drank two small glasses of that the other night, and bam! My tummy gurgled and hurt half the night as it worked its way through my system and I continued to woo my fiancé with wondrous sounds released from my backside. Sounds I hadn’t heard in oh, about 2 weeks. Luckily, he thinks it’s funny. Then, in the morning, sweet release.

So, all praise the power of the prune! Part of me is working again!

As for the rest of my hellish sickness, I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. My energy is returning slowly and I can sort of sleep on my back again. Sort of. I still wake up coughing. Now, if grandma can only suggest something as fabulous for coughing….

Southern Charms

2007-06-18T16:10:00.001-07:00

In my quest for wedding ideas, I’ve stumbled across a few things that I’ve thought were a little crazy. Over the top floral arrangements, horse drawn, rose-covered carriages. Things that bring to mind, “They are spending way too much on one day.” Then there are things that I just wonder about. Like ice sculptures. I like ice sculptures as much as the next person. You know, in that cheesy sort of cool way. So, in a moment of boredom, I flipped through the pages of an ice sculpture company in North Carolina. Apparently, ice doesn’t always have to be boring. Now I’m trying to figure out how I can incorporate this into our wedding weekend.

I mean, nothing says a good time like a penis shooter.

May the Force be with us

2007-06-13T11:48:00.000-07:00

The invitations are out!

Luckily for us, the postage rate changed just before we decided to mail our invitations. FYI: if postage rates are going to change around when you send out an important mailing like, oh say, wedding invitations, you might want to buy stamps ahead of time or make your own online. When I went to the post office I had a choice of:
- American Flags
- Liberty Bells
- Star Wars

I think our invitations might be the first stamped with Darth Vader and Darth Maul. Neither of whom really conjure up images of sweet, wedded bliss. I really like the Han Solo and Chewy ones, and the Princess Leiah and R2D2 ones are pretty cool, too. I thought the Millennium Falcon was pretty ambiguous as was the Death Star, but I HAVE THE DEATH STAR ON MY WEDDING INVITATIONS!! What does that say about our marriage??

On the bright side, Star Wars was a huge part of the 70s childhood so I feel okay using them. Yoda and Storm Troopers… all cool. Of course, the Darth Vader stamp is HUGE and unless the recipient is blind will they miss it, and last I checked, all of our guests are seeing.

Secretly, I think it’s kind of cool that we have Star Wars stamps on our invitations because I have to admit, I was sick of all the love bird stamps.

It's in the details

2007-06-05T11:07:00.000-07:00

It’s almost official. People know we are getting married. We sent out save the date cards. We (okay, I) added to the list (the dreaded invitation list), but no one is OFFICIALLY invited YET. That is, until early next week. Or so I hope.

I picked-up our invitations at the post office yesterday. I had them hand-silk-screened in Providence because that makes so much sense (I love the internet). I can’t remember how I found Heather, but I am sure it was somehow related to Design Sponge. She has the best links to things.

The bottom line is that I LOVE our invitations. I never thought a little ink and some paper could make me so happy. I’m sure we could have cut corners on this one and printed them ourselves. But really, how many corners can one cut? There have to be some things that make my heart sing.

As anyone knows who’s read along for a little bit, I am a reluctant wedding spender. I really don’t want to get caught up in all the frills and crazy details that no one remembers. Few people will probably remember our invitations, but they make me happy. Is that what the “crazy” details are to others? Just things that make them happy? Hmmm….something to think about.

Check out Heather’s things here.

Even the mighty fall sometimes

2007-05-31T11:58:00.001-07:00

I rarely get sick. I might call in sick to work, but you know, it’s usually more like sick of work sick. Not sick-sick. On the rare occasion when sickness gets a hold of me, I almost always take to the couch for a day and wave it away with a quick brush of hand. I do NOT get sick for days, and definitely not a whole week. Unfortunately, I think I am sick-sick. Here’s the timeline:

Tuesday: Felt a little under the weather. Left work an hour early. Went to bed.

Wednesday: Stayed home on the couch. Felt poorly, but could have pushed it and gone to work. This is my strategy: get it before it gets you.

Thursday: Went to work. Felt fine for the most part. Slightly run down. Stupid move #1: Despite feeling a tad rundown, went out for drinks with friends I haven’t seen in months.

Friday: Work was cancelled so stayed home on the couch recovering from yelling at the bar all night Thursday. Still felt run-down but also sure I could make it to Texas.

Saturday: Stupid move #2: Hopped on a plane to Austin feeling decent, but a little run-down. A cough has taken hold of my bronchial system. Buy cough syrup that does nothing to help the cough.

Sunday: The cough seems to be getting worse. Still tour around Austin and go to BBQ that night. Buy homeopathic cough syrup that does nothing to help the cough.

Monday: Continue coughing and denying I am sick. Tour around Austin. Shop, walk and run myself down more. Stupid, but necessary move #3: Hop a plane back to LA.

Tuesday: Wake up feeling like utter hell. Stay home from work and cough like mad.

Wednesday: Repeat Tuesday. Finally admitted defeat and called the doctor for drugs. She informed me it sounds like I have a virus and I have to wait it out, but took mercy on my and prescribed cough syrup. Stupid move #4: Had the cough syrup prescription sent to the pharmacy by work so I couldn’t get it last night. Spent the night coughing so much I puked. This has not happened in my memory before (vaguely recall this possibly happening when I was a child).

Thursday: Stupid Move #5: Deny that I am still sick. Drive to the pharmacy to get cough syrup and onto work where I planned on taking it. The cough syrup is full of drugs that will knock me out and make me sleep like I am on, oh drugs. I am stuck sucking Ricola and drinking hot water with lemon and honey. I really hope this cough syrup works.

So, I am finally admitting that I am sick and called HR to request a temp to cover for me for the afternoon. I can’t wait to get home so I can go drug myself and get healthy.

Also, send a prayer for all those poor people on the planes with me and my friends in Texas. I really, really hope I didn’t get them sick.

Give us MORE!

2007-05-24T17:03:00.000-07:00

As if all the wedding magazines out there aren’t enough to make me feel like I need to do MORE with my day. MORE flowers! MORE favors! MORE themes! MORE hair, make-up, dress, ribbon, photos, chair covers, lighting! MORE EVERYTHING!!! I’ve found that there are blogs devoted to making this one day even more amazing (said with a hint of sarcasm).

Yes, if I am lucky, and I plan to be, I will only get married once. I will also only have my first child once, my second child once, graduate from college once, fall in love with my future husband once and loads of other things that I will only do once. How this day got so completely blown out of proportion, I have no idea.

One theory that I recently read (but can’t remember where – sorry), thinks that since women (it’s mainly women creating these days) aren’t worrying about moving in or losing their virginity anymore, they need something to MARK this major change. A blow-out, knock-down gorgeous day is the only way to truly mark it. Or so this one person thought.

I think the whole greening of the country is also making us more aware of how much is wasted on weddings and how this waste effects the earth. By chance, and some thought, my wedding is semi-green. I am wearing a recycled (sounds so much better) dress, thus not creating more waste by creating more fabric. We are using locally grown flowers. No airplane flight for them (I won’t mention that we plus many of our guests are flying there). We are using rental plates instead of disposable. Okay, this is because I hate disposable plates at weddings, but my mother pointed out they are much better for the earth.

We are hardly perfect, and yes, we are spending money that doesn’t need to be spent. We could have gone to the court house or Big Sur for an elopement, but I really want to mark the day with family and friends. I don’t need fireworks or skywriters to make it special. My friends and family will be enough. But hell if it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg to feed the crew.

Anyway, I’m trying to keep it all in perspective as we get closer to the day. I’m still reading wedding blogs, which have beautiful pictures and some good, cheap ideas. I haven’t looked at a wedding magazine since I flew to Portland in April (what else was I supposed to read at the airport? I already read People). All in all, right now I’m pretty mellow about the wedding. Maybe Xanax does do something….

On the move with Crazy: Part 2

2007-05-22T15:13:00.000-07:00

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED….
The movers showed up as planned at 8am on Saturday. On time. I took this to be a good omen for the day, but then again, I had been up since 5:30 obsessing over what boxes went to the apartment, what went to storage and what piles of crap went to charity. I wouldn’t have known an omen if it crawled out of a box and introduced itself.

Things went smoothly. After two hours, we were finally MOVING. It took about five minutes to drive the whole mile down the street to my fiancé’s place. Amazingly, he had his storage things stacked by the front door, too. I was impressed. Of course, he is German. After two more hours, things were in place for the final stop: storage. By in place, I mean the hallway was lined with boxes of my stuff, chairs for the table and the table in pieces. It looked like the before pictures on Extreme Makeover.

I ignored my nagging hunger, and we headed off to the storage place. Or what I like to refer to as the crack den. We pulled up in front of Al-American Storage, and I asked to be shown to my storage space which I reserved earlier that week. This is where my planning failed me. I didn’t go look at the space.

Up an elevator, around six corners, three small flights of stairs and finally we stood in front of the unit I could call mine. The worker opened the door, and inside I saw two large steps. LARGE, like where-the-fuck-is-my-stuff-going large. At this point, my very nice Russian mover said, “How much for this? $100? No, too expensive. Plus, your stuff won’t fit.” We walked away.

After hyperventilating while reminding myself I was paying for the two movers by the hour and all our stuff was inside their truck, I called my fiancé. I think the conversation went something like this:

“We’re at the storage place and it is a FUCKING JOKE. I NEED you to find another place. Now. I don’t care that you don’t have internet. MAKE IT HAPPEN! I’ve been up since 5:30. I AM LOSING IT!”

At this point, my very nice Russian mover prudently walked away from me with the premise of giving me some privacy. I think this man is very smart.

Finally, my fiancé called to tell me reserved us a space at a Public Storage unit nearby. I got into my car, half-crazed from hunger, fully crazed from moving, and inhaled a Cliff bar that my fiancé left in the car door two months earlier. Keep in mind, I hate Cliff bars, or I should say hated. That Cliff bar saved my life.

We arrived at Public Storage to find the manager gone. Seriously. I almost fell over laughing it before starting to cry. The sign said he’d be back in thirty minutes. At least someone was eating. And I was still paying my guys. Some god took pity on me, and the manager strolled up with his lunch bag. Finally, things fell into place.

The story ends sweetly with me finally getting a storage unit. Me bribing the Public Storage guy with DVDs to break early from his lunch and let my guys unload my stuff. Me completely over-tipping my awesome movers. Me collapsing on the floor of the new apartment begging for a burrito. Me eating a burrito and a half a pound of chips that my fiancé sweetly brought to me. God, I love this man.

Notes on Moving:
1. It will always take longer than you think.
2. It will take even longer than the longest you think.
3. Never use the cheaper storage company. Always go with a name you know like Public Storage.
4. Hire competent movers who speak up for you when exhaustion and hunger strike you unreasonable and irrational.
5. Marry someone who can handle your neurosis and freak-outs and stores food in your car.

On the move with Crazy: Part 1

2007-05-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

I wrote this before we moved, but thought it should be posted. So from, May 10th:

I waste no time. I am a crazy planner who worries and obsesses about the littlest details. Sometimes I even scare myself. I really scare my fiancé. So when we decided to move, I started packing. I started sorting books and dvds of what comes with me, what goes to storage and can be sold/given away. Then, I kept going. My apartment is a mass of boxes. And I don’t have to be out until the end of the month. But at the end of the month we are going to Austin to see Jen and Chris and check out the city.

So, after about two minutes of discussion, we decided it would be much easier to use movers THIS weekend rather than spending it renting a truck and hauling stuff up the two flights of stairs to his place next weekend. I wasted no time calling people on Craig’s List, and quickly learned how incredibly CHEAP it is to hire local movers. Famous last words. But really, it is $65 an hour for 2 guys and a truck. My stuff will be all ready to go on the first floor, no stairs. We’ll take my stuff to his house, drop it off and pick-up some of his stuff that is going to storage. Then, they take us to the storage place and we drop off our stuff. Ta-da! Done! They do all the heavy lifting, we do the check writing. It’s a win-win situation.

In my perfect world, I will be in the new apartment by noon eating lunch and getting ready to unpack some stuff. Wait… in my perfect world I’ll be on the beach and come home later to my new, perfectly arranged, unpacked apartment. Where is that genie lantern when I need it?

Finding the Middle

2007-05-15T16:12:00.000-07:00

“She always has to win. This is why she is divorced.”

My fiancé told me this in regards to a woman who I had a mis-communicated business transaction. She replied to my one paragraph email with four paragraphs. She, the super, busy, professional woman to me, the executive assistant, aspiring web entrepreneur. If she is so busy, and so successful, why does she need to quibble with me over $50? I won’t go into the gory details of something that has taken way too much energy, but his comments left me pondering the concept of always having to win and marriage.

Marriage, like all relationships, requires compromise. Requires backing down. There will always be things that I will stand up for like not having a cat. But most things in life are negotiable. We argued over where to live – my apartment, his apartment, or a different apartment. I’m pushing to leave Los Angeles, he wants to stay. I’m giving in on these things. We moved into his apartment in Venice, and for now, are staying in Los Angeles. I folded on a gas stove (his apartment has electric which is almost unheard of in LA), but I made it clear that the next time we move, an electric stove is a deal breaker no matter how cool the apartment (or, hopefully, HOUSE) is. We give and we take. We demand and we acquiesce.

It didn’t hit me until he said that about her always having to win, that neither one of us works that way. I already decided to meet her original, misunderstood-by-me demands. In my mind, I was giving a little, she would be giving a little. We both come out even. No winner, no loser. Just a lesson in communication to be learned by each of us.

With my relationship, I’m going to keep compromising when I can. And I’m going to feel blessed that the man I’m choosing to spend my life with doesn’t always have to win.

Please Resuscitate

2007-05-11T15:50:00.000-07:00

Moving is good for a few reasons. It forces you to ask yourself, “Do I really need to hold onto all of these back issues of Vogue? Do I really need to keep the $8 tea pot I bought in Chinatown for brewing disgusting yet healing Chinese teas? Am I ever going to wear that sundress I made six years ago again?” All questions I’ve asked myself. So far, only the magazines are in the trash.

Moving also reminds me of the parts of me I’ve forgotten. I moved to Los Angeles to work in fashion. I looked for jobs in fashion for almost a year before I surrendered to the entertainment industry. I won't go into why I moved here instead of New York. That's a different post. When I moved, I brought with me boxes of exquisite fabrics I’d collected over the years. I had containers filled with multi-hued zippers, trimmings, elastic for swimsuits and comfy pants and a wall-mounted rack for my rainbow of threads – small spools for machine stitching, large spools for my serger and spools of silk for hand-sewing.

In my past life in Boulder, I rented a studio just for sewing. I had a job that was flexible, which meant many days I left at 3:00 and headed to my studio to sew until 9:00 or 10:00 at night, eating a dinner of Goldfish crackers and water. As my uncle said, I had a fire in my belly. I bought patterns and manipulated them into what I envisioned. I studied with a master tailor and apprenticed with a fashion designer. I dreamed of taking draping classes and making gowns like Madame Vionnet. I loved the serenity of carefully finishing a garment by hand. My body and mind hummed in unison with the flow of creativity

Four and a half years ago I moved into my apartment. I paid my good friend Willie to make me tables that nested together. One for cutting, one for my machines. I was giddy when I finally got everything set-up in my apartment. After long days at work, I cut out a few simple items and partially sewed them. And then, abandoned them. They sat in little aborted piles on the cutting table for months. I hung shelves to try to make the space more workable. I put up a brighter light. I tried to tell myself I didn’t like leaving a mess in my living room, but the reality was that I was exhausted when I came home from work. My thread got so dusty that I could barely tell if it was pink or grey. Eventually, I conceded defeat. I put my machines back in their cases and found spots for them hidden from my view.

When I started packing, I found all of these things. I found my past. The woman I was when I arrived in Los Angeles seems like a foggy memory. I remembered why I moved to Los Angeles. I remembered how talented and passionate I once was. I looked at tools I’d forgotten existed. My button-hole knife with just one purpose: cutting open a button hole. A long, metal tool with a loop on it? It turns skinny fabric tubes into straps or belts. I found swatches of silk jersey and hemp and charmeuse that I dreamed I would make three-dimensional. And then I found my fabrics.

I ran my hand over fabrics, the images of the designs I dreamed bounced through my mind. I gingerly refolded yards of wool jersey in reds, black, pea-soup green, shook out sumptuous camel hair bought to make an overcoat. I gasped at the beauty of fabric I forgot I owned. I smoothed my hands over luscious silks and bright cottons. All of the fabrics, the trimmings, the zippers and things that made me truly an artist with cloth, the things I hadn’t looked at in years are heading to storage along with my sewing tables.

During all of this, my mind didn't even dare to conjure up a new dress design to make. Before, I would have so many ideas for a piece of fabric I couldn't bring myself to cut it. Now, I wear black almost every day because it is easier and am not making my wedding dress like I imagined I would. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. That woman seems so far from who I am now. I keep hoping that when I have children, I will make clothes for them. I will remember how to put in a lapped zipper. I will remember how to manipulate a pattern into what I want. I will remember how to make a button hole, and how turn of cloth works. I will remember how to set a sleeve. I will remember because it is in my soul. My bones. I will remember because it makes me happy.

I can’t bear to not have my machines near me, so I am bringing them with me to my new apartment. Even if they just sit in the closet, I will know they are there. Waiting for me. Keeping a lifeline to the artist in me. Reminding me she exists.

And maybe one day, when I have the time and space, I will make a wedding dress if my daughter will allow me the privilege.

May 8

2007-05-09T15:37:00.000-07:00

INPUT
Mango-banana smoothie
Multiple handfuls of Banana Crisp Bonanza Mix (I like the other one better)
The most delicious white bean bruschetta EVER
2 pieces of very tasty pizza at Mozza (Mario Batali’s new LA eatery)
Some chocolate
Leftover cold pizza. Still tasty.

OUTPUT
Packing moving boxes

Yesterday wasn’t so bad, but now I know why all those diet and food gurus make you write down everything you eat and drink. It is scary! I can’t take it. Often, I think I had a pretty healthy day: smoothie for breakfast, tea in the morning, lots of water, salad for lunch, cereal for dinner. Then, I recall the small pile of chocolate covered somethings that I crammed in my mouth at the 4 o’clock low point of my work day. Like all 32 pieces of chocolate plus a half of a bag of nuts. Like I said, scary.

Heaven in a Jar

2007-05-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

On the weekends, I rarely want chocolate past a morning Nutella craving. I never used to eat much chocolate at home until I met my German fiancé. It started with my introduction to real pretzels from the German bakery with a smear of the spread. Then he taught me it’s just as tasty in whole grain toast. Seems counter intuitive to an American: chocolate on whole grain bread. It isn’t. It’s tasty. Recently, on a low-pantry weekend, he discovered that Nutella tastes quite good spread on a warm tortilla and then wrapped up like a crepe. This is very, very bad as tortillas are a staple in my house like air in other people’s houses. I’m screwed.

I now understand why Europeans don’t understand peanut butter. Why use peanuts when you can use chocolate? By the way, European Nutella tastes better than the stuff you can buy here. The only difference the web and I can find is that the US version has partially hydrogenated peanut oil. Who knows if that is it… but it tastes better. Smartly, we brought two huge jars back with us. I suggested more, but the fiancé insisted two was enough. We have half a jar left, and his family doesn’t arrive until August. This is a serious crisis. In time, he will learn to listen.

The List

2007-05-05T17:11:00.000-07:00

I’m in the eye of the wedding storm. The official planning is done. The invitations are about to be printed. The rest of the planning is basically on hold until closer to the wedding. I can breathe. Ahhhh…..

Or can I? The damn invitation list keeps coming up. I end up at dinner with someone who I adore, but had to be cut from the list or telling work friends who I love to laugh with that no one from work is invited except two super secret people. My Santa Monica friends got taken off the list, too. Then I think about some high school friends who I don’t really talk to anymore, but would like to invite. There are a couple of my parent’s friends who I really like, but got cut.

We are having a simple, country wedding. It isn’t expensive, but we are paying for part of it ourselves. We no longer have the size limitations of the mountain house location. Do we just invite all the people we took off the list and hope that not all of them show?

Aside from the location, the invitation list has been the hardest. As I’ve told some single friends, stop corresponding with people now so that when you are ready to get married, you won’t have this problem. Damn me for being so good at keeping in touch. Damn them for being such cool friends. Oh hell.

I’m only doing this once, so I guess it should just be BIG. Like my dress.

May 3

2007-05-04T10:56:00.000-07:00

INPUT
1 tropical fruit smoothie
1 cup Choco hot chocolate at work
4-10 handfuls of Antioxidant-ly & Black Currant-ly Walnut-ly Trek Mix
Arugala, buffalo mozzarella, avocado and corn salad
Half a sleeve of Thin Mints
bowl of leftover chicken in mole sauce with brown rice

OUTPUT
20 minute walk on the beach
10 minute round-trip walk to lunch
3 hours of couch time watching Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy - oh wait, that doesn't burn calories.