In a matter of three hours, she grew up.

Laila is 13. Well, she was 13 and now she is 17 1/2.

Last week she got her braces off. I remember getting my braces off back in 1993 and since it was such a weird big deal to me, I assumed it would be a weird big deal for Laila too. That first feel of slimy when your lips don't have metal blocking them from your smooth teeth. That first coo from your friends when they see you without your familiar metal mouth. That first bite into food that doesn't make you immediately need to suck debris out of your brackets. I remember feeling liberated and humiliated all at once, and I wanted to be there when Laila went through this rite of passage.

A few days before the big braces day, Laila texted me that she wanted to get her ears pierced after she got her braces off. I had been asking her about getting her ears pierced since she was 5, so when she initiated the conversation, I could hardly believe it. Braces removed AND ears pierced?

This was going to be a big day.

I picked her up and took her to the orthodontist, where I watched a 12-year-old boy being completely babied by his mom. Seriously, he couldn't even figure out how to throw his granola bar wrapper into the trash can without her advice. Then Laila came out with her lips rolling over her teeth and it was time for us to go to Phase 2 of Closer to Grown Up.

We walked into Claire's first. The plan was to get something to eat, but I figured it'd be good to go to Claire's first to get the initial exposure over with, then get some food, and then go back to Claire's. Luckily a lady was getting like 12 piercings on our first visit, which reassured Laila that you won't die from pain. We ate pizza, Laila's relished how little dough got stuck in her teeth and navigated retainer responsiblities, and then we headed back to Claire's, where I pretended to be her mom – the mom who couldn't remember her address.

First up was her left ear. She sat in the chair, got the directional dots, approved of placement in the mirror, and then the gun was brought to her lobe. That left ear hurt. Laila looked at me with tears welling up in her eyes and a quivering chin that cracked my heart. I just said, "I know that hurt, but it will go away. It will go away." Luckily the right ear didn't hurt a bit, and just like that, Laila had gone from a kid to a teenager.

This was the first decision she made that was all her own, grown in her own gut, set into motion by her own actions, and completed by her own will. When we got home she told her mom she wanted three holes in one ear and two in the other. Shahin was against it and looked to me for support, but what could I say?

"Well, I have 16 holes, but everyone thought I was a lesbian in high school."

Laila is growing up, and that makes me a little sad. But she is growing up to be an awesome person, and that makes me immensely happy. And I'm so grateful I get to be a part of the process, even if it means breaking the law a little bit.

Dulywed: Year 7

Dear Mack,

Sometime recently or in the near future we hit our seven year mark. Thanksgiving is late and Hanukkah is early and with all these shifts in cultural landmarks, I'm not exactly sure which day gets the honor of our forgetfulness but I know it's not the Saturday after Thanksgiving this year because I KNOW we got married in November. I'm not sure about much, but that I am positive about.

Year 7 has been another one of incredible change. And uncertainty. And adventure. We started this year with a magical trip to Hawaii to see some of the most beautiful things I've ever seen and we're ending it just up the hill from the beach in an LA apartment you scored online. Last December we had no clue where we were going – we were in Hawaii for you to do a residency interview – but now, a year later, we're settled in a new home 2,114 miles from our last and rebuilding a new life once again.

I've relied on you a lot since we've moved. I'm plagued with a bizarre shyness that keeps me from taking any initiative when it comes to meeting new people, so you have had to be my only friend and my portal to a social life. Back in Kentucky, I had a dozen people I truly adore to hang out with on a whim. Now I only have you when you're not working.

I'm sure you wanted to kill me some of those days off when all you wanted to do was lay around and play video games and I was desperate to get out of the house so I dragged you with me. I appreciate your restraint and your willingness to entertain me. If I wasn't also blessed with a bizarrely positive outlook, I probably would be in a state of depression that needs a few weeks of in-patient treatment, but those little escapes spent driving up the coast or walking along the beach with you were just what I needed to keep a smile on my face and maintain the faith that things would fall into place.

Well, those escapes and your money. Thank god I start working on Monday, right?

As tough as they are, I'm so grateful that we are given these mini challenges in life. If everything was rainbows and unicorns, we'd never have to prove ourselves to one another, we'd never know what unconditional love feels like, we'd never get to learn that being married is a decision that you make and not a emotion that you share.

And I wouldn't have discovered that the easiest way to keep you happy is to make you a sandwich.

There's this photo series going around by a guy who documented his wife's battle with breast cancer, and I showed you one of the pictures of her nearly dead and asked if you'd still lay by me if I was that sick. You did not hesitate for a second when you said yes. I know you like me best when my hair isn't crazy and my clothes aren't pajamas and my butt doesn't droop, but to know you'd love me and hold me if I was destroyed by disease and barely recognizable makes the thought of dying okay because it means I got the best of what there is in life.

(Not that I want to die or am close to it [fingers crossed]. You hear me, Universe? No dying or disease for at least another 35 years, okay? Thanks.)

I know we're going to grow old together because it's already happening. Yesterday when we were sitting on the couch before jiu jitsu having an impromptu staring contest that escalated from a side glance to a giggle fest to the slinging of middle school insults, I was struck by the thought that you're 50% grey now, maybe more. After jiu jitsu, you went to the drug store and came back with Aleve, Tiger Balm, Tums, and Muscle Milk. An hour later, we were both too sore to stand up and agreed that the best description for our broken legs was a 900-pound dead anaconda attached to our torso. If growing old with you is this full of funny, I'm in for life.

I absolutely love you more at this stage of our relationship than I ever have. You remain the smartest, funniest, most handsome, most talented, and most skilled man I've ever met, qualities that make tolerating your gloominess and moodiness possible. I never regret making the decision to marry you, not even when I move into the other bedroom so I don't smother you in your sleep.

This year has been a bad one for matrimony in our circle of friends and family, and I get it. People become as familiar as wallpaper and end up just as exciting. It's hard to find someone sexy when you know what their shit smells like. Little annoying habits go from endearing to the straw that breaks the camel's back. Divorce, as you know, is my family's tradition, and it's one we're keeping strong. But as we sit on the periphery of marriages that crumble into heaps of garbage, I appreciate what ours is all the more: co-dependent and rooted in selfishness. And I am so glad we never had kids.

The seventh year is the year of copper and wool. Copper is for good fortune and prosperity, which might actually come to us this year now that we're both gainfully employed, and wool is for the comfort, security, and warmth that being married this long brings. There is no question that you are my comfort, my security, and my warmth. Sometimes being married to you is oppressively suffocating, but most of the time it's the thing the breathes life into my existence. Thank you for that.

Love,
Amber

Cool Crisis: Averted

Okay, so my faith in my cool-dar is restored, and I have Bob Dylan to thank for that.

See, Bob Dylan is timelessly cool. He's been doing cool stuff for about 50 years, which means that his coolness transcends the mercurial social parameters of cool. Plus, he is not very attractive, a hurdle that only genuinely cool people can overcome and still maintain an undiminished bangable-factor.

He has established coolness in music, of course, but also in art, literature, and film. And now, his coolness is making Kanye and Lady Gaga look like novice jesters.

Dylan just released the first official video for "Like a Rolling Stone," a song he released 48 years ago that pretty much everyone 10 years and old knows at least some of the words to (I mean, really, does it get any better than crooning, "HOW DOES IT FEEL?!"). And the video is as brilliant a social commentary today as the song was nearly 5 decades ago.

I think I've watched this about 25 times, sitting on each channel by itself and then flipping through, and the more I watch it the more Kanye needs to be smacked and Gaga needs to be grounded.

We've got Pawn Stars, the Price Is Right, the History "network," the Bachelorette-ish, a romantic comedy, newscasts, cartoons, home shopping, even those renovation brothers from HGTV!

The coupling of these mundane shows with our short attention span channel flipping whispers a warning about our state of self-induced idiocy, while the lyrics of the song seem to offer a warning to everyone we're watching, our "celebrities," who can go from Miley Cyrus to Amanda Bynes in the blink of a well-lashed eye.

Everything about this is cool, I'm absolutely sure of it. Everything, that is, except the fact that now I have to admit I've given way too much of my life to television.

RIP Grey Times

Seasonal Affective Disorder has got to be one of the most bizarre conditions in the world, right up there with Sundowners Syndrome.

I live in one of the sunniest places in the world, but ever since Halloween I've been feeling a gloomy funk settling in that is perfectly timed with a season Mack and I call the Grey Times. You know, in Kentucky it's wet and everything is soggy and the sky is grey for approximately a million years and outside is so useless it might as well not even be there.

We may not have Grey Times anymore, but my body is starting to lay on the couch too much and eat too much and do all the things the Grey Times make you want to do that lead to January-February Disease.

I'm only in my first year of rehab from the Grey Times, so I guess this is my first go at breaking the cycle and retraining my brain, but I was really hoping the sun was a magical cure and it wouldn't take any internal effort. Looks like I'm going to have to actually walk my ass down to meet the sun to really nip this thing in the bud.

In case SAD is trying to settle on your generally good mood too, here's today's treatment, courtesy of Down the Hill.

Is this cool?

Lady Gaga hosted Saturday Night Live this week and did a performance of "Do What You Want What You Want With My Body" (or whatever it's called) wherein she danced with R. Kelly. Except it looked more like a weird mating ritual with aches and pains. Watch.

I love Lady Gaga, even though I don't always love her music. I think she is an awesome blend of weird and fearless and genius, potentially Madonna-grade. But after I watched this, I looked at Mack and asked, genuinely curious, "Was that cool?"

I mean, I remember this performance on SNL and it was definitely cool. I feel pretty sure about that.

My cool thermometer must be out of whack because today I watched Kanye's new video featuring Kim Kardashian's boobs and again, when the screen went still, I realized my brow was furrowed and the only thing going through my head was, "Was that supposed to be cool?"

I think the only song I've ever sort of liked by Kanye is "Gold Digger," and even then I only liked it about a 7. But the beauty of Runaway earned him my respect as an artist. Everything about this scene, from the table setting with grapes everywhere to the ballerinas to the haunting plink of the rickety piano is flawless.

The artistry was everywhere with Kanye then, and when he performed "Runaway" and "Power" on SNL, I found him enchanting.

But this shit with Kim bouncing awkwardly on a motorcycle without a top on and stock video of natural landscapes while the song switches from squeaky R&B to boning-on-a-sink rap, I mean is this cool?

'Cause I'm thinking, unh-unh, honey.

I'm not old yet, and I'm definitely not uptight about my cultural input. I think Miley Cyrus is trashy but I fully support any woman's right to be trashy if that's what makes her happy. I think Kim Kardashian is a gorgeous woman, but a woman as concerned with the way she looks as Kim is shouldn't give a thumbs up to looking like such a rigid, bizarre sex symbol. I think Lady Gaga and Kanye have the potential to be as culturally impactful as Madonna and Michael Jackson, but I don't feel like this recent stuff is good at all... which makes me wonder if lame is the new cool.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmasish.

I was perusing Hulu's new releases yesterday and came across a film called "Fireplace for Your Home."

Of course I immediately played it.

Mack has made our television a 3-game system with a PC attachment. So, NASA.

For one hour, your television becomes a warm hearth, complete with crackles and pops and progressively more charred logs but without the risk of burning your house down. I was so thrilled by this taste of the cozy season I almost broke out the holiday stockings and garland to decorate the entertainment center.

But I have holiday restraint, unlike the rest of America, and know it's not time for Christmas until after Thanksgiving.

Curious about the geniuses behind this production, I did a little bit of research and discovered that you can not only enjoy a regular old fire but you can also enjoy a fire with classic music, a fire with Christmas music, and a fire with romantic music. They also have a campfire edition for an outdoor flair AND an aquarium for your home, which I guess is good in the summer.

I know a pretend fireplace is nothing like the real deal, but this little production was just what I needed to ignite a little enthusiasm for the upcoming holiday season. Someone bring me some egg nog... with Bourbon in it.

What It Feels Like to Be Unemployed

All day every day with no commitments. The opportunity to do what you want when you want. Sleeping until noon with no one around to make noise. Sounds like vacation!

Feels like prison.

I know, I know, cue the world's tiniest violin.

I've been unemployed before, a period called April - August 2009, when I went so crazy from boredom that I talked myself into becoming a nurse. This unemployment stint, an era called May - December 2013, IS KILLING ME.

Last time I was unemployed it came with the joy of unemployment benefits. Every two weeks I got a nod of support from the government that I could use to entertain myself until someone hired me for something. To pass the time, I'd bake or do crafts or buy fitness classes on Groupon. Mack was waiting to start med school, so he was home to make sure I spoke to someone before 6pm.

Well, this run of nothing to do doesn't come with checks or someone at home to talk to, so passing the time entails watching the minutes tick off the clock. Every now and then I'll get a responsibility like calling the landlord to fix the pilot light on the heater or taking the garbage to the curb. Last weekend Mack was going to wash the scooter and I hand-to-god said, "Noooo! Save it for me so I have something to do next week!"

Early on, the beach was all I needed. I could lay there all day and read books and watch dolphins. But the thought of laying around all day for one more day is about to make me snap. I knew this could happen, which is why when we moved here I signed up to volunteer at the local art museum. So far I've gone in to sit around for three hours on four occasions as a volunteer.

If not for visits from Ruble and Shannon in June, my mom in July, my cousin Nate in September, Halloween in October, and Liz this week, I may have given suiciding or alcoholicing a real go. Little things like a baby shower for Jolia and a movie premiere with my cousin Shannon are as big as Christmas in keeping me from losing my mind. We got a second car about a month ago, so now I also have the thrill of grocery shopping and going to the library... but I can't drive too much because checks aren't magically showing up in the mail like they used to and gas is $3.85 a gallon.

You know how people say there's not enough time in the day? Let me tell you, THERE IS SO MUCH TIME IN THE DAY.

Here's my life-ish without money and a job:

9:56am - wake up. check email and facebook. peruse pinterest and instagram. read cnn.com. *if it's wednesday, move the car off the street for the street sweeper. you have to set a weekly alert for this task because you never know what day it is.

10:12am - get out of bed. make coffee. do dishes.

10:23am - open computer. read new news on huffingtonpost.com and google news. check geekologie and neatorama. check facebook.

10:49am - remember clothes in dryer. fluff and fold them. leave them on top of dryer because no matter how bored you are putting clothes away sucks.

11:03am - realize there is nothing left to do. resist the clothes.

11:06am - move the clothes from the top of dryer to the bed.

11:08am - microwave a soysage and have another cup of coffee. delight in pumpkin spice creamer. watch the fat dogs next door dig in the sand. ponder the existence of the people with the rooftop patio who never seem to be home enjoying that $6,000 a month apartment.

This is a highlight of your day.

11:15am - investigate flowers in window box. there's all kinds of genetics going on in there, which is nuts because a month after planting the original all red and all white flowers they all died. then you dumped coffee grounds in the dirt and they exploded back to life. do not water or touch flowers because mack says the coffee grounds were a pure coincidence and "little miss brown thumb" can no longer be trusted with flowers.

11:20am - do 30-day squat challenge. look at 30-day ab challenge schedule hanging next to squat challenge schedule. decide it's not time for ab challenge yet.

11:26am - notice all the hair on the floor. how can there be this much hair on the floor when a) vacuum day was two days ago and b) you still have hair on your head? decide to sweep the kitchen and bathroom, where the hair is really noticeable.

11:31am - uh oh. the bathroom is a mess. LOOKS LIKE EXCITEMENT JUST SHOWED UP. clean tub, toilet and sink. wipe down trashcan. shake out rug. clean hair out of hairbrush. wash mirror. make a mental note to bathe and put on mascara... someday.

11:49am - put on socks. toes have started to freeze.

11:57am - text mack to see how his day is going. receive a message back full of exclamation points and enthusiasm. wonder if he really is that excited at work or if he's being sarcastic. decide he's probably just trying to cheer you up since he senses you may decide to major in alcoholic after this unemployment stint. let him know about your bathroom, laundry, and dishes successes.

12:03pm - start pondering what's for lunch.

12:49pm - make lunch. it's a tofurky sandwich... again! challenge yourself to slice tomatoes realllllllly thin. forget the toast in the oven and cook one side way too much. cut up pineapple since you've already got the cutting board out.

1:17pm - brush teeth. finally.

1:21pm - do the internet tour of entertainment again: facebook, news, instagram, pinterest, free stuff on craigslist. read all links of interest. if something freaks you out, google it to learn more about it.

2:03pm - ask yourself if it's too early for a beer. decide it is because you have to go to jiu jitsu. also you don't want to be an alcoholic because it's gross.

2:06pm - turn on television. clearly you can't be left alone with your thoughts. check mtv, bravo, amc, and settle on cbs for the noise of talk shows and judge shows. *if you have access to a complete series, start watching it instead of cbs. proceed to 5:09pm.

2:14pm - start playing spider solitaire on ipad.

2:44pm - eat something. it's usually some combination of fat and carbs, which is exactly what someone sitting around all day should not be eating. commence self-loathing but reframe thinking to give yourself kudos because hey, it's not beer.

3:07pm - text mack a reminder about how many hours he has left to work / how many hours until you speak to a person. say something to make sure your voice doesn't sound manly. it does. dammit.

3:09pm - internet tour of entertainment. turn on news shows. change the channel to real housewives or other mindless chatter when skin crawls from newspeople freakouts.

3:14pm - look at photo albums to remind yourself that you do have fun/a life/loved ones. notice all the dust that has accumulated since dust day. BRACE YOURSELF FOR MORE EXCITEMENT. dust.

3:26pm - go outside. remember you look gross. go back inside after picking up trash the blew into the bushes. lay on the couch and tell yourself to take a nap. play spider solitaire.

 4:00pm - MAURY'S ON. Watch humans with no coping skills get DNA results. Watch a lot of commercials for life insurance and legal help.

5:02pm - mack calls. you can't hear him because he's walking and it's windy. the conversation goes like this: "is it the windy time of day?" "yep!" "awesome. i'll see you in a few minutes." you waited all day to speak and that's what comes out of your mouth.

5:09pm - get off couch. pack jiu jitsu gi into duffle bag. change from yoga pants and t-shirt to compression shorts and rash guard. check to see if legs need shaved or if you can go another day without embarrassing yourself. you're good.

5:17pm - do dishes from lunch. open blinds in living room. arrange pillows on couch so it looks less like a bed. put on mascara and redo ponytail. basically, mask the fact that you wasted yet another day of your 30s.

5:32pm - mack is home. ask about his day. laugh at his stories.

6:01pm - leave for jiu jitsu.

8:49pm - get home from jiu jitsu. make dinner. sit on the floor and watch yesterday's daily show and colbert report with mack while he lays on the couch and hurts from training.

9:55pm - talk mack into staying up 30 more minutes.

10:17pm - go to bed. lay in the dark playing spider solitaire and scrabble and doing the internet tour of entertainment. listen to him snore.

12:37am - fall asleep.

I know that account of my day is absolutely boring to read. Now you feel my pain. If you need a beer, I totally understand.

Halloween. How I love thee.

I wish every holiday was like Halloween. I wish the goal of every holiday was to dress up and scare each other in a good, know-you're-alive kind of way and give each other bites of candy. I like Christmas and Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day and 4th of July too, but there's not enough of the know-you're-alive thrill in them.

As a kid, Shannon and I would run from house to house, up and down both sides of the street, scavenging for candy like a couple of drug addicts on a sugar-fueled bender. She'd dress up as Vanna White and I'd be a werewolf and our parents would let us run wild through the neighborhood from 6-9pm. We were probably only supposed to be out until 8 but how were they really going to catch us after all those Kit Kats?

When we got home, we'd sorting our candy and trading three crummy things for one good thing. Our mom would claim her Snickers. And then we would binge on candy for two weeks until all that was left was those gross peanut butter candies in black and orange wax paper that were unexpectedly better than you'd remembered when you finally had no choice but to eat them.

Halloween post trick-or-treating age was as much fun as Halloween of youth. In college, I'd leave campus and go to my parents house to dress up as a witch and hand out candy. I'd either sit really still on the porch with the bowl of candy in my lap and then, as the kid was reaching in for loot, say in a creepy witch voice, "Just one now," or I'd stand inside the door looking out the window at them and just stare until they saw me and fell backwards off the porch. Either way, they always got a candy reward for surviving their first heart attack.

When I got my own house that could be decorated, Halloween carved out an even bigger spot in my heart. I spent thousands of dollars on decorations that were basically given away when we moved to California the first time. Over the years I've phased out inflatables and kitsch and invested in creepy oddities that I can enjoy year round – bugs, old typewriters, antique photo albums, horse teeth. Now I spend the weeks leading up to Halloween making detailed decorations – dollhouses, bell jars, straightjackets. And that's my favorite part, the permission to go inside the creepy vaults of my mind and play around with ideas that turn into things.

Aside from the imagination and creative doing, I also love the dressing up. Other people are much better at it than me, but I love that you get to pretend to be anything or anyone. Halloween has let me be Cleopatra, a ringmaster, Lizzie Borden, a prisoner, Shirley Temple, a nurse, Frida Kahlo, a bearded lady, Regan from the Exorcist, a creepy doll, an art thief, and, this year, a candy striper (that actually looked like a '50s waitress but whatever).

I've been a devoted Halloween celebrator for over a decade now, and most of the time that celebration has taken the form of a party – one year it meant going to the haunted Universal Studios with Ruble (who is not so big a fan of the scary but who lovingly supports my addiction) and one year it was limited to carving pumpkins. After a decade-long love affair, I thought it'd be fun to take stock of Halloweens past and tease what's to come for Halloween future.

Shots, shots, shots, shots... shots! shots!

EMPLOYMENT ALERT: I got a job. As a nurse. In an emergency room.

EMPLOYMENT ALERT: I have no idea when I start. Also, I am clueless about what to do in the event of an emergency.

While I've been jumping through some hoops called "Advanced Cardiac Life Support" and "Advanced EKG Interpretation" and "Medical Check-ups" and "Live Scan" that eventually, hopefully deliver me to gainful employment, I've been working some flu shot clinics.

A flu shot clinic involves me sitting at a table asking hundreds of people about egg allergies, recent illnesses, and pregnancy plans. Then it involves me stabbing them in the arm and doing Research.

Here are some random things I have learned from doing Research.

- Asians have bouncy skin. I mentioned this to Mack and he said, That's because their skin is hyperglobulous and bouncified, except he used the correct terms. I had no idea this was a thing that existed in skins of Asian descent. Thank you, Research.

- Men with tattoos are usually the ones who are most afraid to get shots. They're looking the other way and trying to take a mental vacation while you shoot for the eye of the skull and crossbones inked on their deltoid. Which is usually large.

- Guys, you aren't gonna be able to roll that sleeve up over your shoulder. Just unbutton it and do the drape.

- Ladies, you need to lift some weight. Some of you gals have scrawny little arms and my needle is 1.5" and supposed to go all the way in. When it's all the way in, it's not supposed to feel like I'm hitting your bone. Do 10 push-ups right now.

- Some people are Bleeders and there is no way to tell who will be a Bleeder. The Bleeders just like to bleed. I underestimated one Bleeder and her shirt caught what my gauze missed. Most people aren't Bleeders, and for that, I (and everyone in line after you) am grateful.

I'm a lover of all vaccines, all the time. So far, I'm mostly safe from yellow fever, meningitis, polio, tetanus, pertussis, diphtheria, measles, mumps, rubella, and hepatitis B, and I'm hoping to get the HPV vaccine even though I'm married because I just like to have a complete collection. I'm getting my flu shot tomorrow when I jump through that Medical Check-up hoop, and I'm really hoping I'm not a Bleeder. Or a crier.

That Time I Held My Shit Together

Just before the government shutdown closed our national parks, we made a trek up to Sequoia and King's Canyon National Parks and stayed in a little cabin in the woods.

Mack's buddy Walt, henceforth affectionately known as Wilt, came for a visit and planned the whole outdoor excursion. Seriously, the only thing we contributed was finding the Mexican restaurant in Selma that we ate at on the way home... okay, Yelp probably deserves that credit.

The trip was full of beautiful things – giant trees, black bears, marmots, mule deer, rivers, giant boulders, meadows, waterfalls, rainbows, too-stunning-to-be-real vistas that exploded all around you. But what I'll most remember about this adventure was the hike up Moro Rock.

The hike isn't long. It isn't particularly grueling. It's only 797-feet long. It is, however, up a rock that is surrounded by thousands of opportunities to plummet to your death.

Guys. I don't like being on balconies. With high railings.

Anytime I sense danger, for myself or others, I get this feeling in my privates that's sort of like a toddler screaming "DON'T!" while being electrocuted. I have no idea why the message comes from what my family calls the "tootchie," but it does and it is a reliable beacon that sounds even when what I'm doing isn't really dangerous... like standing on a balcony. I guess my danger center is not particularly keen on heights.

I've learned to tell that wailing fear-monger to shut its mouth over the years, mostly through experiences like crawling across Natural Bridge and walking across the canopy of the jungle in Ghana. The fact that I've yet to plummet to my death has helped me find the courage to stuff the gag in before its ALERT reaches my rational brain and tries to cause panic. I also have pretty good upper body strength, so as long as I can hold on and steady myself, the signal usually dissipates enough for me to put one foot in front of the other.

Moro Rock, though. That bitch was brutal.

It started easily enough. Steep inclines on one side of the trail, a rock wall on the other. The view is absolutely breathtaking, even though you can still see the ground/where you would land if you made a mistake. The trail has steps carved out of the rock and is lined with a metal railing, although it's lower than it should be because it was built in the 1930s when people aspired to be 5 feet tall. Despite the reliable terrain and safety railings, the tootchie alert launched into overdrive as we started the ascent and it never shut up.

About 100 steps in, the railing goes away on one side and there's a wide rock ledge overlooking the valley (read: photo op). Lots of people were standing on this ledge, hopping past people sitting on it getting their picture taken. This ledge/bench dropped into an abyss on the other side (read: you cannot even see where you would land if you fell off), and people WERE SKIPPING AROUND ON IT OBVIOUSLY DANCING WITH DEATH. I have no doubt that if these idiots weren't around, I would have been able to mute my internal alarm, but alas, America's national parks don't discriminate against America's national morons.

No, those fingers are not knotted together and holding in any urine. Yes, the toe of that boot belongs to someone who walked behind me to get by.

About 150 steps in, the metal railing goes away and is replaced by wide granite rocks that come to, oh, about knee level. So you've got a slanted rock wall on one side and a perfect thing to trip over on the other. And people coming down the trail. And you mostly want to run screaming down the rock but going fast is the best way to die so you just maintain three points of contact and focus on your breathing.

Did I mention some of the people coming down the trail are 8 and look like they're walking across a parking lot?

As you make your way up, the railings shift between boulders and man-made, the trail winds back and forth, and sometimes you round a corner and a view captures you and steals that breath you've been focusing on. Then you look up the trail at your friend Wilt and realize you somehow have to get your chicken shit ass where he is and that's when your tootchie alert almost makes you piss your pants.

After about 400 steps the world opens up to you. A 360-degree view of Mother Nature wraps around you like a blanket, and you cling to the railing for a picture and try to look like you're not close to exploding. There's a tiny part of you, somewhere around the heart region, that flops around trying to give you a high five for being so brave, but the tootchie alert is screaming GET THE FUCK OFF THIS ROCK PEOPLE GET ELECTROCUTED UP HERE (true story).

Totally not panicking.

You soak up the beauty while you try to silence the freaking out part, but then a cluster of Supreme Morons decide to CLIMB OVER THE RAILING. This is a rock. It's crumbly and can break. You can die, which is why that railing is there in the first place. These people are going to die and you are going to watch them plummet to their deaths and their screams will haunt you for eternity. Guess what happens then? Tootchie alert wins and you start going down the rock.

Just because you're headed toward safety doesn't mean you're safe. There are tight turns and slanted rocks and you have to hug walls and take turns with people coming up the rock. Basically you spend the whole way down maintaining three points of contact and holding your shit together.

Because the experience hasn't been harrowing enough, as you near your starting point, there is a mother bear and her cub foraging in a bush about 20 yards below you. "Hey, the rock face is steep, no problems here," says your high-fiving heart region. "Bears climb trees, bears can climb rocks, bears protect their babies, you've got about six minutes before you adrenaline dump, get your ass to the car," says the tootchie alert.

You make it to the bottom and find Mack reading the information panels. He was getting vertigo about 100 steps in and couldn't make the hike. He is weak and you are powerful. He sits on the bench, you lay your head in his lap and focus on your breathing. You give in to that high-fiving part while your tootchie alert system recovers. You stare at this and appreciate how good it is to be alive.

Halloweeeeeeeeening

You won't believe this. I love Halloween.

I know, mind = blown.

This year I'm partnering with my uber talented neighbors from the days of Venice for Halloween. Not only are they fantastically cryptic and trained in horror graphics and construction, they have a yard and a garage. I have demons that need exercised. It's a perfect match.

This year's theme is Lunatic Asylum. Not insane asylum. Because Halloween is not politically correct.

Last time Sandra and I threw a Halloween party together, it was crime scene themed. And it was a freaking blast, so good that it ended up being some wedding's post-reception party. It's not my job to remember whose.

Since you five readers out there won't be able to make it (although you're all invited always), I'm blowing my mood board wad here on the blog.

Now for the explanations.

Since I have a costume-mandatory policy at Halloween, I'm going to make some straight jackets out of old button down shirts and get some old hospital gowns for the uninspired Halloween party-goers. Also duct tape and mouth gags. Then I'm splattering blood in their face as extra punishment.

I'm thinking I'll turn the bathroom into a "Hydrotherapy," with a submerged body in bloody water and some weird organs and surgical tools on the vanity. Brain candles will be throughout the party, and hopefully some phrenology heads too, if Sandra can cast them. Those things are expensive.

The labels on liquor will be swapped for Spring Valley Lunatic Asylum labels, and I plan to dress up as a nurse and give people shots out of syringes.

I'd like to decorate the yard with mattresses on the ground and maybe score an old rickety wheelchair. If I can talk Billy into it, we might have a "Solitary Cell" for photo opps. Hoping to somehow finagle a lobotomy scene and an electrotherapy scene too, but I'm still unemployed so I'm not sure about that yet (here's where you send money to support my addiction).

For the food, I was thinking of cafeteria trays complete with soft foods (hummus, pumpkin chili, spinach artichoke dip) served with ice cream scoops. Just like in prison! For the sweet fix, I found these bleeding brain cake balls and I don't care how toxic frosting is, I am making those things.

I also scored an antique typewriter on Ebay, so I'm dummying up some old patient records to have strewn about. I'm not sure, but I'm thinking lucky 2013 could just take the title for Best Halloween Ever.

Apparently I'm a receptacle for emotional man vomit.

In the past two days, I have had two grown men -- STRANGERS -- take me on an hour-long tour of the emotions.

The first started innocently enough. I was talking in a group about Facebook, and as the group started to disband, the man (he is sort of an acquaintance I guess... and he is very sweaty and his spit collects in the corners of his mouth all the time) and I were left sitting on a bench alone. And then he said, "I mean, I'm married but I definitely look. You know, I LOOK."

It was so weird and suggestive that I almost said, "Dude. I don't feel comfortable with this conversation." Because I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head, I considerately said, "Well, you're a human, and marriage is hard, but anything beyond looking could be terrible for your FAMILY. How old are your children anyway?"

I gave myself a mental pat on the back, thinking I'd successfully redirected the conversation. But really I'd pried open a giant can of squirmy conflicted crying worms.

He went on to talk about his children, his students, gays and lesbians, foster parents, Syria, the mentally disabled, "something really bad that happened last night," his high school soul mate, a kid who died of cancer, and about 500 other random topics. I just stared straight ahead, except for when he said something so crazy I looked at him out the corner of my eye to make sure this was really happening and I wasn't being schizophrenic.

"I guess I'm just a really sensitive guy. I have a lot of feelings."

Ya think? At this point I'd listened to him blab on for about 40 minutes, so I felt like he'd earned some of my wisdom.

"It's okay to have feelings, but it's not okay to act on every single one because feelings can change in an instant," I began. "And you have to set up some healthy boundaries so you're not having such intense feelings about other people's pain. You can't borrow other people's pain or you'll never feel good."

I'm pretty sure there was applause. It could have been in my head.

Well, today I go to the flea market because it's Antiques and Vintage Day and it's 50 cents to get in and I'm unemployed and it's too hot to stay inside. I've been on the hunt for an old typewriter for my upcoming Lunatic Asylum Themed Halloween Party (yes, that deserves capital letters) and I was hoping I could fine one Angeleno who doesn't know the value in a crusty turn of the century typewriter. I walked through the outdoor market, which is a little like visiting a bazaar in Juarez, and there it was, sitting under a rusty old toy car.

The seller was on the phone so I tried to look like I had nothing better to do and was absolutely not trying to understand his private Spanish conversation. When he got off the phone, he said, "That is my son. He is so lazy. I try wake heem up at 5, he say no. I try at sees tirty, he say no. At 7 I go or I pay more, so I leave heem. Now he come by bus."

The man is not all the way set up yet, so I assume his lazy son is his partner in this enterprise. Before I can say, "Kids suck, huh?" he says, "He was shot 7 times. One across hees chess, two in each arm, that's five, one thru here (he gestures through the front of his head) and one thru here (this gesture is through the back of the head toward the front). He 27 year old. He not the same."

I couldn't think of anything to say, and that blip of silence cracked open a can of tragic, unsettling, Jesus-infused worms.

He told me about how he was lonely because his wife had just left for Germany to help her daughter with her new baby for 3 months, how his daughter who works part time at Target has to get dialysis three days a week for diabetes and just applied for a kidney transplant, how his other son is in prison in San Francisco for gang stuff, how he had an ear ache and a hip pain but he prayed and the next day he woke up healed (the hip story came with an agility demonstration that can only be described as a jig), how all he wants is enough money to eat, pay rent, and maybe go to Chuck E. Cheese with his grandkids, (I think Chuck E. Cheese is my favorite thing to hear someone with a Mexican accent say), how he goes to church Wednesday nights and Sunday school on Sundays and eats dinner with his mom, how sometimes the people in the booth next to him get nasty because he goes over his boundary by a few inches, how he's made mistakes with women before but with his new wife it's about respect, not sex, how his brother's 13-year-old daughter had a belly ache and passed out after visiting the doctor and it turns out she's ate up with a brain tumor and she's on a ventilator and her skull is open just resting on her head. Then someone interrupted to ask how much the antique car was.

They negotiated between $5 and $7 and settled on $6. "How much is that typewriter?" I managed to squeeze in. "I'm asking $80 for it."

Normally I would have tried to negotiate him down to $40, but what human with an ounce of compassion could in good conscience do that to this man, especially when all they want the typewriter for is a prop at a halloween party? Like I said, I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head... plus he'd put me on his prayer list and looking for a job the normal way isn't working so why not give Hay-suess a try.

He rambled on about church and Jesus and how awesome heaven is going to be, and the whole time I'm thinking, well, yeah, because your life is absolute hell. Eventually people started visiting his booth, so I managed to say, "It was really great talking with you, but I'm going to shop around and let you finish setting up. I hope life cuts you some slack soon. Good luck with everything."

There was no applause.

I'm not sure what about me screams, "I'd love to unburden you of all your troubles," but if I get emotionally dumped on by one more grown man, I'm going to send him a bill.

Abuse: making aunties amazing

In a whirlwind trip to Kentucky last week, I got to visit the little things who are more fun to watch than Breaking Bad.

We let the babies try to drown in a bucket. We let them play with fire. We let them run with sharp objects. Everyone survived.

Ben, being the oldest of the tinies, was the one who first taught me that the quickest way to squealing joy was a little bit of abuse. He loved being pushed down and smashed and tripped and thrown on the ground. Gently, of course.

Now his sister is in on it. Luckily I'm armed with jiu jitsu now, so my abuse has become even more delightful.

Two against one requires the first line of defense known as "Push Them Babies Down."

One attacks while the other one recovers from the pushing, letting the auntie practice scissor sweeps on a toddler.

They don't relent because the auntie is being too easy on them. Soon she finds herself in the dreaded North-South position with the added bonus of a diaper.

Auntie lets them think they're in control, but she is bigger and stronger and faster and smarter. She hulks out of the pin and controls the biggest threat - the kid who sat on her head.

With his arms pinned, his brain makes him think the rest of his body can't move either. Auntie lets out a knowing laugh and, without giving up control of the kid, shifts her attention to wrangling the toddler, who has taken her back.

Auntie stands and plans the second line of defense known as "Turn Them Babies Against Each Other."

Auntie sits on kid and makes toddler sit on kid's head so he can get a taste of his own medicine. Everyone laughs and expresses what fun it is to be abused.

In case you've got zucchini coming out your ears.

Oh, I remember the days of having a garden.

Okay, I only had a garden twice in my life. Once at Bob-O-Link when Dave, Amy and I planted everything under the sun and then let the earth eat our harvest because it was too hot and too much of a blood sacrifice to spend any time in that mosquito village. And once when I lived with Shannon and I came home from waiting tables one day to find a giant patch of dirt in the back yard that she had decided to use to feed Sudan.

Even though I don't have much personal gardening experience, I do know that the one thing that is always in abundance for gardeners is zucchini. Tomatoes are easy to get rid of if for no other reason than there are probably thousands of mes out there just waiting to get your overruns. But zucchini is a different animal, and if you get four zucchinis what exactly are you supposed to do with them when zucchini bread only calls for one?

Well, here's one idea that my mom surprised me with when she was out here visiting earlier this month. We had to buy our zucchini since the only dirt I have access to is the 8" x 30" window box handing from the stair railing outside, but I bet my two readers living in places with yards and neighbors will appreciate this super easy, super yummy, and super healthy recipe the next time your co-worker is all, here, take this fucking zucchini.

Zucchini “Noodles” with Sesame-Peanut Sauce

Ingredients
3 small zucchini (sometimes I go crazy and use 4!)
1/2 red bell pepper, shredded or julienned (sometimes I go nuts and use THE WHOLE PEPPER!)
Edamame, baked tofu, chickpeans (optional, and I opt not to because I am lazy.)
1 tablespoon peanut butter (I don't measure from here on out. I just consider these ratio suggestions. Also, I use crunchy peanut butter.)
1/2 to 1 tablespoon water
1/2 tablespoon cider vinegar
1/2 tablespoon soy sauce, gluten-free tamari, or coconut aminos (bonus: this can also be gluten free)
1 to 2 cloves garlic, pressed or minced (there's can never be too much garlic.)
1/2 to 1 teaspoon sriracha or other chile sauce or red pepper to taste (Liz nicknamed this stuff Thai Ketchup and I put it on so much stuff. Including eggs. Mmm.)
1/2 teaspoon toasted sesame oil (this can be a million dollars in the oil section, but in the chinese food section you can get a little container of it for like $4. just keep it in the fridge.)
1/2 teaspoon grated fresh ginger (or the whole inch of it that you have in the freezer... another genius trick my mom taught me. peel the ginger, cut it into 1" piece, wrap each piece in plastic wrap, throw them all in a freezer bag, ginger at the ready. also it grates SO EASY when it's frozen.)

Instructions
Wash the zucchini well and trim off their ends. Use a spiralizer or a mandolin (they sell these at Bed, Bath & Beyond) to turn the zucchini into “noodles.” Line a large serving bowl with paper towels or a clean tea towel. Place the zucchini noodles in the bowl along with the red bell pepper. (I used the spiralizer thing on the red pepper too and it mostly worked. When I got down to the nubs, I just chopped them really tiny and threw them in the bowl.)

In a small bowl, whisk the peanut butter with 1/2 tablespoon of water and all remaining ingredients. If the mixture is hard to combine, add up to another 1/2 tablespoon of water, but be careful not to make the sauce too runny.

Remove the towels from under the zucchini noodles. Add the sauce and stir well to coat the noodles completely (can I just tell you tongs are magical for noodle coating... another mom trick). Serve right away.

(Leftovers can be refrigerated, but water from the zucchini may seep into the sauce, making it pool in the bottom of the bowl; stir well before serving.)

Vacation Life

I still don't have a job. It's starting to feel like that one time I was unemployed before I started nursing school when I built a dollhouse in July for a party in October. I have some leads and some talks and some emails, but still no schedule or paycheck. I'm booooorrreeedd.

I didn't realize quite how vacationy I'd been acting until I texted this picture to Heather the other day and she pointed out that since I've moved, most of my replies to her "what's up" texts have had something to do with beaches and/or books. That girl can spot a pattern 2,000 miles away.

To be fair, I've had a lot of reading to do and the beach is a nice place to do it. Laila is on a reading bender this summer, and I'm trying to keep up with her AND my mom. You have no idea what a full time job that is.

Well, last week I decided to get off my lazy butt and do something else that I've been seeing people do on the beach. Rather than Lay Down Reading, I went Stand Up Paddleboarding. 

A couple of jiu jitsu friends with surfing skills were kind enough to humor me in the harbor since I am too much of a chicken to learn to surf, especially while uninsured and while the sharks are here. I set the lofty goal of "Don't Fall In" and we cruised around the relatively calm harbor looking at pelicans and sea lions and dodging 6-year-olds learning to sail. Show offs.

 I guess until I get the ol' "Can you start Monday?" I'll just keep living every day like it's Saturday.

Slaving away at job hunting

You know what? There's a beach outside. One so close that I do not have to pedal for my bike to make it there. Despite that fact, I have to look for a job.

Dr. T started his rotation today, which meant that I was all by myself all day with nothing to do. I woke up at 10, brewed some coffee, felt like a total slacker, and decided I was going to apply for jobs all day long.

A full workday of job hunting.

I've been applying for jobs in bursts since we got to LA. But then Ruble came, and then Shannon came, and then there were weekends, and then there was Game of Thrones, and there's always that beach just down the hill, and my gumption to work all day every day kind of, well, it died.

Today, though, today I got on the job hunt train, full speed ahead. I found a gig through an agency that sounded promising, drafted a cover letter, attached my resume, and sent it on its way.

Now, do that three more times and oh my gosh, I think I can actually hear the ocean waves crashing outside...

Focus. Okay, an interesting position at a swanky hotel. Hmmm, it's a little farther away than I want to go, but it sounds doable. Apply.

At this point I had to complete a seven-part application. A SEVEN-PART APPLICATION. One that required me to attach my resume, then make sure my resume was auto-filled in correctly, then fill out a tax incentive questionnaire, and then answer 43 questions about scheduling and budgeting wisely and having common sense. I got a warning when I started the 43 questions that I had 75 minutes to complete them. 75 MINUTES FOR A JOB APPLICATION THAT I'LL PROBABLY NEVER HEAR BACK ABOUT.

This is the second job application I've filled out that took hours to complete. The last one was kind enough to email me that someone else was more qualified, but only after they required me to get a copy of my college transcript ($12) before they'd consider my application. For that "no," I invested $12 plus three days of content aggregation plus invaluable brain power plus the opportunity cost of time I could have spent on the beach.

I'm a hard worker and I think I come up with some pretty creative ideas. I know I've never left a position in worse shape than I found it, and I know I've been a crisis avert-er at more than one company. I can't help myself when it comes to doing a good job, and I usually end up putting in way more than the people who hire me expected.

But man, looking for a job is worse than working. I quit for today. Besides, there's a beach outside.

Let the visits begin!

Here's what happens when you move away from everything and start over.

The first 30 days you are so busy unpacking and getting your new car registration and scheduling cable service and setting up your new life you can't wait for a day to do nothing.

Then on day 31, once all the chores are done and you're not yet working and your days are full of nothing, you start to fall into a weird depression.

Then on day 38, just as you start to give in to the weepies and start avoiding phone calls from your lovies because it's just too much missing ache when you talk to them, Jessica Ruble shows up.

Ruble had a conference in LA right as the June gloom was rolling in, and she finagled her ticket so we could get some QT together. I think she was here one day before I headed downtown to her hotel, basically sprinted across the lobby, wrapped my arms around her, and refused to let go. The hug may have lasted 8 minutes.

Ruble is like medicine. The last time we moved to LA she was our second visitor, coming just after I'd started my new job but before I'd made any friends (that's a whole other Life Rebuilding Phase, and it usually doesn't start until about day 93). Before this visit, she'd just finished a week in Hawaii, a night in Kentucky, and now that she was in Los Angeles, she was, of course, ready to go, go, go. I think she's got batteries hidden in her body somewhere.

We grabbed a beer at a bar near her hotel and then Mack found a place for us to get some sushi for dinner. Feeling all what the hell!, we ordered a boat of sushi, some sake, and more beer, and I was able to fill up on good belly laughs and one of the friendliest faces I've ever seen. I think we returned her to her hotel at about 1:30am, where she probably went to sleep on a charger.

A couple days later I came and kidnapped her again. After grabbing a beer at the tavern across the street from her hotel, we decided an impromptu trip to a bar an old high school buddy had opened in LA named after Lexington was a great idea. We'd pop in, tell him congrats, have a beer, be good cheerleaders.

As it turns out, it was hip hop night at The Lexington. One rapper had Jesus Christ as a subject, another had vaginal terrorism as a subject, we met one of them named Pookie Ruin, and I claimed P. Shreds as my rapper name. If my album drops it's gonna be sick. There will be lots of rhyming and stuff. Ruble will be my fly girl.

After leaving our mark on The Lexington, we met up with Mack and some jiu jitsu buddies for a late night dinner at one of my favorite diners. And, because this is LA, we met Jesus Christ there.

I'm not sure if it was appropriate to Mark Katherine him with an armpit self-smell and impulsively shout "Superstahh" as he walked up to the diner entrance, nor if it was cool to throw a JC gang sign in the photo with him, but Jesus was totally forgiving. He was the nicest guy ever, not judgy or annoyed or damning, but just a-okay with everything. If the Sky Daddy version of Jesus ever does show up, he should take lessons from Hollywood Jesus on how to be a good Jesus in the modern times.

By the time we released our hostage, it was 3:30 in the morning, and poor, sweet Ruble had to work another day at her conference. Somehow she managed to recharge and on Friday, she was mine, all mine!

I captured her from her hotel and brought her to our place on the beach for a weekend of wandering.

I just realized it looks like we're always in the same clothes... the hazards of hoodie weather!

We walked up the to the beach and watched the surfers. Then we came upon a bar I'd been wanting to check out called the Underground. Then we stumbled into our neighborhood saloon and watched a hockey game (fortunately Ruble knows about hockey so I didn't have to be a complete idiot). We basically just kept putting one foot in front of the other, talking about everything under the sun, stopping at places that looked interesting.

And that's when we found Ol' Tony's, what could be the most incredible dive bar I've ever been to in my life. Sure, it smells a little like vomit when you first walk in, but Manny makes a mean Old Fashioned for $6 and you can watch the sunset since it's perched on the pier. The food is atrocious, but the people watching is incredible, and I plan to take all future guests to Ol' Tony's, like it or not (assuming it doesn't get torn down).

The same up-for-anything spirit that inspired us to go into Tony's also inspired the hike we took. I'd read about a shipwreck hike nearby and wanted to check it out, but Mack is hit or miss with hikes. Since Ruble is a hiking champion, I knew she'd be a blast even if the hike sucked.

We started out at the top of a gorgeous cove full of surfers down below. We walked over some smooth stones that crackled like thunder when the water flowed over them back out to sea. We saw old fire pits and people fishing.

It started off beautifully, but after the first turn we discovered sea roaches skuttle bugs. These dinosaur ages beefy bugs were all over the tops of the rocks, and when you got close they'd scamper under them. There were so many it looked like the ground was alive. I totally had the heeby jeebies (which is why I had to quit calling the sea roaches and give them a cute name like skuttle bugs), but Ruble was undeterred.

We walked along the rocks for a couple miles when we finally started to see bits of the shipwreck. Huge pieces of rusty iron stained the beach, but nothing resembling a ship. We decided we'd pose as spotters who'd have said "Land Ho!" or whatever people say before they crash. Well, I'm slow. We fail as spotters.

Luckily a couple of guys came around the bend and let us know there was cooler stuff up ahead, so our dorky didn't get too out of control. We walked another half mile and there it was. A real live shipwreck.

Thanks to Ruble, I think I'll make it to day 93 without any anti-depressants. If only I could get some of her energy...

No, I am not a battered woman.

A few weeks ago I got an itch for spring and summer clothes and picked up some cute dresses and shorts to wear for the next few months.

And then we moved to LA and joined a jiu jitsu club here and now there's this.

I have no fewer than 30 bruises on my legs at all times. Sometimes I have them on my hips, sometimes they're on my arms and wrists, and sometimes, on special days, my sternum get bruises.

How the hell do you bruise a sternum?

I started doing jiu jitsu in January in Kentucky. Well, actually I started it right before we moved back to Kentucky in 2009, but then when we got to Kentucky, guys were spastic and I didn't much feel like getting my arm broken by a scrawny guy's ego so I didn't go back to it. I'd only done about a month of training before we moved so it wasn't like I was abandoning a sport I loved.

In January, when Mack got back from his hiatus in Cali, he found an academy in Louisville that didn't stink, wasn't full of untrained assholes or women with tattooed throats, and wouldn't kill me with a warm-up built for Olympians. I decided to join, and whatever that gene is that made my dad a wrestling state champion when he was in high school flipped on.

So now I do jiu jitsu in LA, which is, as evidenced by the bruise count, way more intense than it was in Kentucky. My favorite part of class is when my Brazilian instructor (a guy who loves Elvis so much he made him the symbol for his academy... and a world champion) says "elbow" and "guys please."

And even though the bruises are gross, they're kind of awesome.