Broken

My parents are getting divorced. After 30 years of marriage, five daughters, four grandkids, three cats, four puppies, three surgeries, eight residences, more than a dozen jobs, and a half decade of trying to get it together, they are splitting up.

Both are shattered. Both erupt in tears at the drop of a hat. Both have no idea how to be alone or how to construct a life that doesn't have the other at its center. But as a couple they are doing each other more harm than good.

My heart hurts for them, for my family, for the babies who now know two generations of divorce and they're not even 10 years old. But the ache between them is unbearable, and as I've told them both, if they cling to something so infected out of nostalgia, it will kill them. Neither of them are perfect, neither of them are free of blame for the state of their union, neither of them are bad people, and both of them will move on. Their new existence won't come close to being what their old one was at its peak, but it will be better than what it became. There are still good times to be had, and the hate and betrayal they feel now will eventually give way to something a little gentler. They will heal.

There really aren't a good set of words that describe the complicated feelings I have about this, but the other day Shannon texted me this video with the caption "our family Christmas theme song ;)" and it granted me an exhale that I'd been needing for a while. And that was the best Christmas gift I got this year.

 

Dulywed: Year 8

Dear Mack,

It's 2 am. I'm in the living room and you're in the bedroom. In the next 20 minutes you will thomp out naked to go pee since your bladder is the size of a thimble, and along the way you'll grumble, "Come to bed right now." I won't, because I just got home from work and can't fall asleep yet. When I finally do get tired and come to bed, you'll reach over, pull me close, poke your chest hair into my back, and then start snoring on my neck. I'll tolerate it for about three minutes, and then you'll get a loving kick that means "stop snoring." We'll both roll over and go to sleep with our legs touching.

Since we work opposite schedules, on more days than not, this ritual is the only interaction we have. And even though it's completely predictable and a little bit annoying and flavored with grouchiness, that familiarity and clear expectation has become precious to me. It's who we are as a married unit – pissed off that the other person isn't right there all the time. Totally healthy.

These days. We've come a long way from waitress and cable guy.

The past year has been a really grown up one for us. We've suffered divorces and deaths and family crises and incomprehensible work stress, and when I think back about all the crap that's come our way, I'm really proud of us. Remember that day we found out Rob died and I wrapped my arms around you and we cried (well, I cried and you punched the water coming out of your eyes)? That day my patient took a turn while my other patient got coded for dementia and you came in to evaluate him and caught me in the corner trying to hold it together and you slipped me some tissues and then took me outside for fresh air and we sat on the table, your arm around me, and waited for the world to settle down around us? That day a few weeks ago when we heard your grandpa was dying and your mom was leaving for Iran to see him one last time? That day my mom called about to go off the rails and I walked in, said "I've got the get her out of there," and within 10 minutes you had it arranged? We've never had days like that before this year, days that really left one of us incapacitated and needing the other one to handle it, and I think we kicked ass in the supportive department.

The day you found out you got your medical license I was especially supportive.

We also kick ass in the rip-each-other-to-shreds department, which is probably something we should work on at some point. Like you probably shouldn't threaten to have me put on a 72-hour psychiatric hold for overreacting to you maybe/maybe-not flirting with that gash in San Francisco. And I probably shouldn't puke in your brand new cars anymore. Also, no more house guests for more than five days.

Aside from a few marital hiccups I'll call April and December, this year has been something out of a storybook. As long as I live I'll always remember that day we went sailing, when we tracked the whales in the distance while a sea lion swam beside us and a couple dolphins danced below us. And that impromptu drive to the desert outside Vegas to see the red rocks and look for goats. Or that night we were at home watching the UFC fight and our friends went outside for a smoke and I crawled across the floor to you and we shared the most tender and loving kiss we've had all year.

Maybe that's why the eighth year is for bronze gifts... because by then there are moments so powerful and perfectly synchronized that they're etched in your memory forever. They'll endure even if your marriage ends up old and hateful and broken, just like a garden sculpture covered in bird shit and swallowed by vines. These moments make this relationship one of the best I've ever been a part of, and if divorce really ends up being my family tradition, I'll always have gratitude for these extraordinary experiences and feelings that were courtesy of you.

The good news is that you still have your hair, even if it's mostly gray, and I'm not fat yet, so I think we're safe from divorce for at least another year. And, man, am I looking forward to seeing where this one takes us.

I love you, Mack. Always have, always will. Happy anniversary.

Look at these babies... they had no idea.

Halloweaning...

Guys. I have an announcement to make.

I might be getting too old for a Halloween party.

I love dressing up, cooking Halloween foods, and making the house scary, but the party is just exhausting. I'm still recovering from this year's event... although part of the blame also goes to that annual hoax called Daylight Savings Time.

Sandra was an Indian. I was a crow. There was lots of corn and hay around us.

Sandra and I started building scarecrows in August, we drove to Filmore and harvested corn four times in September, we hauled hay in from Santa Clara in October, and I spent three days cooking. Here's what I made (clockwise from top: pumpkin fettuccine, chicken skewers, sweet potato pizza, corn chowder, deviled eggs, apple tart, popcorn cobs, caramel apples, cheese and olives, and zucchini cornbread):

After all that work, we and our friends sat around, listened to music, and got drunk for 6 hours. Then we started tasing each other for fun.

On Sunday, I spent all but two hours in bed watching Boardwalk Empire. And every day since, I've been sleeping until 12pm.

Hangovers used to require McDonald's and a fountain drink. Now they require round-the-clock ibuprofen, chips, 2 gallons of sparkling water on ice with a straw, coconut water, darkness, and three days of rest. Plus, I don't really like being so drunk that tasing my friends is hilarious good fun.

Maybe next year I'll do this 5 hour haunted house instead of throwing a party... seems like it might take less time to recover from mental torture than a hangover.

Skippers

Look out, water. We're halfway to being sailors.

Mack has been wanting to sail for YEARS. I have been curious about sailing for about as long, but my enthusiasm has been tempered by a fear of the pukes. Last Christmas, my parents gave us the money for the lessons. This month, sailing became a reality. And so did the pukes.

Captain Mack, waiting to take the helm for the first time in his life.

Mack drives us out of the marina. I stand at the front and yell "ALL CLEAR." Basically I'm a helpful Kate Winslet.

The first week I made it through unassisted and did a couple of dry heaves once we were back on land. The second week I made it through feeling pretty good with accu-pressure wrist bands and a half-dose of Meclazine. The third week I died about 90 minutes in when we turned downwind, which makes you feel like you're not even moving, and I hung my head over the edge of the boat and lost my soysage. Next week, it's wrist bands, a full dose of Meclazine, magic oils, and whatever other juju I can find to keep the queasies away.

This is either my favorite part, where it's shady and windy, or the pre-puking part, where I sit up high and try to go to sleep. Hard to tell.

Even with the pukes, though, I love sailing. I like learning the knots and trying to find the sweet spot where the wind fills the sail perfectly. I like using the special words to describe things, like tacking and jibing and close haul and beam reach. I like deciphering the right of way rules and apparent wind versus true wind. It's like a perfect balance between intellect and instinct. My favorite part though is when the sail puts you in the shade and the wind blows back your hair and everything is peace and quiet. That part is so good that even after getting an insta-hangover, you still go back for more.

After a nap and a shower and some salty chips on land, of course.

Extreme Office Makeover

Mack has an office at work. Office is a bit of a stretch. Really, Mack has a 6' x 9' closet called an office. It's in an old army bungalow on the hospital campus, so it, and everything around it, is about 90 years old. It's so old that cats and skunks and raccoons live underneath it in perfect urban harmony. It's also so old that at least 20 years of residents have attempted to make this tiny room a respectable place for advising people on what's wrong with their minds. The last resident left it with purple walls and yellow trim. Guys, I don't know about you, but if I'm going through a bout of cuckoo, I don't want to talk to someone in a place that looks like an Easter egg.

So I took over.

First thing was the paint. I decided to go with greys and wood to keep it masculine without being too cold. I spent one of my days off coating the walls of his office, and everyone who stopped by was all, "Ooooohhhh, purple." And I was like, "Ooooooohhhh, fuck."

Luckily, when I started throwing in some browns and creams, the color went the direction I hoped it would – the direction the sample card said it should. 

Mack inherited some furniture with the office. Namely a fold-able Ikea loveseat that looked like no fewer than 30 people had ejaculated on it. Here's the picture he sent to me of it. If the office wasn't so tiny and this loveseat so perfectly sized for it, I would have tossed this on the curb. But the truth is, it was the best option we had. Cue the fearless yet totally inexperienced reupholsterer inside me.

BEFORE. Let's say that's sweat there in the crease and not semen from a whale.

He also had a giant desk that I rejected from the start and a slender but sturdy red-cushioned chair that I decided should be his office chair. See, Mack has a lead ass. He sits on something half as long as a usual person and it will sag or start busting apart at the joints. I don't understand how someone his size can be so heavy. Something with physics and ass density I guess.

We ordered a desk from Overstock.com and I hunted for some things to give the space some personality. I found a phrenology head that was a nod to the specialty of psychiatry, a photo of a sailboat that is his constant reminder of why he's working in the first place, an hourglass (because I always wanted one), and some fake succulents that don't require actual care and attention. I printed out an old-school illustration of a brain and framed it. And then I figured he should have his med school diploma in the room since all the other doctors had theirs hanging up, so I got that framed too. (Framers should be arrested for charging framing prices.) I ended up throwing in a big house plant to cover some cords and an actual zebra succulent I found at Ikea because it was awesome. In the end, I think it all turned out pretty decent, especially considering how little we had to work with.

And now for your tour of a closet.

The doctor will see you now.

AFTER: I knew I nailed it when I was visiting Mack one day and he said, "You have no idea how many people have cried on that couch." It really is comfortable and safe feeling. And that throw pillow is for people like me who need something to hug when they're purging evil.

Personality in the room. No personality in the doctor. He had a meeting to get to and his wife was being extra Asian about taking photos.

The desk and that great red chair. Blurry pic because he was literally dragging me out of the office.

The Electric Slide

A couple months ago, Mack, Laila, Shahin and I walked into a Ford dealership to test drive a car. I believe my last words as we walked out of the house were, "We are not buying a car today." 

About two hours later, we were the new leasers of a Ford C-max Energi, which is a hatchback that is all electric for about 21 miles and is then a hybrid. Can I just say that we got this car on July 5, have gone 2000 miles that include long trips, and have put one tank of gas in it? Yes, I can.

It has a backing up camera. And bluetooth. And a touchscreen. And voice commands.

Getting gas is pretty much the most annoying task of my life. That and dusting. Which is why I try to do neither and have been stranded more times than any human should be. Now, I never buy gas and it is amazing. I plug my car in when I get out of it at home, I unplug it when I leave, and life is simple and great. And my car is so stealth that I could do drive-bys if I was into that kind of thing.

There was a situation with the battery the second day I had it where I went to start the car and NOTHING. So I took Mack's car to work, he called the dealership, they towed it in, and the next day, I had my car back. Apparently there's a thing where batteries can be bad. I have had zero problems since then. In fact, I've had negative problems because I NEVER BUY GAS!

We didn't really need a new car, but once I realized I was paying $160/month for gas on a car that lost all its value the minute we finally paid it off, I was over it. We leased this one for two reasons: I have no doubt the mileage capacity on a charge is going to increase over the next three years and the last time we bought a car, our payments-to-value-at-the-end averaged out to being the same on a new leased car with no equity when it was all said and done. Isn't that depressing? So I decided that if you pay more than $5000 for a car, it's not worth it to own it. That just a little thing I call Math. So now I drive a little thing I call Spaceship.

Freud and Jung

A few weeks ago we were sitting outside and this bird that looked just like a parrot flew overhead. Most birds have a pointy snout to their silhouette, but this bird had a blunt forehead. And it squawked.

We've been hearing the squawks ever since, so we turned to the knowledge of the interwebs and discovered that there's a wild platoon of escaped parrot pets running rampant through the neighborhood.

Last night we were having a drink on the deck when the squawks started up again. They sounded really close, and a couple minutes later we spotted two little guys a few trees over having the chat of their lives. Every now and then they'd make out and then they'd start shouting at each other again. We decided to name then Freud and Jung and watched while they chased each other from one tree top to another.

Again, I'm never leaving this house.

The 2014 Tour of Dead People in American History

Last fall I was talking to my mom about taking an adventure and since it was our first ever solo expedition together, I told her to pick wherever she wanted to go in the entire world.

She picked Washington, D.C.

I have a running list of dream places on Pinterest. Washington, D.C., was never ever considered for that list. But the point of this trip was to do something fun with my mom, to visit one of her dream places, so in June, we made the journey to the nation's capital/went on a quest to steal Barack from Michelle and have him for ourselves.

Here we're trying to figure out who makes the cutest couple.

I had been to D.C. two times before, once with Mack a few years ago and once with my 5th grade class when we took a whirlwind 1-day tour of the city and its sites. I still remember that trip and everything we saw and did, and I figured if it stuck with me this long, it must be worth seeing again. I emailed my Congressman and submitted our info to get us cleared for a tour of the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Kennedy Center. Also on my radar was the Ford Theater, the Washington Mall (which includes, of course, the Lincoln Memorial, my favorite place in D.C.), and the Arlington Cemetery.

The first day we got there, the airline conveniently lost my mom's luggage, which meant that our afternoon was a little sabotaged waiting for a delivery. We managed to find a place to eat, the Woodward Table, where we ate the most delicious French Fries ever made and had sauteed greens made with walnuts and raisins that were out of this world. My mom and I like to cook together, but more than that we like to eat together. The Woodward Table got our vacation started off right. With a full belly I climbed into bed next to my momma and slept for the first time in like 40 hours.

Our first touristy spot, and the one that put the taste of dead in our mouths, was the White House. We, along with 75 of our closest strangers, lined up and got screened five times to get access to five rooms of the White House. There was the yellow room with the big tall ceilings, which is where the dead bodies of Lincoln and JFK were showcased after their assassinations, then the green room, which is where they place all the gold eagle-adorned knick knacks they've bought over the years, then the blue room, which is roundish, then the red room, which is, you'll never guess, red, and then the giant dining room. We saw portraits of all the first ladies and presidents and got kind of excited that maybe Hillary Clinton will be the first woman to have one of each.

Dammit, Barack, we came to your house to see you and YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE. How will we ever get our marriage proposal to you now??

It was perfect weather, so we decided to spend the rest of the day walking the National Mall. We saw the Lincoln Memorial of my favorite dead president, the World War II Memorial, the Reflecting Pool/Forrest Gump Memorial, and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Then our feet died because we'd worn cute shoes for Barack which were bad shoes for walking thousands of miles on concrete so we went home.

As we walked around the city, it seemed like we encountered a dead person or genocided culture every where we went. The National Museum of the American Indian - we gave you smallpox blankets for your babies and herded you along a trail so we could steal your home, but here's a place for your canoes and bedazzled Chuck Taylors. Never forget.

It was kind of hard to be jolly around all this dead and memorializing, so we ate good food and shopped to break it up.

Salmon Eggs Benedict and Crabcake Eggs Benedict. Dead chicken fetuses to help us forget the dead humans. Also, a Bloody Mary to drown out all the bloodshed. (Thanks, Cedar.)

We also had a break from the dead to explore the house of the might-as-well-be-dead: the Capitol. We got in a line with 75 of our closest strangers, donned headsets, and were herded like Native Americans on a death march through rooms with domed ceilings. Luckily, our guide was uber sassy and smart ass, so Mom and I got a good laugh on this otherwise mundane tour of the place where our elected officials do nothing but waste money and time. 

Debra Hensley for Congress. That woman will whip them into shape with a stick ;)

To recover from the display of American waste, we took a taxi to Georgetown to explore. First stop was frozen goodness at Thomas Sweet, where I downed some cinnamon ice cream and mom restrained herself and ate frozen yogurt. Then we got some way overpriced shorts that show my butt fold if I bend over but that are really cute otherwise. (With these legs, when I find something cute on them, I buy it.) We had a fashion show in some consignment shops, and even though we didn't score any treasures, we scored huge laughs revealing terrible outfits to one another and doing bad dressing room dances that really make the clothes look awful. Mom's tea addiction kicked in, so we stopped for iced tea and a beer before making our way back to our neighborhood to find a place for dinner.

And then, I got my mom to eat octopus. When Shannon came to visit last summer, we ate octopus for the first time together and it was delicious, almost like pork. Our version was cut up and served with beans, so it was a little easier to get over the fact that it was octopus, but the version Mom and I had was full-on octopus in all its tentacles-with-suction-cups glory.

A little offering from the ocean at Mourayo.

Going for it!

The last couple days of our trip the weather decided to give me a full summer 100% humidity, temps in the 90s experience. We got up early one morning to go to Arlington Cemetery, but by the time we made it to JFK's grave site and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, I was so hot I took my shoes off and cooled my feet on the marble steps. I didn't care about these fields of dead people, anonymous or not, because I was about to become one of them. Oh, did I mention it was only like 10:30 am? It's kinda hard to be reflective at a grave site with an eternal flame when you're being burned alive by the sun.

Look how excited Mom is to look at dead people in 1000-degree temperatures!

Hey Congress. Read this, assholes.

This sign almost read Place Where Amber Died of Heatstroke, with an arrow pointing downward.

The heat made us go inside, which meant museums and shopping malls. We toured the Ford Theater, which is so different than when I visited there 25 years ago. Like there's technology now. And the street is lined with giant tour buses. And the 75 of my closest strangers that I waited in line with are gaa-gaa for taking selfies in front of the theater box where Lincoln got his brains blown out. And the Peterson House across the street, where I remember seeing a bloody pillow on a tiny bed after going through an entrance to a basement below a Burger King, is now a full fledged museum, with four floors and a gift shop and an amazing tower of books all written about my favorite president.

We also went to the Holocaust Museum, which, although it was the most epic death downer of the entire Tour of Dead People in American History, was fascinating. The tour starts with you getting a pamphlet of an actual Jew's story, and as you go through the museum, you refer back to your story for updates on that person's experience. At the end, you find out if your person died or not. There is no hope. Your person is dead.

Along the way you get to step into train cars that took people to concentration camps and see miniature replicas of gas chambers, complete with people clamoring for their lives. One particularly unsettling thing was a paved road that was cast from a road in Europe built during the war. It was built using headstones from Jewish cemeteries, and you can read parts of the names on some of the "cobblestones." It made me sick. It's not enough that you capture people and enslave them and starve them and slowly kill them, but then to demolish their sacred places and turn a person's last remaining presence in the living world into a building block for a road? What kind of monster does that? There was also an installation of shoes taken from dead Jews that kind of blew my mind. Of all the dead people memorial tours in D.C., this one was definitely the best... and worst.

At our last supper, I asked Mom where she wanted to go for our next trip, and she said I could pick. I warned her that most of my dream destinations are a pain in the ass to get to, pretty uncomfortable to be in, and change the way you see the world. With that, I lost the picking privilege, but that's okay. Wherever we go, as long as I can cuddle up next to my momma with a full belly, I'll be in a dream destination.

Home Sweet Perfect Sanctuary Vacation Home

Remember when that excavator was outside? Well, I am so glad it was because we now live in Vacation House.

The walk to the beach is shorter. The patio and yard exists. The parking is always available. The garage lets us access the bikes without climbing over the car. And my favorite part? When the front door is open, the ocean breeze blows through the house and out the back door like an endless free, fresh air conditioner. I love a house the breathes and I'm never leaving here. Sorry to the owner if she ever wants it back.

Until you visit in person and we sit outside together drinking wine and playing cards, this virtual tour will have to suffice/tempt you.

Welcome. This is the living room, where all the gigantic furniture goes.

This is the guest room, off the living room. That chair was found on the curb, its arm was half eaten by cats, and Homer supports me in loving it.

Built in bookcases line the hallway. As do giant closets and a little hidden ironing board, which is adorable even though I never iron. These bookcases make my hoarding of weird shit totally acceptable. In other words, it's where we display conversation pieces.

Just off the hallway on the right is our kitchen. It has a pantry. And a washer and dryer. And a baby grand piano. Basically everything you should have in a kitchen. There's also a bar-like opening to the living room so you can be in the kitchen and it's like you're also hanging out in the living room.

Bathrooms. Who really cares about these? They're for shitting and cleaning your funky parts. We have two giant linen closets in here and I don't die of heat when I'm fixing my hair because wind blows through that window at all times, so it's a fantastic bathroom by my standards.

Our bedroom. With two giant closets and enough room for two king beds. Plus, there's those weird square glass windows up there. And two weird stained glass ones on the right. Lots of weird light that means we cannot sleep our lives away as much as we try to.

This is hands down my favorite place to be in this house – the deck out back. We also have a little patio just outside the kitchen where I'm growing tomatoes and basil and killing some flowers and cilantro, but this deck is awesome. I lay out here in my underwear before work, read out here on the weekends, drink out here whenever I want, and take naps under a blanket while I watch the sun slip into the palm trees.

Come over anytime! It's always happy hour at the Vacation House!

Love and the Woods

My Aunt Becky and Uncle Vince made an epic cross country journey from Indiana that landed on my doorstep on June 1, Becky's birthday. The next day was their anniversary, their 30th, and this trip was a celebration of that commitment to one another. I managed to sneak away from work for a few days to piggyback on their vacation and we went up to Sequoia to see the big trees.

We had a blast exploring, even though Vince did get scolded for driving too slow by the flag guy. We were all looking out the window at majestic, enormous, hundreds of year old trees, and we sort of fell behind the lead car escorting us through a construction zone. The flag guy yelled KEEP UP!!!, which was so ridiculous a thing to yell at people on vacation I could hardly stand it. So we started yelling at Vince DAMMIT! STOP LOOKING AT THIS GORGEOUS NATURE! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS MAGICAL FOREST? STOP IT AND DRIVE!!! and other such things.

We made the trek up Moro Rock again. Becky got the Moro Rock Rush and started skipping across the top of it and sending my Toochie Alert System into freakout mode. We also discovered Buck Rock after a couple guys in a work truck at a vista pointed out a fire lookout way up on a rock. We drove up there via a gravel "road" and had the whole amazing place all to ourselves. The best thing of all though? Seeing Becky's unquenchable wonder and listening to Vince's "whoooooaaaaaa"s at every breathtaking turn.

Happy anniversary, Becky and Vince! Come back soon!!

thirtysixin' and lovin' every 18,934,560 minutes of it

Catching a Wave... of Terror

I have lived in California for more than a year now. I have visited the beach more than 50 times. And I have avoided going swimming like the plague.

Last summer was so hot I almost went in one day, but then I remembered this was going on and no.

Today I finally knocked it off. Mack went for a swim last week after going for a run and described it as "heaven" and "the most refreshing thing in the world." Since I hate him having more fun than me, I decided to grow a pair and go in.

There is no way I am ever going to take a jog in my bathing suit and then take a swim because giant boobs and swimsuits do not mix well with activity. Instead I donned a wetsuit because I hate when the cold water goes over your boobs that first time, grabbed the boogie board, and off we went.

I made my way into the water, which was warmer than I thought it would be. Mack didn't have the insulation of a wet suit so he stayed on the beach hopping around trying to get sweaty. I jumped over waves and tasted the salty water and waited for the perfect crash to come my way. I caught a couple waves, but never really managed to get out in front and on top of the wave enough to get that effortless, harmonious, long ride.

I was having a blast and managed to let my fears of sharks eating me alive wash away. Then Mack started yelling at me from the beach and pointing to my right.

"DON'T SCREAM THINGS WHEN I'M IN THE WATER!" I shouted back, trying to stay composed and not shit my pants. He kept yelling and pointing and I couldn't hear a word he was saying out there in the water.

At this point, the balls I'd grown were sucked into my body and I became a terrified freak. I looked over my shoulder and saw a wave coming, and I hauled ass to get in front of it and top of it like my life depended on it. I rode that board all the way up onto the sand and laid there in a heap of terror.

"Did you see the seal?" Mack asked me, all calm and savoring the moment.

I looked over to where he was pointing and there was a giant seal, probably 10 feet long and a head the size of a tire.

"He was swimming like 5 feet from you the whole time. You didn't see him?"

After I watched the seal being curious with some other surfers, I managed to calm down and convince myself that not everything wants to eat me. Then Mack chimes in with his version of events: "Those were the most perfect 5 minutes – watching that seal playing in the surf and you out there having no idea and then getting scared and riding the best wave of your life."

An anniversary I'll celebrate

I remember when the call came in. Jen had gone to the doctor to see about the sleep apnea/snoring thing that had given her a mild addiction to Afrin, and after getting her adenoids removed they'd said there's a slight chance it could be cancer.

I remember telling her no way it was cancer. No way. She was only 26 years old. She just needed her tonsils taken out. It was just allergies.

Except it was cancer. A freak of nature kind that normally afflicts people in their 60s. Jen was the youngest person ever diagnosed.

The next few months I watched the lymph nodes in her neck swell so much that they hijacked her heart-shaped face. I watched her rearrange her life in such a way that she could keep her job, be close to family, and be ready when they doctors said it was time for chemo. I entered a pact with her to shave my head if her hair fell out. Then I watched her kick cancer's ass.

You never knew Jen was getting chemo. The only evidence was the port implanted in her chest and the stories she'd tell you about it. Things like how Us Weekly is just no good when you're in the throes of chemo brain and InTouch is way better because it's mostly pictures. Things like how Netflix was a saving grace while sitting through long infusions of drugs and in the days after being poisoned when even taking a shower took every ounce of energy she could muster. Things like how the only foods that sound good are white – potatoes, bread, crackers – but none of them taste good.

Because she is amazing, this rendezvous with cancer summoned in Jen a courage to live life that was already more compelling than most healthy people had. She came to Halloween parties and baby showers between treatments, she went to work and happy hours, she started dating the man she'd ultimately marry. She told me once that they told her to start thinking about egg donation if she ever wanted to have children. Jen is a planner, she is organized and calculated, but in the face of cancer, she shocked me with how at peace she was with letting go of control, with being singularly focused on getting healthy and leaving everything else to chance.

Eight years later, with five years of marriage and two gorgeous baby girls driving the narrative that is her post-cancer life, Jen is still in remission. And every day I am grateful.

A couple of months ago while I was visiting Kentucky, we met up at her mom's so I could finally meet Charlotte, her second daughter who has Jen's sparkly blue eyes and baby fine hair. We sat on the floor and took turns wrangling a baby girl who wanted to play with everything forbidden... stairs, cat toys, electrical outlets. We have been friends for 19 years now. We have gone white water rafting in Virginia and snorkeling in Jamaica. We have gone to Broadway shows and cuddled up on the couch with a glass (okay, maybe a box) of wine to watch Friends. But sitting on the floor with her and her daughter that night in February, watching Jen as she savored the moments in life she always wanted, I was overcome with gratitude – for the person she is, for the life she shares with me, for the joy she brings to this world. There is no one else like Jen, and no one else who so truly deserves all the good life has to give.

Happy 8th anniversary, Jen. I love you.

Marriage. It's what brings us together. And makes that togetherness feel like a prison sentence.

I happen to really like the man I married. He's funny and smart and my #1 hang. He's good for me and we have a lot of fun together. And even though I like having him in my life, there are times in our marriage that I want to erase him from my existence. There are times that he is the most miserable thing that ever happened to me. There are times that I want to run away and change my name and pretend this relationship never existed. They are few and far between, but they happen, and I'm pretty sure they happen to anyone in any relationship of any significance.

Then we have days like yesterday. We rode bikes to the pier to eat tempura fried fish tacos and drink cold beer. We came home and I planted flowers while he played piano. We had a hilarious conversation about 69-ing wherein I asked, "What if it was my fantasy to 69 and that was all I wanted in life? Would you do it?" and he answered, "I'm am not the Make a Wish Foundation." (I should clarify that it is not my fantasy to 69 all the time. I think the topic came up because we were watching some reality show about freaks and freaky stuff.) I hung curtains, he napped on the couch. Then we went back to the beach to watch the sunset. The day ended with our favorite pizza and what he calls "good old, fashioned TV watching." On more than one occasion I had to shout, "My life is awesome!" because, well, it was such an awesome day.

We've been together for more than 10 years at this point in our story. We have ups, downs, and plateaus. We are codependent and needy and selfish. We are lazy and neither of us wants to work at this relationship, but I think we both want it to last. The thing is, marriage is kind of a losing proposition. It's definitely doomed to fail if it's based on love or sex. I love my sisters more than any human on the planet and there have been times in my life that I would have divorced them if it was an option. I'm pretty sure parents would divorce their kids if that was allowed. Love ebbs and flows, comes and goes, and can be there and still leave space for hate. Love makes you stupid, and the tenuousness of it makes you crazy. Marriage isn't love. Marriage is a decision, one that you make every day. Sometimes it's an easy one to make, like yesterday, and sometimes everything in your body is telling you to just say no except a sentimental part of your mind that says "Remember that day you rode bikes and he made that hilarious joke about 69-ing? That day will come again if you decide to stay with this."

I'm barely into my happily ever after and I have no idea what would happen if we were faced with real challenges. We don't have kids, we aren't sleep deprived, we make enough money, we don't have health problems. We have it pretty good, and we've made the decisions we've made to get it that way. But I fully expect the problems that we do have to always be there and to always be trying to wear us out. I wonder what this union will feel like when we're 20 or 30 years in and if I'll have the stamina to keep listening to that sentimental part that makes room for more of the bike-riding, 69-joking days. I wonder if he will.

Luckily, the universe reads minds. I was driving to work the other day listening to the TED Radio Hour and the whole show was about How We Love. There was a lady named Esther Perel on and she was talking about the paradox of love (have) and desire (want) and how modern marriage really makes those two necessary and valuable experiences impossible. The way she spoke of marriage, the experience and obligations of it, really struck a chord with me. My favorite part was when she said, "This dilemma between our need for security and our need for adventure and how we're trying to bring them together under one roof is more a paradox that we manage and less a problem that we solve." Marriage is a paradox. I think happily ever after might just be possible with that as the expectation.

I just got home from work and...

there was an issue with blood cultures and impossible veins, a guy who kept standing in his bed to "stretch his microtubules"/show his asshole to everyone, and a nurse whose feedback gave me a burst of crying in the parking lot, so I'm blogging.

This blogging has nothing to do with cinnamon whiskey. No, this blogging has to do with excavators. 

When we moved in just over 11 months ago, there was a for sale sign at the house next door to us. It was in front of a cute single family home, but there was a lady living in the front house and a guy living in the back house and about three dogs and three thousand songbirds living in the yard in between. It didn't look like anyone was going anywhere soon.

We settled in, but never really loved the place. Mainly because there is NOWHERE for us to be outside. Except for that enormous beach at the bottom of the hill.

I know, I need to shut up. But guys, when your house is 20 degrees hotter than the outside and you just want to get some fresh air while you drink your coffee and check email, you don't want to have to pack up a grass mat and make a to-go cup and take a six block journey.

Well, about three months ago, a fence went up around the house next door. And last week, an excavator moved in. I literally woke up one day, made coffee, opened the blinds, and watched as a tree swept past my window. I live on the second floor.

A couple days later I woke up thinking we were having an earthquake. But no, that was a technique the excavator uses called "drop a giant concrete mass on another giant concrete mass to get it to break apart we are geniuses."

 The day the 18-wheeler dump truck showed up was particularly terrible, and when I came home there was about a half-inch of fine dirt all over everything. Our plants, our steps, the grill, my car, our windowsills (the windows were closed), our bathtub, our fruit basket. All that dirt under that house, all that dirt in that house, all that other people's grime for probably a century got stirred up and came over uninvited. I hosed everything off, swept the dirty water into the street, and lied to myself that the worst was over.

And then I woke up one day, made coffee, opened the door to leave, and stood eye level with the excavator.

Apparently to build a house you must first build a dirt mountain at least 20 feet high. Who knew?

I was over this house demo thing the day the fence went up. When we lived in Santa Monica and Venice, we watched this happen all the time. Someone buys a lot, tears down the house, builds a complex, and their neighbors get to live in the filth of destruction and the noise of construction for a year or more. So I started looking for a new place to live... and we finally found an awesome one.

Once again, we're moving, 363 days after our last move. We've got a 2 bedroom house with a yard and a deck and french doors that let the outside in and neighbors who aren't planning to demolition their home in the next 12 months. We're pretty much the same distance from the beach, but it'll be Redondo Beach instead of Hermosa Beach.

Best of all, no excavators in sight.

Precious Moments

Seeing my dad standing next to a herd of Amish people when I exit airport security and throwing him a smirk that gets us both laughing out loud.

Walking into my parents house and hearing Ben scream, "AMMIIII!!" while throwing his scrawny little arms in the air. Then hearing Renee and Lilly join the chorus of auntie joy and scooping all of their tiny bodies up in my arms and mashing kisses into their faces. Then trying to put a spell on Kieron with my auntie charm and him having none of it. Then stealing his pacifier and tickling his neck. If he won't love me willingly, he'll be tortured into it.

Waking up to two little doggies bouncing all over the bed and cleaning my face with kisses. Then looking up at my mom who is smiling at the insanity.

Finishing an article and looking at the entrance to Third Street Stuff at the exact moment Ruble walks in. Soaking up one of my oldest friends in a hug-that-lasts-too-long-for-public-appropriateness and then heading off to drink vanilla porters and have conversation that is as easy and as vital as breathing air.

Crossing the street into a celebration of art that was just an idea, barely even a word when I left Lexington, and seeing the faces of some of the most inspiring and unstoppable women I've ever met. Taking in the electric fruits of their labor and wishing I had an entire weekend to toast their existence.

Jennifer opening the door of her mom's house, leading me to the kitchen, and handing me a miniature version of herself, with long lashes and curious blue eyes that want nothing to do with me because I am nothing compared to her incredible mommy. Sitting on the floor and laughing at Charlotte exploring all the things that are off limits and feeling so proud of Jen, the mother she is, the children she's raising. Eating every last morsel of the veggie hot brown at Ramsey's and sharing a piece of pie with someone so special to me there are no words for it. 

Climbing out of bed under the spell of bacon smell and sitting in a trance in front of a plate of bacon and Daddy-eggs for breakfast on Saturday morning. Spending too much time in my jammies talking to my parents about nothing in particular and everything important.

Hunting for tights at TJ Maxx and getting caught by Leiah full-on shopping. Then shopping with Leiah.

Swimming through the smell of cologne to give Shannon a hug and harassing her man-friend about his cropped sweatshirt. Taking in the sunshine at the patio of Frankfort Avenue Beer Depot and sharing bites of everything my sisters ordered without anyone trying to stop me.

Watching the last few minutes of a UK game next to a fan about to have a stroke who kept screaming cuss words at the television and feeling so grateful that I don't have to hang out with an asshole like that.

Leigh walking in. Betsy walking in. Life feeling so full of love it could burst. 

Getting dressed with my sisters for a night on the town. Performing Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart with Leiah and as much gusto as I can muster in platform stilettos without breaking an ankle. Playing blackjack to Shannon's right and not losing all of my money to her. Drinking too much Bourbon and hijacking the photo booth for way too long. Faint memories of making it rain with three dollars.

Waking up on the trundle bed next to my wife, who immediately says something hilarious that makes the pounding in my head lighten up. Going for spicy Vietnamese food and coconut water with Leigh before climbing onto the Tempurpedic mat laying on the floor of my parents' living room and abolishing a hangover with a long afternoon nap in front of a fire. Sitting at the island with my parents eating baked cod and raspberry spinach salad made by the best parents in the world.

Feeling the zap of static electricity when dropping my mom off at work in the morning and giving her a kiss goodbye.

Trolling antique stores and boutiques with Heather for treasures we don't need but can't resist. Stopping for lunch at Krave for ridiculous pimento cheese and iced tea. Having an effortless good time with someone I've known so long she is forever a piece of me. Picking her kids up from school and feeling disbelief that her son is the age we were when we met. Realizing how inconsequential and astoundingly precious time is.

Walking into Lilly's daycare and seeing her face when she sort-of recognizes me but isn't sure because I shouldn't be there. Then seeing her face beam when I give her a wave and her suspicion is confirmed. Wanting to jump the fence to scoop her up in my arms and instead kneeling down and kissing her through the gate. Snatching that melty chocolate goodness baby up in my arms and going to get her brother. Sending Lilly in to the circle of big kids that her brother is a part of and blowing up his day with a surprise. Breaking both of them out and going to get their Gigi from work. Listening to the squeals of "Gigi!" when my mom walks out of work and Lilly sees her coming toward the car. Going through the drive thru at Chik-fil-a to order a ton of food and having Ben roll down his window to yell at the drive-thru lady, "We're having a party!"

Having a party with kids styling their hair with too much pomade, impromtu games of "where'd your eyeballs go?," and quiet gratitude for all the people I get to adore in the midst of the noisy chaos that is the manifestation of love between us.

Field Report from the Land of the Fart Tubes

This fall, whilst unemployed and crising about what a waste my life was becoming, I made a Go. See. Do. list. This list has about 20 things on it that are all California-related and would make a good quick getaway... tide pools, rocks from Star Trek, whales, wineries. Last weekend, Mack and I headed up the coast to scratch Hearst Castle and Go Find Elephant Seals off the list.

The Hearst Castle sucks. The castle itself is amazing, but the zombified tour rule trap complete with the green screen photo opp at the beginning undoes all the good that might be in the castle.

These people are not loving it. Also, why are my boobs so huge. Ugh.

Luckily the elephant seals were such a thing to see that they made up for the lameness of the Hearst Castle.

You may not be aware, but I am a bit of an expert at animal behavior. I can pretty much walk up to any cluster of animals and start saying what they must be thinking. Luckily the elephant seals aren't a complicated species. They are fat. They are lazy. They do not want their kids or anyone else's kids pestering them. They think simple things, things like, "I just want to rest."

They are not full of shame, but they should be. Mack gave them the scientific name of Fart Tubes. When we first walked up on them it sounded like 100 whoopie cushions going off at once. The ladies were farting, the men were farting, even the babies were probably farting. It was pretty much a contest of who could get the most comfortable without apology.

The fat ladies would periodically flip sand onto their backs – and into the eyes of every seal within 6 feet of them, including their babies. If some damn pup got separated from its mom and tried to cozy up to another lady seal, she'd be all, "Oh no you don't, get on outta here," and bark and nip at the baby until it went away. 

Apparently the lady seals mate with a man seal, have a baby, nurse for 28 days, and then it's go time again. This is good for the seals because it saved them from extinction. But it's also bad for them because it means they have to do work. Work like this.

This man seal is thinking, "My god I am so sexy like this. And the noise I'm making that sounds like water sucking down a drain? Look at these ladies so unable to resist it."

Some of the man seals are go getters. Which is to say they leave the water and come onto the beach. Others are more enh about the whole breeding/energy expenditure thing. This man seal is enh.

He's thinking, "Yeah, this is good. I can sleep here just fine. Also, birdeeees."

Every now and then a man seal tries to woo another man seal's lady, and that shit is not okay. They try to be sneaky about it, like the two man seals at the water line above. Those seals are thinking, "If I just lay here really still that man seal with the 63 wives will think I'm a rock and then when he's sleeping, I can tap that."

In the middle of the photo, you can see the result of a man seal acting on his "tap that" thought. The Boss seal is like, "Oh no you didn't come up in the midst of my ladies. Do you see these scars on my neck? Do you know how powerful I am?" Then these two man seals make the drain sucking noise very seriously and somehow manage to cover all that distance between them with a single leap. Their bodies collide, they bite each other's necks, and then the one guy really regrets thinking the "tap that" thought and flops away.

There are some smaller coves nearby that are far less crowded, and the seals you find there are like the guy above. You can tell he's tapped a lot of ladies in his time because his neck is majorly scarred up. Now he's so over it and all he wants to do is sleep on a beach by himself and let those other idiots play the mating game. This guy is smiling in his sleep because a) his nose is freaky giant and b) he is not sharing his beach with a single other fart tube. He is thinking, "I win."

He does win, because this is the beach where he lives.

 And this is the sunset he gets to see.

 And when he dies, these are the buzzards that eat his body. They are thinking, "Smorgasbord."