I'm baa-aack

So I know it's been about a century since I last blogged, but I touched down in the United States last week and I've been busy ever since. First, let's start with my harrowing journey back home. 

Though I love sitting in airports and people-watching, I'm not a big let's-hang-out-in-the-airport-for-8-hours-waiting-for-our-flight sort of gal. But, for some reason, every time I travel with my family this is what ends up happening. Probably because I'm always the one that pays for my ticket, while they use their airline miles, which they have a lot of. This inevitably puts us on different flights during a single 24-hour period, so here's me hanging out in the Buenos Aires airport for a total of 8 hours waiting for my flight, after my dad, mom and sister all depart hours before me for theirs. 

When it's time for me to check in, the American Airlines lady tells me I'm going to Los Angeles. "No...," I say, "I'm going to San Francisco." 

"No...you aren't," she responds, staring blankly at her computer screen. Luckily I have a printout of my itinerary, which I show her. "This is strange," she says, looking over it. Ten minutes of her tapping on a keyboard and a phone call later and she tells me my connecting flight from JFK to San Francisco is canceled -- and the next available flight they have for me is the following day, connecting through Los Angeles. Ugggh. 

I refuse to believe that there are NO other connecting flights I can snag the day I arrive in JFK, since I'm arriving at like 6:30 a.m. and I reeeeally didn't want to spend an extra night in a hotel (missing J like crazy at this point). So I tell her fine and figure I'll haggle a same-day seat on a plane out when I land. 

The plane ride to New York is long but pleasant since the seat next to me is empty. Highlights include watching Water for Elephants and Arthur, along with making out the Amazon river below by moonlight as we fly over the Amazon. 

When I land in JFK it takes forever (as always) to get through customs, and after standing in a ticketing line for 30 minutes I'm told I have a confirmed seat on a connecting flight at 6pm. I'm equally happy and pissed -- happy 'cause I still get to go home that day, pissed because I have to sit in the airport for 12 hours. The rest of the day is spent watching CNN on the overhead televisions and adding myself to standby lists on each San Francisco flight. A crowd of about 20 shares my plight, and they crowd the standby desk in front of me, yelling at the flight attendants that they need to get on the flight. Flight attendants, unfortunately, are not magicians, and cannot make more seats appear -- especially when American Airlines "overbooked every flight" that day, they say. Some of my standby amigos yell obscenities, a portly French girl begins to cry and shout some pretty nasty French words (as my limited knowledge of French would lead me to believe). 

I sit on a nearby bench taking pictures of this and trying not to laugh. At 7am, wearing the same clothes I wore 24 hours before, I find this all very amusing. No anger is getting any of us on this flight. This fact is apparently lost on these people. After the group parts I walk up to the desk and ask (very sweetly and very calmly because these people are essentially the gatekeepers) whether there is any way at all that I can get on the next flight out at 3 p.m. Attendants actually smile back at me and pleasantly explain the situation, which I nod at and say I understand. The last thing I'm in is a good mood since I'm greasy and tired and missing J, but I crack a few jokes with them and they laugh. The female attendant tells me she'll try her hardest to get me on the next flight, but no promises. I thank her, since that's really all I need to hear. 

One thirty rolls around and I make my way to the other gate, where the standby list has just appeared on the screen near the desk. And what do you know -- my name has been moved up to #2! Score. Thank you flight attendant lady. The standby crowd has joined me in the area, and has resumed yelling at the new attendants at the desk, as though this is really going to get them a seat on the plane. 

Plane pulls up, your truly gets the last seat. Angry people are left yelling and crying at the gate. Moral of the story: You attract more flies with honey.

When I landed J met me at the airport with a big bouquet of pink flowers (love him) and I couldn't stop hugging him. Though I had a  fantastic time in Buenos Aires, after the fourth week I was ready to come home. I missed J like whoa and was having (if truth needs to be told) major sex withdrawals that started about a week or two into my trip. (Whoever said sex wanes with marriage obviously isn't in my marriage, where frequency is taken to almost teenage proportions.)

When we got home he had his anniversary present to me sitting on the couch (it was one of the Kate Spade bags I wanted) and we pretty much did not leave each other's side all weekend. As cheesy as it sounds, I don't know how I lived before J. Sure I had serious boyfriends and I dated casually between them, but no one is like J. He really is my heart. 

Anyway, this weekend will officially be dubbed The Weekend of Real estate. We're going to our realtor's party tonight that she throws every year. She invites all her business clients and friends and serves unlimited margaritas all night. Obviously I am game. Then tomorrow we're going to start touring properties with her. I CAN'T WAIT!!!!

Weddings and Chads

Including this weekend I have two more weekends here till I leave for Buenos Aires. Yesterday I had a great day shopping with J (I scored a cute pair of leopard flats at Banana for practically nothing), and last night we went to a huge engagement party at a relative's mansion in the hills. I've never seen said relative's new mansion but my first reaction when we passed the estate gates and parked in the driveway was "Jeeeeeeee-sus...." 

It felt like we we had arrived at Lisa Vanderpump's home in Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. The front doors, made of wrought iron and glass, were at least 10 feet tall, and the giant marble foyer opened into an even more gigantic living room, with marble columns, marble floors and two-story picture windows all along the back wall, showcasing a stunning view of the valley below. The back "patio" (if you could even call it that since it was larger than my entire apartment and parking space combined) was lined with a stately stone balustrade, and had an infinity pool that overlooked a 180-degree view of the valley and mountains in the distance. 

The other day J had asked me what I would be content with when we're older. Last night I found my answer. "This," I said, motioning to the house and view. He agreed that we need to figure out some way to make it happen...that doesn't involve any unethical or illegal activities (much to my dismay). ;)

Anywits, the party was fun, I ate too much as always, etc. etc. And though today is Sunday, I get no J time since he's gone to the wedding of some person he knew way back when. I argued that it was a waste of time driving two hours each way to attend the wedding of a practical stranger, but he argued that he's not like me and doesn't consider people he hasn't talked to in ages as "strangers" if they grew up together. (Which I think it utterly stupid, but hey, in the words of Tamra Barney "You can't argue with stupid.") I'm obviously not at the wedding with him today because -- wait for it -- his delightful head case of a mother will be there! After what happened last year, J and I haven't spoken to her since that charming exchange. I have no desire to ever speak to her or see her again, and J seems to not mind life without her, but it was inevitable that some wedding or funeral would bring us face to face again, and so I said forget it. 

Yesterday over soup at Boudin, J said there's going to come a time when we're going to have to speak to her again, but I disagree. There's no requirement in the marriage code that says I need to pretend everything is all rainbows and unicorns after you not only insult me, but take it a step further and insult my family. I will get all Teresa Giudice if it comes to that. I'm sure it'll be awkward today with J and his mother at this blessed event, but thankfully I'm not there to witness it. 

In other news, summer is officially here, which means the Tool Academy has reconvened at their local watering hole (aka our apartment complex swimming pool). Since my living room windows (which are often open) face the pool, I often hear the staccato of Coors Light cans popping open along with the lovely conversations that the meat heads have down below. Two days ago, a particularly delightful fellow we'll name "Chad" was venting his women woes to his bros over sunscreen and a pack of Natty Ice. Apparently one of Chad's many problems is that he's "doing" a chick he doesn't like. According to his generous descriptions, Chad's chick is not hot enough for him and he really doesn't like her, but he doesn't know what to do since "she comes to all his basketball games" and "has nice tits." An hour later a fellow sunbather named "Morgan" (who had the voice of a phone sex operator) introduced herself to Chad and his buddies in the pool area. From the conversation they had, I had a feeling Chad was going to have no problem moving on from "nice tits" girl.

She blogs, finally

My buddy Neil in his salad days (1971).

I think this is the longest I've gone not blogging -- and that includes those three weeks in South America two years ago. I have become a bad blogger (insert self-deprecation here). As a friend of mine would say, "My badsies." How did this happen? I really have no excuse since it takes, what, maybe an hour to write a decent post? And it's not like I'm traveling through a third world country on the hunt for inconvenient pockets of spotty wi-fi; RATHER, I am sitting in a tony suburb having the occasional glass of Veuve in the afternoon (there's always a right time for champagne) and...writing.

What have I been up to lately? Listening to a lot of Neil Young and doing a lot of writing. Yesterday I freelanced all day, not because I had to but because I wanted to (that house down payment is ohsoclose). By the end I was nearly cross-eyed from staring at my computer screen all day, but I was satisfied. So I put on some Neil Young and danced to unwind. Right now I feel like I should be freelancing as much as possible since these summer months are crucial for us to save the last of our down payment. Our apartment lease is up in July, after all, and we don't want to have to rent month-to-month for longer than a few months. Hopefully we'll have at least put a bid on a place by the fall. Real estate is definitely my porn, so it's very exciting scoping out Redfin every day, obsessively taking notes from HGTV's My First Place and balancing our budget to make this happen.

When I'm not freelancing, I'm editing the manuscript (can I just say writing it was a lot more fun than editing it? I've already gone through all the ink in my first red pen and the pages look like they were used to clean up a murder scene -- they are bleeding red). When I'm not writing and editing, I've been reading Mario Vargas Llosa's Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter (hilarious book -- read it), and working on my fitness. I do power yoga on Mondays, pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and two hours of tango on Thursday night, which is a workout in 3-inch heels. Last week my tango instructor invited me to his salsa class, so I'll be adding that to the mix as well.

The children are doing well. Gidget (aka Cacahuete) has adapted to her surroundings swimmingly, as Lola did when I first adopted her. The other day it dawned on me that I've created a makeshift animal sanctuary of sorts, where homeless pups (and a cat) are spoiled rotten, given warm, fuzzy beds and blankets, and are hugged and petted incessantly. This has done wonders not only for their well-being, but also for my stress level. Ten bucks says a highpoint of Lola's life was when I picked her up yesterday and we danced to Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" while Gidget danced around at my feet.

Neil aside, the only complaint I have is that J's been MIA the past few days with a mad rush of billable hours. But then I step back and survey the situation, and honestly I can't complain. It might not always be like this, since nothing is permanent, but every morning I wake up so thankful that this is my life. I love what I am doing; J loves what he is doing. We are happy together and excited about our plans for the future. I can't help but be appreciative. Every single day.

Carmel birthday, in pictures

I had the BEST weekend in Carmel with J. 

Our hotel room -- a small British-style cottage with a private entrance -- was beyond adorable. When we checked in, a bottle of Sherry and a welcome kit for our dog were already waiting inside, and we didn't have to use our car once all weekend since our room was on the main street near all shops and restaurants. I didn't want to leave! It's been a dream of mine my whole life to own a vacation home in Carmel, so we also browsed real estate in the area (just for fun) and let's just say the prices are a little high: bungalows and cottages start at about $2 million-plus. Nevertheless, I quietly added this dream to my bucket list. ;)

Our front door.

 

Banksy-style art on the outside of our chimney.

Wine tasting (above and below) at Vino Napoli.

Noshing on the Antipasto Misto, a platter of salumi, cheeses and olives.

The Tuck Box English Tea Room.

Watching the sunset during our hotel's wine and cheese social.

Dinner at Porta Bella's. The food and ambiance were amazing.

At the beach.

The Cheese Shop, one of Carmel's must-see places. The shop has over 300 different kinds of cheese from all over the world, and tasting is encouraged. We were given about 15 different cheeses to taste, and told the background on each type. Highly recommend a stop here.

We heard the best Bloody Marys in town were at A.W. Shucks, so we had to give them a whirl. They were divine. So good, in fact, that we ended up ordering five of them, along with plates of fresh oysters (below) on the half shell.

One of the many adorable little alleys lit up at night.

The aftermath

Well, semi-aftermath since this Venga Bus birthday party celebration is just getting started. But yesterday was my "real" birthday, and I got plenty of amazing surprises. A delivery of super cute flowers sent by a friend, a fun shopping spree, my parents surprising me by showing up in town with a big flower bouquet of their own and a good friend treating me out to late-night drinks were some of the highlights.

But the coolest part of the whole day was after dinner when J and I returned to the car, and there on my seat was a Tiffany's box wrapped with the signature white ribbon. (Inner-chihuahua --> psychotic) That flash of Tiffany blue and white is enough to make any girl giddy, and sadly I am no exception. As I was opening it with the goofiest of wide smiles, J told me not to get too excited because it wasn't jewelry or anything. Well when he said that I knew exactly what it was, and I was right: The Tiffany's porcelain box I've wanted for the past two years!!:

So cute that he actually remembered I wanted it since I've only publicly mentioned the thing twice. And I LOVE it. It's currently sitting on my french country bath stand filled with my rings. Good man.

A celebration to last throughout the years

The next two weeks are going to be some of the busiest I've had in the last six months, but for good reason. It's my birthday next week!! (continue with copious amounts of exclamation marks here). And being that my two favorite holidays of the year are Valentine's Day and my birthday, The Day of My Birth must be celebrated accordingly, much like Jesus'. Meaning it is a weeks-long affair, just like my wedding was. (If you can't already tell, I love a good celebration.)

So I'll be gone this weekend visiting friends and family as we pre-celebrate and indulge in ice cream cake and fondue (calories don't count during your birthday month, obvi), then my actual birthday is on Tuesday (April 19th), followed by the highlight of festivities -- J is taking me to Carmel to celebrate! 

I grew up about an hour from Carmel and since childhood it's been one of my favorite places to visit in-state.

We've decided to lux it up for a long weekend at a cute B&B on Ocean Ave. (the main street downtown). I can't wait to check out our digs since from what I've seen online the place looks ultra adorable, with a stone fireplace, a yellow and white British cottage-style motif, and a wine and cheese social every evening. And is it wrong that I'm kind of excited to be staying a block away from a Tiffany & Co.? Perhaps the weekend will be my chance to practice the art of persuasion. ;)

Anyway I'm really looking forward to trying some of the many restaurants I've read rave reviews about (including Casanova's, dubbed Carmel's Most Romantic Restaurant, and La Bicyclette) and doing lots of shopping and wine tasting. All with my best friend and partner in crime. I cannot wait. 

The following Monday my good friend from New York is flying in with her new baby to spend a couple days here in the city with her husband (who's on business). I can't wait to meet the baby and catch up with my friend since talking on the phone while 3,000 miles apart just doesn't cut it. Her visit constitutes a special b-day present in itself. Later that week my friends are heading over here to throw me a little birthday shindig/Cinco de Mayo party (margaritas, anyone?), and that should wrap up my month.

Oh, and I should point out that in none of this have I even mentioned the royal wedding, which is going to be a celebration in itself at our household, replete with British flag cupcakes and English cucumber sandwiches. (J still hasn't gotten the memo about why we must celebrate this event. But that's okay. I just continually reply "God save the queen.")

Learning to let go ... tango-style

Last night J and I braved the heavy rain to attend our first tango class together. I was uber excited as I've always been fascinated by tango and it's been ages since I took a formal dance class, so I got suited up:

Red lips? Check.

Tango shoes? Check.

...and waited for J to get home from work so we could get this party started.

Now, when I hear “tango” I think sexy glides across the dance floor, legs wrapping themselves around partners with frenetic control and the occasional circular dip. Naturally I was expecting to leave class being able to do this.

Which was not the case (and rightfully so). Our instructor was an Argentine named Marcelo (of course this was name) with a thick Spanish accent who's been dancing traditional tango in Buenos Aires, Spain and France for most of his life in competitions and festivals. Marcelo spent the first hour or so teaching our class of six The Walk, which is the backbone of everything in Argentine tango. It looks easy enough and is definitely simple to do on your own. 

But, when paired with J, it was initially disastrous for something that looks so simple to do as a pair. We kept fumbling and staring down at our feet and the whole time J kept whispering "You need to let me lead, you need to let me lead," which started making me really frustrated since it wasn't all my fault. Part of the problem was he wasn't taking the lead. 

As we glided, stinted, across the floor, that scene from My So-Called Life suddenly popped into my head where Patty and Graham take that ballroom dancing class to help save their marriage but they find out that, as in life, they don't work well as partners on the dance floor either. Not that J and I have any marital discord or that we're taking this class to save anything (I just want to learn to tango!) but it was frustrating, nonetheless.

I read online last night that "Tango is a conversation between leader (masculine energy) and follower (feminine energy). To dance well requires connecting with your partner." Tango done perfectly is just that. The woman looks swept up in the man's movements -- she follows and he leads her around the floor. It's a very sensual yet controlled dance that is 100% masculine with the male steering the course. 

I'll admit that my biggest problem last night was learning to let go. I'm used to taking charge and that translated poorly into my movements on the dance floor. I need to surrender and let J guide me. This is what I plan to work on most. At the same time J needs to build up more confidence in his dance moves (to be fair this was our first class), stop blaming me for not following, and just take the unspoken lead.

A few times Marcelo cut in and danced with me to show J and I exactly how it's done and I could already feel that with a maestro it was much easier to follow since his moves just....well, made me. 

"Berry good," Marcelo finally said near the end of class when he gave me back to J. 

Apparently J and I were already getting better at this. 

After we got home we tried practicing in our tiny apartment but there's almost no space to do any dancing in here and I ended up smacking my ankle bone hard against my coffee table. No fun. What we really need is a pied-a-terre in Buenos Aires with a large living room that J and I can dance tango in to our hearts' content. In the meantime we'll continue using the narrow hallway in our apartment to shuffle down in unison.

Reason #112 why I love my husband

Last night I was in the shower when I heard our pup going crazy at the front door -- meaning J was home from work. After he popped his head in to say hi, I asked what he wanted for dinner since we had nothing planned. He told me not to worry about it because he had a surprise for me. "Ok...," I thought, with shampoo in my eyes.

After I stepped out of the shower he'd just finished arranging this masterpiece, which he'd placed on our table with two glasses of wine:

He may not be the perfect man, but he is perfect for me. I love him.

And so it begins

J on Sunday night, preparing a case for his first potential client (yes, I am fully aware that my Christmas tree is still up):

 Yesterday was J's first day at the firm, and it went very well. I was hoping he'd be able to pick me up from the subway station near our apartment after I got home from work, but he texted me an hour beforehand with: 

"In a deposition, won't be able to pick you up. Sorry! Love you."

In a deposition. It sounded so official, like something right out of Law and Order -- if I actually watched that show. It didn't sink in last night, nor did it today, that J is officially a lawyer now. It's crazy -- kind of like planning for months to go to Europe, then it being surreal when you're finally there sitting on the Spanish Steps after sunset on a warm night in Rome. After three years of law school and months of studying for the Bar, J was in a deposition. 

Though I had to walk home from the subway stop last night, I couldn't help but smile. And so it begins.

Highs and lows, Jan. 30th edition

High(s):

Hmm...what was my high this week? Better question: How do I choose just one? Notable highs that come to mind are

• Buying those seafoam green Kate Spade heels, the color of which I found out is actually called "Varducci green" as in the Varducci green that vintage Vespas from the '60s came in. How do I know this? Because of my second high....

• I found my dream Vespa! It's about an hour away from where I live, and I have no idea if it's still even available, but the color is perfetto and though after our cross-country move I have yet to get my in-state driver's license, much less my M2 moped one, these pics are a good starting off point to measure all future finds against. You know, like when you grew up with a picture of JFK Jr. on your wall because he was your perfect man and you wanted one just like him, then one day you found one just like him and ended up marrying him and it was all because you never lost sight of what you wanted? These Vespa pictures are kind of like that. Eyes on the prize.

• J and I just spent this afternoon having brunch with a lawyer who I met through a lunch meet-and-greet at work. Said lawyer is a very likable, very social guy who -- if you can believe it -- may talk even more than I do. (That has yet to be calculated and confirmed.) He invited us over to his house, which turned out to be more of a Mediterranean-style villa than a house, up in the hills overlooking the bay. From that high up, the views of the city in the distance and the ocean farther out ahead were spectacular, and for three hours we had fun talking over bagels and lox and the amazing views. Most of the conversation revolved around travel (said lawyer and his wife have been everywhere) so it was refreshing to see that a high-powered partner at a global firm still has ample time every year to go abroad with his wife and live for weeks in villas in the South of France or the Amalfi coast. First-world problems.

• Yesterday J and I were out shopping and I went a little cray cray at Sephora. J talked me into buying all high-quality makeup to replace my cheap stuff with, so I did and, though it was expensive -- more than I've ever spent on makeup in one sitting -- I don't feel bad about it at all. In fact, it made me very happy putting on all my new cosmetics this morning. Which is what money is for, right?

• Tonight Drew is coming over so he and J can begin preparing a case against one of Drew's bandmates -- the one who essentially stole most of what Drew's band earned because he felt he was entitled to all copyrights. In essence this is J's first "client," though he's not taking money from Drew and might not be able to represent him once he starts his official firm job tomorrow. But J's still taking it very seriously and hopes to pitch his first client to the firm once he gets a bit more settled in to the new job. Regardless, right now it's very cute watching J drink coffee out of his law school mug as he pours over Drew's record label contract, making notes and addendums and other lawyer-y things on his legal pad, with our cat and dog sitting near him. The start of a beautiful career. 

Low:

Only two more weeks at work! Ten days -- begin the countdown. I'm considering this both a high and a low (tee hee).

It finally happened!

 D -- fig it, his real name is J and that's what he shall be called -- GOT THE JOB!!!!!!!!!!!!

Extraordinarily enough, the offer terms at this law firm are as good and even better than the terms of the job offer that he turned down in Newport Beach. You know...the one he's been kicking himself over the past few months for rejecting. And the best thing of all? We get to stay put right where we are. No moving down the state, or across the country again. Everything, as many have said and I was unable to see, has actually worked out. It continues to baffle me how things seem to have a way of doing that.

Margarita, cha-cha-cha

So Thursday night D and I went out for margaritas and enchiladas with a good friend of mine, Drew, who'd just gotten back from being in Tonga over New Years.

I've known Drew since freshman year of college, when we both studied abroad in Florence for one semester and met on the plane en route to Italy. According to Drew I was super annoying at first because I "wouldn't stop talking." (Ha! Typical. I left a similar impression with D when we first met) After listening to me "talk about Britney Spears for the first hour on board," Drew says he remembers looking out the window somewhere over Idaho and thinking that it was going to be a loooong flight. But by the time we touched down in Milan for our connection to Tuscany, he'd come to find out I was hilarious and amazing. Which I am. We hung out in the streets of Florence and Rome for the rest of that semester, inseparable in a best friend kind of way. Later, back in the states, we ended up (coincidentally) living a block apart through college in Santa Barbara, and though we lost contact for a few years after graduation, I'm happy to report that we're back to hanging out more now, mostly because he lives part-time just down the freeway from me. 

I say part time because Drew's a little famous. Not like Brad Pitt-famous, but he was in a band that went gold (which actually surprised me since I think their music sucks) but I'm still proud of and inspired by him. He stuck with his band through college, when I used to watch them play at house parties, to now being all over VH1. It's a trip, to say the least.

But over margaritas on Thursday night, he wasn't so happy. Apparently there's a growing rift in his band that's reminiscent of what happened in Almost Famous -- you know, one or two key players ends up a drug addict, drags the entire band down with him and tries to cash in on all the royalties himself, etc. etc. It's the typical band-breakup story. To add salt to the wound it sounds like Drew's lawyer is in cahoots with the drug-addict-royalty-stealer and so we discussed for hours over margaritas and enchiladas about how D could properly represent Drew and get him what was rightfully his. (D's first potential client!)

I know nothing about law, so aside from the errant "yeah, that's right!" between my sips of margarita, I didn't have much to add to the conversation other than what Drew's already heard from me YEARS ago and what I echoed again at the dinner table: That Mr. Coke Head is a selfish asshat who never had Drew's best interests at heart -- even when he pretended to be his best friend. And really, who wants to hear, after all these years, that I was right and they were wrong? So after I reiterated my told-you-so's, I lost count of my 'ritas, till before I knew it I was home singing Prince songs in the shower. ...And I had to wake up at 6am for work on Friday. Ugh.

Basically, I looked like this the next morning at the office:

Not fun. I slithered in past reception and into my uncomfortable office chair, unwilling to start the day. Being the first one in I had the luxury of sitting at my desk with my face in my hands for a good 20 minutes, catching up on some semblance of sleep before my terribly annoying and uptight coworkers came in all prim and bunged up, like they always do. Ugh, whenever I see them I think of how Ferris Bueller describes Cameron: "Pardon my French, but Cameron is so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks you'd have a diamond." Obvi I'M not the one who needs a drink. 

When the FGC finally came in he remarked that for being hungover I looked fabulous, which I'll take (bless his rhinestone-studded heart), and the rest of Friday at work I read celebrity news online and looked for another job on Craigslist (on my smartphone, of course. Mama doesn't want to have that awkward conservation with her superiors if her web-browsing activity is actually tracked and they see she's getting paid to find a different employer). Come to think of it, they wouldn't fire me if that ever came to light...I've found that no matter what people do at my company they don't fire ANYONE. I'm starting to think one day en route to the coffee machine, I could blatantly slap one of my coworker's butts like I used to do with handsome men on the streets of Italy and I still wouldn't be fired. So strange. 

The point was Friday was a blur and I am SO THANKFUL this is a three-day weekend. I spent some time at the beach with D and got to hang out with my brother and his girlfriend for a while Saturday night, wherein my brother forced us to watch a marathon of MSNBC's "Lockdown: Raw" -- a prison reality show illustrating the violent dramas that play out between incarcerated men of all walks of life. Five minutes into the first episode I was hooked, although I seem to have more of an affinity for the "Lockdown: First Timers" episodes, where prison newbies are filmed during the first days of being in jail, and what happens to them when guys with neck tattooes and names like "Clyde" initiate these first-timers into "the life." Fascinating, to the say the least.

Also, in an effort to keep my new year's resolution strong, I've started a journal of what I'm thankful for every single day. I know, sounds totally cheesy, right? But it's actually a good reminder of what to be happy for, even if your day seems to have royally sucked overall. Every day I just list the date and a quick sentence or two of what I'm thankful for in this cute blank book a friend recently bought me:

Totes adorbs. D's happy I've thought of way to work on being more positive, but I told him that there was potential for this Project of Thanks to backfire, in that I could start writing things like "Today I'm thankful for how amazing I am -- everyone at the grocery store was acting like a sour-faced jerk" or "I'm thankful I was never an ugly baby, because I've seen my fair share of them today." But I'm not writing those kind of things...yet. For now they're positive reaffirmations that remind me not to be so cynical, which I have a tendency to be. I'm thinking maybe I'll even post my "thanks" once in a while on here...

Highs and lows, Jan. 2nd edition

High:

My high was having this last week off from work.  By Tuesday I forgot I even had a job, what with all the playtime I got to spend with friends and family, shopping and eating and reading and writing and exercising. My perfect day involves waking up sans an alarm clock, and this last week or so I got 10 of those days. Pure bliss. D and I stayed at my parents' house for most of the week, where the fridge is always fully stocked with yummy goodies and the ocean is only a couple miles away. We took many lazy walks along the beach cliffs and "grazed" every night on aged gouda, olives, grapes, and red wine. 

Having all that time off was much-needed therapy. Of course, that makes tonight even harder to cope with since it's back to work tomorrow where I'm 100% sure I'll have to deal with an annoyingly stressful situation that will inevitably carry over from before Christmas, but I need to just breathe and deal with it. Like my grandma said a few days ago: "It's only a goddamn job." Tell yourself that every time you feel your blood pressure rise, she said. And she's right. It's only a goddamn job. Rinse and repeat.

Another high this week was a shopping spree D and I had at Banana Republic. The entire store is basically 50% off right now, so we made out like bandits. We got $500 worth of clothes for a little over 200 dollars total, with most of those clothes being for me. My fave purchase was a classic khaki trench that I got for $65 (originally $200). I'm still in shock for scoring such a fabulous find:

 

And I can't wait to wear it with my new Hunters!

Low:

Well, coming home to a cat puke all over my living room carpet was no walk in the park. Sometimes I feel like my cat forces herself to throw up like a bulimic to boycott us leaving her for days at a time. Luckily I have a husband who doesn't think twice about cleaning it all up himself. Why it doesn't occur to him to ask me to do it, I don't know. Score.

The only other low I can remember is having a terrible nightmare at my parents' house. I woke up petrified and needing to pee. Since my bedroom is downstairs and far from the bathroom, walking through a darkened house and down a dark hallway alone freaked me out (I suppose I could have turned on a few lights, but it was 3am and I wasn't exactly thinking rationally, all I remembered was that terrifying scene from The Sixth Sense ), so I nudged D awake, told him I had a bad dream and I was scared to walk to the bathroom by myself. Without hesitating or complaining about how pathetic I was (I mean, hello, I'm 28 years old and still scared of the dark?!), he got up out of bed and walked with me down the dark hall, waiting for me outside the bathroom door till I was finished. It was a little act, but one of the sweetest things a guy has ever done for me. Through the little (and big) things in my life, it's comforting to know that D always has my back.

The British are coming

I just finished my Christmas dinner of steak and red wine by the fireplace with my dad and D and thought I'd write a quick post to say Merry Christmas to you and yours (in a British accent, of course). 

My holidays feel just a smidge out of whack since my mother and sister have flown south for the season and are currently enjoying summer in Buenos Aires (opposite hemisphere = opposite seasons). They'll be down there for about a month, living in an apartment rental and hanging out with the locals, then they're off to Peru in early January, wherein my dad will make like the birds and fly south to join then.

I was invited along (more than once) for this fete, but had to decline because of time constraints with my bloody job (apparently I'm all about sounding British tonight). I DO have all next week off -- thank God! -- but would have wanted to stay longer than a week if I was going to spend that much money on airfare. Plus being away from D during this time of the year would have sucked, and I KNOW Boss Man would never let me take time off in January what with a bunch of important news things occuring, so no Buenos Aires/Peru por me. Me no encantan. To satiate my travel bug I've been watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona religiously and pretending I'm summering in Spain with a handsome spaniard who wants to weekend with me in Oviedo.

In other news D bought me some swinging presents this year:

• A wood-handled melon baller from Sur la Table (only the one I've been talking about FOR-ever. I guess you know you're old when you get your kicks from overpriced kitchen utensils.)

• A copy of Sterling's Gold, as in Roger Sterling's Gold, the fictional memoir Roger wrote in Mad Men that's been actually published (hardback!) as a collection of Roger's witticisms from the show. I guess this officially makes me a hardcore fan (though me owning a Mad Men wall calendar for three years running would have probably already affirmed that).

• A pair of black Hunter rain boots!:

D bought me a pair of the original, tall, high-gloss version. Hunter boots were made popular by Arthur Wellesley the 1st Duke of Wellington (hence the name) and became uber fashionable among the British aristocracy in the early 19th century. Apparently they're the Queen's personal favorite in shoe wear.

The Queen in her Hunter boots during the Gun Dog Trials (whatever those are), 1967.

Whatever works for the Queen works for me. Maybe the Hunters are what's making me feel all-sorts British tonight.

I surprised D with the first two seasons of Breaking Bad, a pair of cufflinks and tiebar (no Ferragamo this year; Kenneth Cole had to suffice), and rotating Belgian waffle maker that he's wanted since we got married. He's already made me fluffy Belgian waffles twice and they were divine. Both times. Although with the holidays coming to close I feel I should start watching what I eat again (as in: probably not a good idea to down an entire tin of shortbread in one sitting). Better idea: Salad? (Notice my use of question mark, as taste buds are always partial to processed sugar over leafs). 

I do know that I've felt rather blah lately -- a combination of feeling flabby and lazy. And pale -- did I mention pale? Because something about looking sickly white with no trace of my golden Cabo tan from August makes me feel a bit under the weather. Not that I'd EVER go to a tanning salon (no judging those that do, but something about frying under lightbulbs semi freaks me out). But with my tan gone and my muscle tone non-existent I've just felt blah. And I know it's because normally I walk a lot. 

Up until a couple months ago D and I walked at least a couple miles every night, not including walking to and from the train station for work and what exercise we got walking for lunch. But since the weather's turned unseasonably cold for my area (and the rains have swept in), walking is the last thing I want to do when I get home. And my thighs -- Mona and Camille, yes they have names -- are deffo not thanking me. What I need to do is quit making excuses and bear the cold weather in my Hunters. Don't worry ladies, you'll firm up again soon enough!

Hope on a rope

I have been so bad with my blogging lately. Not because I lead a boring life (at least not between Friday night and Monday morning) but because D and I have been mondo busy. He and I usually take our lunch break at the same time but all last week he was stuck in trials and depositions and other lawyer-ey "itions" that make no sense to me, so I found myself mindlessly perusing Nordstroms, Bloomies, et. al. every single day, trying to fill my lunch break outside of the office. (Cue me aimlessly riding the escalator in Macy's up then down, up then down, admiring the Christmas decorations hanging overhead in my path.) 

My purchases began to spiral out of control. Cookie cutters (for a girl who likes to bake but never actually does), calendars, lingerie, suede peep-toe pumps, numerous articles of clothing. Each time I was rung up and asked by the cashier whether my purchase was a gift or not, I said, with pride, "No, no...this is for me. Always more fun buying gifts for yourself." Not that I NEED any of this, my closet is practically bulging at the seams with clothes I never wear anymore, and I've got three trash bags and counting of clothing in the coat closet that  I'm planning to donate to Goodwill. But something about spending money -- especially these days -- makes me so happy. It's like lapping like a kitten at a well-made Tanqueray martini and feeling that first saucy buzz after a crappy workday. So bad, I know. I shouldn't be leaning on retail therapy as a way to deal with my malaise and inability to cope with reality, but I do and it feels sooo good. I suppose it could be worse. At least I'm not addicted to meth and my teeth are falling out of my head because of my penchant for aspirin and battery acid or whatever it is meth is made up of. I just simply like shoes. And it's not like I can't afford my shopping excursions...I use my debit card for everything, no credit. But I guess a part of me feels a little bad since I know everything I buy is frivolous and unnecessary. 

D still hasn't heard from the firm he interviewed with last Tuesday. This doesn't mean he's out of the running but at the same time doesn't bode well for our nerves. If it's a "no" we'll get a letter in the mail; if it's a "yes" he'll get a phone call. Talk about pressure. Every single evening we are terrified checking the mail, just like two kids covering their faces during a gruesome scene in a horror film. We stiffen, and everything slips into slow-motion as the key makes its final click in the lock, the mailbox door swings open, aaaaaand...there is a Crate and Barrel catalogue (for me) and a school loan bill (for D). We can breathe easy at this sight for just a second, until we're back to worrying about how we're going to pay D's $2,000-per-month school loans back. At this point we might have to defer till he finds something significant; though I make much more than I need, it's not enough to pay what would otherwise be a mortgage payment.

This law firm D is waiting on is like a last vestige of hope at scoring a gig that would start him at a significant pay rate ($145,000, plus bonuses). Any other smaller firm would pay well, but not as much as this firm, which makes landing this job even more important. But this job market has prepared me to expect the worst, so I've inwardly started downplaying the likelihood D got it. Not that I don't believe in him, but because I don't want to dwell on it and be all sad if we do see that letter in our mailbox this week. There will be other opportunities and he'll get to where he wants to be....I just want it to happen soon! I've been a bad girl at work and have been shirking some of my duties that will have ramifications in January, February and March since I'm hoping more than anything that I'll be gone by early January if he gets this job. I'm such a fool since this act alone has probably jinxed this job prospect for him, but I can't help it. That hope on the horizon is so tempting...

Highs and lows: The "You're not worth it" edition

This week I'm going to lead with my Low first, since it was a pretty big, uncalled-for scene and I have a feeling it's changed things drastically in my husband's life going forward.

Before I explain my low, I should preface it with this: From the beginning of D and I, his mom's side of the family has not liked me. Not because I did anything in particular; in fact, I went out of my way to be extra polite and respectful to them when D and I were first dating because I actually liked them, and I thought they were good people. They gave me no reason to think otherwise. At the time, D was living in a studio apartment off the side of his aunt's (mother's sister's) home, and so I was always invited over to watch movies with all of them, have dinner, laugh over drinks. Normal we're-acclimating-you-into-the-family things that any girlfriend goes through.

But then things began to change after D proposed to me just before Thanksgiving. All of a sudden things were chillier over at his aunt's house. They fought over petty things with him more, snubbed me when I'd stop by and gradually distanced themselves from being around when I'd come over to see him. I was confused as was D, though it took him much longer to see these discrepancies that I noticed right away. About a month later this aunt threw a giant family Christmas party at her house (as, I was told, she does every year) and everyone on that side of the family was invited. Other aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins filled her home and though we were invited, we were largely ignored by most everyone there -- most of whom I had never met before and so had no chance to make a good or bad impression before I was obviously judged and ostracized. I felt super uncomfortable that night and was still confused why we were being snubbed. They all knew D well, had practically helped raise him through childhood since he grew up with a single mother, but for some reason when I entered his life as a serious significant other, it was like they preferred to no affiliation with him.

And then I found out why.

Turns out it's because I'm not a Christian like D is (and I use the word "Christian" loosely because aside from being baptized as a baby, D has never really gone to church, never read the bible, etc.) D's about as Christian as Jon Gosselin is an esteemed father figure. But according to D's family, not being Christian was just the part of the problem -- the other part of the problem was what religion I actually was. And this is where things become muddled. 

I was raised as a Muslim -- but I use the term "Muslim" very, very loosely. My mother was born and raised in Afghanistan but is very liberal and has now lived in the United States longer than she's lived in her home country. My father is a blond haired, blue-eyed Midwesterner from Illinois who was never really raised with any religion (as his parents thought most religion was a farce). So me and my siblings were raised as Muslims, but that basically meant we grew up not eating pork. We still had a Christmas tree in our house every winter, still had Easter egg hunts every April -- we were and are a very normal, all-American family who happens to have a multicultural household, like most Americans. Technically my mother told us as kids that we were Muslims, but I think that was more her culture talking. Looking back on it we really weren't anything...we just existed. Spiritual, but that was about it.

But the moment that side of D's family found out I was a "Muslim" that's when everything changed. I was no longer suitable for D, they told his mother, because I "wasn't one of them." They waxed poetic on "like begatting like" and said some pretty terrible, hurtful things that I'm sure I was never supposed to hear but eventually caught wind of. I was shocked that there were still people who were that small-minded about religion and differences, especially -- and this is the comedic part -- toward a person (me) who doesn't even believe in organized religion. All of a sudden I was "lesser than" because I wasn't a "Christian" and they brought out just about every stereotype you can think of regarding terrorism and Islam when they joked to D about how my family must be -- a family they had never even met but had only heard were "muslim" and therefore must be terrorists and other terrible bigoted stereotypes. Obviously.

D was pissed and embarrassed they were capable of saying such things; he was just as shocked as I was. And, in the the end, they wanted "no part of our marriage." They made this very clear when all of them (there were dozens) did not even RSVP to our wedding invitations with a "yes" or "no." They obviously wanted to make a statement about what they thought, and they succeeded. It hurt a lot to witness bigotry firsthand.

That was over three years ago. In May of this year, D and I sent out commencement invitations to his law school graduation, and against my urging that we leave them out of the loop, that they don't deserve to be given a second chance in D's life, he sent graduation invitations to them anyway, hoping to somehow mend the fragile fences they themselves built when we married. And again, nothing came as a response to his graduation notices. No phone calls, no congratulations. Nothing. In fact, one of his grandmothers had the audacity to send back her invitation, unopened. Totally classy move.

So it goes without saying that I think these people are complete trash. Their words and actions piss me off, yes. But I refuse to dwell on their ignorant shortcomings or allow their bigotry to hurt me. I don't know them, nor have I have ever known them and so they have rarely crossed my mind in these last four years. Unfortunately, though, they are a segment of D's family and while he is more than fine putting them out of mind during the duration thus far of our marriage, every single time we see his mother we're reminded of the chasm because she's constantly trying to bring us back all together.

D's mother is a hippie all about peace and love, and was ostracized herself many years ago by this same family and for some reason she's convinced that the answer to all of this is for D and I to forgive them and apologize. Which I'm sorry, but I cannot do. I have friends and family who love and respect me that I don't even have time for because of my busy schedule, so why should I make time and grovel on my hands and knees apologizing (for what???) to a bunch of small-minded pricks who said nasty things behind my back to my future husband, calling in to question his decision to marry me? I can't do it. In the words of Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing when he gets into a fight with that waiter who knocked Penny up, "You're not worth it."

Low:

This last week we were again brought into a situation of having to deal with the family since one of them -- D's aunt -- died in a car accident a few days before Thanksgiving. Yes, it's tragic and all since she was only 34, but there is a part of me that's glad it happened. Terrible terrible terrible, I know. But this blog is all about being honest so there you go. I finally admitted it out loud. They've got some horrible karma coming their way and I feel like this is just the beginning. I can't find it in my heart at all to feel sorry for them about this loss, or feel sorry for her. I just feel nothing. 

As you can imagine, going to her funeral the day after Thanksgiving was the last thing I wanted to do. I made that very clear to D, and he didn't blame me, but he stressed we needed to go out of respect for his mother, and so I reluctantly agreed. Well, we picked D's mom up on the way there and we didn't even make it onto the freeway before she was blowing up at D for being 10 minutes late to pick her up. I get that she was stressed out about the death and all, but please. The way she was shrieking was childish and uncalled for. Then she launched into a lovely tirade about D needs to grow up and mend what's happened between us and the family. D completely lost it and I've never heard him yell so loud in my life, he was practically roaring at her over his shoulder about their bigotry and racism to the point of where I had him pull the car over to the side so we wouldn't get into an accident. 

They were roaring back and forth and then -- for some reason -- I got pulled into the fight because his lovely mother started yelling at me that I was "too strong-willed" and that D needed to grow some you-know-what's because I needed to be "dealt with" (and by "dealt with" I had a sneaking suspicion she meant something along the lines of physical discipline, which really got me fired up since no man has or ever will lay a hand on me like that. That is the last thing D would ever dream of doing, but it makes sense she'd say something like this -- she's been divorced four times and has most likely witnessed domestic abuse first-hand. Sorry honey, but I'm not you.) 

I turned around and flat out told her we were never going to apologize to them and that they didn't deserve it, and then she began hollering about my parents (whom she's only met twice). She spouted off some false assumptions about them and their marriage (how are they any of her business and what do they have to do with this conversation??) and that's when I told her to get out of the car. Which is something I'd NEVER do, but she crossed a definitive line and that was it. D sided with me, and told her to get out, and so we dropped her off on the side of the road with her yelling at me that I was a "bitch." Needless to say D and I skipped the funeral. 

That enough drama for one afternoon? At this point I don't ever see myself speaking to this woman, much less this family, again. Getting to know her these last four years, the way she acted in the car was the completely opposite of how she normally is and what she trumpets herself as being. I have lost all respect for her. D feels very betrayed and keeps wondering out loud how he'll ever trust her again. Which is a good question. Because I don't. As far as I'm concerned I'd be overjoyed if I never had to deal with any of this bullshit again.

High:

Thanksgiving (the night before) was terrific. My parents had 18 relatives over so our house was full of cousins, aunts, uncles and significant others, eating, talking and laughing for hours. Was definitely one of the most memorable Thanksgivings of my life.