Dulywed: Year 2

Dear Mack,

It's fitting that the second anniversary has a gift association of cotton. Because by the second year, you sort of feel like a slave.

I'm not just saying this about me either. Sure, I feel like I am the designated master of every dirty dish and needy bathtub that comes into our lives, but you are the one who must deal with the wrath of that master. I get annoyed by the obligations of life, and you, in a happy choreless oblivion, have to be my whipping boy.

I think this is what people mean when they say you've got to "figure it out."

We've been quite literally consumed by life the last year... you are a genuine nerd majoring in the all-important subject of biology and I am unrelentingly surrounded by egos I resent and emotional responses from women. None of this is bad, but it makes for strained dinner conversation when one wants to discuss mitochondria and the other wants to discuss feelings.

Last week, when we went out for your birthday dinner, I told myself to just shut the hell up and let you talk about whatever you wanted to talk about. I told myself that no matter how boring it was, I would listen. I would listen attentively. And I would participate in the conversation. The first 11 minutes were, at best, painful, but once I broke through that initial barrier, my god. You are fascinating.

It's like that dinner we had at Dudley's when we were dating. Beth's son was our bus boy and we ordered champagne and you told me about Beethoven and Chopin and their struggles and brilliance. I loved you that night for being more incredible than any man I've ever met, and last week, as we sipped margaritas and ate chips and salsa and I listened to you go on about science, I felt that familiar feeling of adoration. Your mind is a gift. It's all consuming and intensely focused and sometimes so in its own world that it doesn't remember the vomit you left on the shower curtain, but it is enchanting. You're a little mad scientist prince charming, my own personal Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Last year I was all about money (isn't the first year paper?!!), but it seems that this year, I'm all about chores. Some may say that is a deflection of a chronic personality disorder, but I think it's progress. I've given up the fight over funds and, even though your mom has to give you allowance because she saw the text message where you had to ask for $4 for El Pollo Loco, I'm settled into our financial position. Because all the times I thought it'd collapse, we made it through. And better than that, we're getting ahead, little bit by little bitty bit.

With the financial strain off my mind, my next wifely focus is the home. You want to preserve white walls, so redecorating is out. I want to keep my waistline from breaking a personal record, so cooking is out. It's no wonder I get batshit insane when the trash needs to go out for 4 days running. I'm trying to find the balance between nice and nag, but since I've only been practicing a year, I hope you'll bear with me until I get the hang of it. Or just buck up and take the trash out when you see it's about to attack you.

Speaking of attack, this teabagging phase you're in, it can stop any day now. And even though I may be laughing when you do it, I'm screaming bloody murder and crying like a baby on the inside.

Which is exactly how I've felt these last two years. A mix of damaging shouts, manic laughter and penetrating tears. You are a hurricane of a personality, a force to be reckoned with, a brilliance that can only be absorbed. You make every day positively worth living and a little bit suicidal. And while some days I want to kill you, you are the reason I want to wake up on most of them.

I love you. Pop. Happy Anniversary.

Makes me embarrassed that I sat in line for hours to get midnight tickets to Episode 1

A Family Tradition

Lately, Mack and I have been going to a little diner up the road from our house called Cafe '50s. It's got a jukebox and records on the walls and shakes with whipped cream on top. It also has an egg scramble called the La Bamba for $5.95 which can be credited with my recent 5-pound weight gain.

Across the street from '50s is a little pet shop, so after we eat, we've been stopping in to look at the corn snakes and pistol shrimp and snapping turtles and little baby bunnies. During our first pass through it was a pretty typical pet shop, but on our most recent visit, we started to notice its creepy underbelly.

Like this thing.
Know what it is?

Would it surprise you to know it's a freakin' shark egg? Because it blew my mind.

Here I'd gone 30 years thinking sharks were mammals, believing that they shot out baby sharks like killer whales shoot out baby killer whales. But no, they're egg layers. Just like a bunch of chickens.

As if that wasn't enough to make me stand there slack jawed in the middle of the pet shop, then I looked more closely and holy crap. There was the egg yolk, an umbilical cord and a little shark swimming around in that sack acting all frustrated that it couldn't get out.

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (a series)

One of my favorite things to do is watch television. Shocker, I know.

I like to lounge on the couch, relax into reality shows and feel good about myself. Being married has made my television indulgence even better.

See, now I have a handsome man to fetch me things.

He comes out of the bedroom and heads into the kitchen. The words, "Will you get me some water?" come out of my mouth as he makes his way.

Normally he's very accommodating, probably because I feed him. But the other day, in the midst of my completely relaxed state of mind, he revolted.

I tried to use a whiny voice to sway him, but that only escalated the revolt. Next thing I knew, he had me mounted, arms pinned, and he was scaling up.

Up toward my face. With his crotch. In boxer shorts.

Yes, my husband decided to settle the score by teabagging me. I am as horrified as you are.

Just another Friday in Los Angeles

Woke up to shout of husband's phone alarm.

Curled into his armpit to get a few more minutes of sleep.

Felt morning wood in my butt cheek.

Forced my way out of bed and into the shower.

Hated getting wet and starting all over with self maintenance.

Called Leiah and listened to Ben yell "MOMMY!"

Felt love surge.

Climbed onto scooter to head to work.

Gloated internally that it was Nov. 13 and warm enough that I'm riding a scooter to work.

Worked.

Suggested Freedom Friday lunch break to colleagues.

Headed to lunch of jerk enchiladas, fried plantains and cantaloupe juice.

Walked along the beach.

Practiced tight rope walking.

Came back to work.

Worked.

Had tea.

Scooted home.

Ate veggie lasagna.

Sipped wine on the porch.

Enjoyed my lot in life.

Huxtable Residence...

I grew up watching Thursday night TV back in the '80s. Instead of Friends, ER, or My Name Is Earl, Thursday night's must-see TV back in the day was Family Ties and the Cosby Show.

I gave up on the Cosby Show in favor of Roseanne in the '90s (she came on at 9pm, so I credit her with getting my bedtime extended to 9:30)... probably because in my mind I was Darlene and Shannon was Becky and FINALLY SOMEBODY KNEW WHAT IT WAS LIKE.

No, I'm not gay. Still.

The Cosby family was sort of off my radar until Liz moved to Kentucky. I was used to going to sleep to Law & Order or Forensic Files, but when Liz would stay the night, she'd ask, "Can we please fall asleep to something that's not murder?"

Fair enough. So we watched the Cosby Show.

Tonight, after I came home from 13 hours of work during which I got absolutely nothing accomplished, I turned on the TV, tried to forget that tomorrow will be just as annoying, and settled into that old, familiar family.

The Cosby Show should be on TV today. As should Family Ties and Roseanne. Dirty, Sexy Money and Lipstick Jungle just don't make kids the way the '80's lineup did.

How did this happen?

The last time I saw Renee she looked like this.
Now she looks like this.
Where is my niece and what have you done with her fat stores?

What I Did While Obama Made History

After Mack and I did our civic duty at the polls and collected proof in the form of a sticker, we came home to watch as the first African American in the United States became the leader of the free world. And this is what happened...

Kitty tried to kill me and steal my Obama-Biden t-shirt.
Obama supporters cheered and chanted at Grant Park in Chicago in the brisk November weather.
McCain supporters listened to the guys from the FreeCreditReport.com commercials perform at the swanky Biltmore Hotel in Phoenix.
Kitty tried to drink my beer.
Wolf Blitzer said, "Bonanza."
A panel of 5 white people discussed how having a black president will affect race relations in the United States.
Kitty stole Mack's breath and he went unconscious.
Paul Begala said, "Peace out, Cub Scout."
McCain's extra neck skin started to be a distraction... and has he always had stroke eye there on his left?
Obama wins Ohio. I got jiggy with it.
Dana Cash said they've turned off the news at the Biltmore, likely to preserve what's left of the "festive" atmosphere since they opted NOT to have an ice luge.
Guy Working the Map said, "I wouldn't bet a dime on McCain winning New Mexico."
Mack ate some pumpkin chili and broke out his Quantitative Analysis homework.CNN's graphics officially went over the top with the Capitol Building in the middle of the table and the rainbow of seats over it.
And then they hit the ridiculous mark when they HOLOGRAMMED IN Will.I.Am... as if he was Princess Leia.
Finally, the polls closed on the West Coast, and my candidate was awarded what he had worked his entire life for.
Let us never underestimate the power of a community organizer ever again.

R.I.P. Halloween 2008

Somehow I managed to turn October (the entire month) into Halloween. I unintentionally used the same tactics I use in May for my birthday, and now I have no money and had way too much fun.

This Halloween was bigger and better than any I've ever had before. And by bigger and better I mean we had an ice luge.
For those of you past fraternity rush age, an ice luge is a block of ice carved with a little trail through it that you pour shots down and then catch in your mouth. I'm not positive, but I think it's what inspired the Beastie Boys to fight for their right to party.
Since I am past fraternity rush age, I concocted a "witch's brew" to save myself from having to succumb to peer pressure and ingest shots of actual liquor. And no, I did not go as a wimp this year. I went as Regan from The Exorcist.
The ice luge was a centerpiece of the crime scene we set up in the carport. In anticipation of my best Halloween party yet, Sandra and I did a few rounds of crime scene photos that we used to create creepy ambiance on Friday night. Being on the verge of death is never really as much fun as we had faking it, a fact Jen can attest to.

In addition to mandatory costumes, I insisted every guest try the ice luge and get their mugshot taken. Because what fun is Halloween without a few requirements? And photographic evidence of poor judgment?
Since my neighbor does construction we had actual coffins -- one grown up sized and one baby sized. And we had a graveyard. To all the poor homeowners who hired my neighbors, thanks for the plywood and the styrofoam. They really made my month.
Hope everyone had a Happy Halloween. Or at least lived through it...