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.

Dr. Sexypants, MD

It official. The boy who got his GED is a real life doctor, complete with a giant certificate with golden embossed seals and fancy, old-timey writing – two things that are required for anything official.

The end of Mack's medical school run and the shift from regular human to LIFESAVER happened with barely a blip. He went back to Kentucky a week after we arrived in California, did some paperwork, and was home. Then this came in the mail.

There was no cap and gown, no ceremony, no inspired speeches or sentimental goodbyes. Med school was over and done, packed away in the past, with no real lasting effect except that now his hair is 50% gray instead of 25% and there's a fancy piece of paper in our house.


As someone who likes to celebrate her birthday for a month, I just don't understand that. I'd want a 2-month vacation to the Mediterranean filled with decadent desserts and bubbly booze to celebrate my completion of med school (which we all know would never happen because I, unlike Mack, am not crazy.) He wanted a check from his mom and to get on with it.

He doesn't start work until late June, so we're enjoying long days that start with coffee, usually involve the beach, and end with jiu jitsu. It's a routine meant for retired people, and we are so good at it we should get paid for it. We don't, so my days are also spent perusing job sites looking for a gig that's as good as my last one was.

I, of course, am incredibly proud of Mack. But more than that, I am in awe of him. Medical school is a world of people pleasers and over achievers, where the majority of students are cut from the same aspirational cloth. Mack was an outcast in that society, albeit self-imposed, but that he managed to travel the path on his own terms and without changing who he is or sacrificing any of his self-assuredness is amazing to me. I wish I had that fearlessness and confidence.

I fell in love with Mack when he was a cable guy, when he'd leave the house early in the morning to report to work and then sneak back in through the window 30 minutes later to sleep in with me. When I'd watch his dexterous fingers strip wires at work and tap piano keys at home. When he had jet black hair, a smart-ass sense of humor, and just the right amount of muscles. I don't care if he's a doctor or a part-time magician, as long as he stays Mack. So far, so good.

Here we go again.

In 2006, we moved to Los Angeles. In 2009, we moved to Kentucky. Now it's 2013 and it's California's turn.

I look like shit, but you know what, I was about to explode into tears so that's life.

All this cross country back and forth has made me an expert packer. I've devised the perfect system for packing and labeling the boxes as well as a schedule that allows for getting packed up without leaving yourself without the necessities. Factor in Mack's brute strength and the fact that our house is furnished by cleverly compact Ikea creations, and we can move anywhere with less than 3 days notice.

This time, I told Mack I refused to touch the piano or drive non-stop, and lucky for me, he relented. It only took however many years we've been married and three cross country trips to get through to him.

The trip was pretty typical. Boring on top of boring on top of eating to pass the time on top of boring. Luckily Leigh had sent us off with a bag of popcorn the size of my torso and my mom had made a batch of No Worries muffins for us to nosh along the way. Homer willingly wedged himself between me and the door during my drive shift and propped up my arm, so that was exciting.

These things are amazing. Chock full of love and power and nutrition. We became addicts on our last ride across the country.

Homer. Bought him for $36 when I was 8. I was so little that my arms hurt from carrying him around the store. All I need is Homer and my silky. That's all I need.

We stopped a million places to get gas but the only one I remember was Shamrock, TX. There was a little bar right of the exit so we grabbed a beer and then headed into "town" for dinner. Big Vern's Steakhouse. Just the place for two vegetarians. All I can say is thank god for St. Patrick's Day or else Shamrock would have no purpose.

We left Kentucky on a Monday and made it to LA late Wednesday night/Thursday morning. We had planned to sleep outside of LA on Wednesday night but as we got closer the finish line, the boring took over our brains. We were tired and had been confined in a moving truck for 14 hours already, but we were too close to quit. And coming into LA with a moving truck towing a car is way better at 2am when there aren't any cars on the road.

Well, any cars except the two that collided in front of us on the interstate and were sent into about six spirals. We were far enough behind them that we were able to stop in time, but then we remembered that people were still going 75 mph behind us. Aside from the spinning around, the wreck wasn't that bad, so we excused ourselves from our medical obligations and got a move on.

I was spent before the wreck, stressed out by being in the car 17 hours and tired beyond tired, but seeing that happen made me start grinding my teeth and turning into an emotional wad of unpredictability. We ditched the Penske truck at the rental place, along with the car carrier (they kindly agreed to let us park it there overnight so we didn't have to find a place to park it), and drove to our new apartment. Tom greeted us with blankets and toilet paper and water. It was 4am PST / 7am EST by the time we laid down to go to sleep.

And then I burst into tears. I wasn't really sad as much as I was overwhelmed. I felt like my emotions had been twisted up like a wet towel and then whipped open with a snap. I was... unsure, and it was so unnecessary that when I got up to pee, I even said to Mack, who felt like it was all his fault that I was so upset, "I just need to stop it, just knock it off."

The next day Tom, an angel in a father-in-law outfit, came over and helped us unload the truck. He almost died trying to lift the couch over the balcony rail. We got everything unloaded and unpacked in just a few hours and then walked the 6 blocks to the beach, put our feet in the sand, and let certainty settle over us.

And then I got my period.