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.