Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (part 2 of a series)

South Congress is a pretty notorious part of Austin, and after you've gorged yourself on Guero's, South Congress becomes a nice little stretch of asphalt that will aid in your digestion.

The strip has a lot of kitchy shops and restaurants, but unfortunately, it doesn't have a lot of trees. You're basically the egg frying on the sidewalk in August unless you learn how to hug the wall like Sarah does.
We wandered into vintage and antique shops with dusty old photos of people who are way past dead but who looked like they had a really nice life. I love old black and white snapshots of people. If it wouldn't be so incredibly weird, I'd like to make a family album of the pictures I really like and pretend that those are my ancestors and make up stories about them. Maybe in my secret life I will do that, but for now I'll let Shan be the primary weirdo in our clan.

Among the chandeliers, old farm equipment, feathered hats, tiny shoes, dishes and word cards that defined the four of us as Slow, Creak, Nerve and Prize, Kristin and I found a child's memory box. I had never seen one of those before. Since it's likely you haven't either, let me explain.

Apparently in the olden days, affluent parents liked to preserve their child's youth by collecting DNA samples and storing them in a velvet lined box. A lock of brown hair snaked around five little brown teeth in this particular box... and it was nasty. Interesting and mysterious, but nasty.

If I ever do become a parent, I must resist my pack rat tendencies and NOT save body pieces shed by my child. And if I simply have to keep these souvenirs, I must resist the temptation to put it all in a fancy box to make it seem special and not gross.

Since skin cancer was starting to materialize on Sarah's delicate skin, we called an end to our casual browsing and took refuge at a Doc's Motor Works Bar & Grill. Doc's was like a BW3s, only automotive. The beers were cold, brewed locally and called Fireman's #4. Just the way we like 'em.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (a series)

How Ruble, Sarah, Kristin and I managed to find the most incredible hangouts in Austin is either a testament to our abilities to sniff out good times or a clear indicator that Austin qualifies as one of the best cities in the United States.

Breathe now, because that sentence was a doozy.

It took us almost a year to the day for us far-flung friends to make it to the same geography, but it was worth the wait. We were barely off the plane an hour and we were sipping margaritas and eating queso at Guero's. A guy on the plane next to Kristin said he was going there as soon as he got out of the airport, so if he was that devoted, it must be a place worth devotion. Yeah, it was.
I was surprised to see how vegetarian friendly Austin actually was. I expected it to be like Dallas only worse, because Austin is known for its barbecue. Instead, I found veggie versions of practically everything. Which I'm sure I would have enjoyed if I wasn't already about to explode from all the queso I drank.

So, add Austin to your list, and at the top, write in Guero's. Also at the top, write "Hot as Hell... DO NOT bring your favorite hoodie."

I needed this today.

Ahh, the Torches of Freedom

Shannon, as we're pulling into Lake Charles for the first time: "Look at all the pollution. They're just burning it right into the air."

Mom, trying to look on the bright side: "Those are the Torches of Freedom, girls."

Shannon, after a long pause and five more sightings of burning pollution tubes: "Why are there so many of them?"

The Lake Charles Skyline

Annie's

I think we were on Common Street. I never did learn my way around since Lake Charles has grown so much since the last time I was there. It actually has several Starbucks now.

The place looked like a roadside shack, where genuine drinkers go to ease the pain, and as we past it I said, "We've got to go there."

Liz knows all about Annie's. Apparently she stayed there one night easing her pain and had Amy pick her up -- from the bar -- the next morning to catch a flight to Kentucky. That's what Annie's does. It sucks you in and gives you a place to wallow.

I'd left my ID in my suitcase with my boarding pass, so getting a beer wasn't as breezy as I thought it was going to be. The bartender refused to serve me even after I explained the ID traveling 30 years old story, when a woman three stools over asked me where I was visiting from. I told her California, Los Angeles, and that when we'd drove by earlier I'd told Liz we had to stop here and get a beer. The woman, Bonnie, called me over to "get a look" at me, had me take off my glasses, and okayed me for a beer. Since she was the owner, the bartender reluctantly complied, but not before a few cuss words were thrown around the room.

The bartender was a bitch. But Bonnie was awesome.

She'd been running Annie's for 26 years and had been living in Lake Charles for 40. As she explained, she was a "coon ass by injection." She'd named the bar for her grandmother, who used to go into bars in the days when women would cross the street to avoid walking in front of them. Bonnie called her a feminist. I understood.

Liz said I had to see the bathroom before we left, so I made my way to the back and, after a confrontation with a beetle the size of King Kong, went into the ladies room. It reminded me of my grandma's basement, where all the retired furniture and velvet paintings went to live. Delightfully tacky, yet refined, if you will.

We had to leave to meet up with Amy, but Bonnie told us to stop by on Saturday night for karaoke. She said things really get rolling at around 2:30... a.m. Good to know for the next time I visit Lake Charles.

Fast forward 18 years

One weekend when we were in the 7th grade, Liz, Amy and I decided to go to Wal-mart to get our picture taken. I borrowed a blue shirt with an over-sized collar from Amy, and the three of us went to the photo department of Louisiana's finest department store.

I forgot all about that afternoon until 2001, when my poor planning and geographical ignorance made me, Liz, Amy & I drive all over Louisiana and Texas in search of a good time. At a pit stop at Liz's house, there on the fridge, the past converged with the present.

She had three copies of the photo, so I stole a tiny one and added it to my stash in Kentucky. She forgives me for things like that.

Last weekend at Amy's wedding, where I was known as the one who got Amy into a fist fight at an amusement park with the unforgettable and foreshadowing statement "What? You're going to fight me over a place in line?!," the photo once again made an appearance. This time as a 5" by 7" framed enlargement.

Amy's mom, Ms. Bunny, had found it recently and decided to get a copy for me and Liz to commemorate Amy's wedding. So, to celebrate 18 years together, through fist fights and break ups and births and hurricanes and weddings, we decided to update the photo, with a photo featuring the photo. Photo.
I just feel lucky to have kept such good friends for almost 20 years (in Heather's case, though, it's been 20 years and counting). And I'm glad I've sort of learned to dress myself in that time.

A Planet Sized Belly Growl

Sitting at my desk, dutifully reviewing critiques of the website I run, when suddenly the concrete floor starts to shimmy and the earth lets out a growing grumble. I don't know what to do, so I get up from my rolly chair, scuffle to a doorway (right next to a glass wall because I am a genius when panicked) shouting, "What do we do?! What do we do?!" and watch as my fellow employees, all men, run past me into the parking lot.

Apparently more important than getting to a doorway is getting to an open space. Thanks, Guys.

My heart thundered twice as long as the ground did, and since no major damage happened (except Mack's car almost flipping because HE WAS DRIVING ON THE INTERSTATE when the earthquake hit), everyone's attention turned to the enormous flat screen TVs we all have at home that aren't attached to the wall. Shame on us.

For not attaching those shrines of HD to the wall sooner. Lesson learned. (Mack, get on that.)

I guess I deserved a planet sized freak out since I gave all my Kentuckians an earful when it happened there. For the record, I'm not a fan of 5.8 or higher and I'll be putting together my earthquake box tonight, under advisement from my style consultant and former Cali Queen, Leigh.

Lamy Lou is all grown up.

One of my best friends in the whole world who will likely be the only reason I get into heaven (privilege by association, you know how they decide things up there) got married this weekend.

Here is the new Mr. & Mrs. Lee Byrne.

My Lake Charles trek was a whirlwind adventure that actually had me in a drive thru bar and attending mass within 36 hours of each other. Expect a full report as the week unfolds.

Congrats Amy & Lee! It was amazing seeing/meeting/celebrating with you, and I wish you lots of happiness and wrestling-inspired laughter.

Everything's Bigger in Texas

I'm in Texas on the floor of the airport hoping this jetway door doesn't open and ruin my access to this coveted electrical outlet. I've only been in Texas for about 20 minutes and already the differences between home and here are stinging.

My hair is not pretty today. It's twisted into a clip and drooping from too many plane seats, security checks and a lack of attention. It looks bad because I didn't try to make it look good. But the lady I saw on the skyline train between terminals thingy at Dallas Fort Worth, she had put a lot of effort into getting her hair just right. And it looked all wrong.

I felt rude snapping a photo of her, so let me try to use my words to paint you a picture. You know how in 1987 when you'd wrap your bangs around a jumbo-sized curling iron, pull everything over to the side of your face and down toward your ear, and then lock everything into place with a steady stream of Aqua Net? Yeah, that, colored in the hue that comes to mind when anyone says "strawberry blonde."

The curious thing is that the rest of her hair was stick straight. A biscuit colored board that pointed right to her boobs and then abruptly stopped. The bangs should have been on another woman, in another era.

I also just finished stopping off at a Chili's Too to have a snack. The only vegetarian options available to me were:

1. Chips and Salsa
(*the menu suggests pairing the tortilla chips with ranch dressing for $1 more)
2. Side Salad

Everything else had meat in it. Everything. Fortunately, I'm a contender for the Chips & Salsa Eating Queen of the World, so I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.

I ordered the salad and the chips and salsa, and I got 11 pieces of white iceberg lettuce topped with 3 pounds of shredded cheese and a dozen fried croutons and a Family Size bag of tortilla chips with a side bowl of watery salsa. I should have known, I guess. They do say everything's bigger in Texas.
This is AFTER I was about to float away from eating too much.

4th of July Madness

I spent Independence Day 08 living a surreal existence and repeatedly asking myself, "Is this really my life? Because it is freaking amazing."

We woke up early and went with Mr. T's family to the San Diego Wild Animal Park because it was Tom's birthday and what 57 year old doesn't want to ring in another year at the zoo? Then, after sweating and wishing we could have gorillas in the yard, we headed back to LA because I was going to see the fireworks dammit.

Mack was sun whipped so he passed out on the couch, but I latched onto my neighbors and went to the beach. We stopped by the liquor store and bought 22's of Budweiser because at the time it was an American beer, and on the 4th of July you should drink American beer with the colors of the flag on the can. It's like a rule. Next year, I guess I'll have to turn to Pabst Blue Ribbon. Dear god, America, we gotta do something and quick.

From the beach, I watched as fireworks popped and crackled all around me. You could see them all up and down the coast, and then you could see the smokey haze in the sky that was their aftermath. The beach was full of people, shirtless, tattooed, many with convictions, and I actually felt proud to be an American, inspired by these ruffians who don't do what they're told. Cue the music.

Just as I was feeling all blessed to be a part of people who've made an annual tradition based on explosives and founded thanks to criminal behavior, the cops showed up. To confiscate our fireworks. Which were about as dangerous as a sparkler. After we made the kids who were with us pack them up and hand them over, the cops realized the error of their ways and told us to take them home and set them off. We obeyed.

The pops and flashes brought the night to life and made the entire neighborhood feel unified. It felt good to make noise, to cause a ruckus, to admire the beauty of eruption and to preserve a holiday that has always given me memories worth cherishing. Hooray for the USA.

An Old Family Recipe

In celebration of Sundays, fathers and not liking to cook, the Thomas clan decided to have lunch at an Italian restaurant a couple weeks ago. It was a lot like any other meal, where the grown ups got the grown up menus and the kid got the kid menu. And the kid menu was a lot like other kid menus, where there's a maze and a word jumble and a challenge to find the 13 differences between picture 1 and picture 2.

Because this was a family-feeling Italian restaurant, they also had a space for you to create your own recipe. Laila decided to show off her impressive reading and writing skills and share a recipe for Amber's sauce.
That's right. Put Amber in the oven and burn her. Crispy.

I take BlogHer, for better or worse...

I'm in San Francisco, around the corner from the action, at a hotel that epitomizes "charming." It's the Cartwright, a Larkspur Hotel, and I fit just right in the teensy bathroom and bedroom. If anyone else was here, it'd be crowded, but it's only me and the front desk is uber nice and it's half as expensive as the Westin and it makes me get out on the streets. Which is really where action lives.

At BlogHer's People Party and Newbie Mixer I filled my butt pocket with cards and bumper stickers and hopes of new friends and inspiration. I also drank Heineken because it made me think of heinies and that made things a little less serious. Oh, you blog about post partum depression, nice, well, heinie. (I should say here that in my family we call butts heinies.)

I met this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this lady and this nice man and this guy. Who totally creeped me out when he tried to invite himself up to my hotel room. Uh, dudes, if you're coming to BlogHer, try to remember that while there may be a lot of poontang there, it's not really interested in your man stick. Even if we're talking about man sticks in front of you. Gross.

After "networking," it was time for me to trek back to my dorm room to eat what was left of my Spicy Thai kettle chips and watch an old Batman movie. But on my way, I met a couple women who made all the women with blogs look like amateurs. Meet Vivian, the original, and Marion, the younger one (please forgive my cooing... I can't afford voice surgery).

Old Man & the Sea

I fantasize sometimes that if my dad goes crazy and starts to not be able to recognize his own life, I'm going to put him in a little fishing boat with cigars and whiskey and send him out into the middle of the ocean to take his last nap. Maybe because all of my favorite pictures of him are of him looking out at the water, wishing quietly that he was out in the middle of the action, where he could better hear the fish... laughing at him.

in Los Angeles

in Minnesota

Dear Chris Isaak...

Sometimes when you get a crush on someone and you're married, your husband will say, "Do you want me to get a paper and pen so you can write your marriage proposal?"

And you'll laugh, think your husband is quite funny, and then go back to oogling the man you'll never meet and who will, therefore, always be so much sexier, funnier, smarter and better than every man you know.



I inherited a crush on Chris Isaak from my mom, and Saturday night, while we were both at the Hollywood Bowl, bookended by our husbands, Chris decided he was going to walk up to our nosebleed section and dance with us. He decided that... but then he realized it would give him vertigo to go up as high as we were and he turned back.

And now I'm left with my virtual pen and paper, swooning over a bar fly, slopping around in memories of a weekend too intense to fully process yet, and hoping that because the above video featured a sexy woman, Mack will forgive me for adding Chris to my crush list... with Eminem, Johnny Knoxville and Rob Lowe.

Business Time...

We had to do head shots of Mr. T for his med school apps today (yes, Yale is interested to know more about him).

Mr. T hates, no, HATES having his photo taken almost as much as he hates having to wear a tie. For his head shot he had to do both.

This is what happens when aspiring doctor and beach bum student collide.

This is dedicated to one I love...

Spending the 4th of July at the Wild Animal Park near San Diego proved fruitful -- not for my in-laws bank account but for my knowledge bank. 

I was finally able to answer Liz's question about the spiked trees. Let me introduce you to the white silk floss tree...

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

Me: Whatever small animal you massacred in the sink while you were shaving, you need to rinse its hairs out so that I don't throw up when I brush my teeth in the morning.

Him: Those are my pubes.

Sunday, Sunny Sunday

Hmmm, she thought, what would be a good way to spend the day after a hangover almost killed you?

I know, she continued, I'll take my library lent copy of The Best American Nonrequired Reading, a gorilla-sized bottle of water, and a striped picnic blanket and escape these feelings of guilt over wasting a day of my life by my own hand.

Then she jumped in the car, drove 26.something miles north and landed at a spot made of forgiveness. Where the birds forgave the rocks and the rocks forgave the sea and the sea forgave the sand and all that was left was a beach made for reflection.

All in a Sunday's work.

Courtesy of El Matador State Beach

Things Outside (a series)

My neighbors have had at least two sets of jawbones on each step up to their front door for the last week. They have a pet raven, a pit bull, half a dozen snakes, an affinity for Jack Daniels, armfuls of tattoos, and just about the most down to earth presence you can expect to be around. 

They're scary at first sight, but they're really not nearly as criminal as they look. In fact, I like them better than anyone I've ever lived next door to. Could bad people make a squatty little yard full of things this beautiful?

A Good, Old Fashioned Patriotism Parade

As the school year draws to a close, elementary classrooms around the world are putting second graders on center stage and requiring them to recite lines with the enthusiasm of an overworked roofer.

On Tuesday night Shahin called me to see if I wanted to go to Laila's school play on Wednesday morning, and since I didn't have anything too important until 12:30 and since Mack has wholly embraced public transportation in the face of $4.79/gallon gas, I decided to brave rush hour traffic and head to West Hollywood for what I was sure would be a morning worthy of a smirk.

Hancock Elementary School did not disappoint. Hancock, because it is situated near the oldest and most sprawling apartment township, could probably be named Park La Brea Elementary. And because Park La Brea is known for its mix of Koreans and Russians and other distinguishable accents, the elementary school committed to its residents is an ethnic rainbow. This palette of little people is one of the reasons I liked L.A. so much when I first stayed here and walked Laila to school every day.

But, it's also why the Patriotism Parade felt a little, uh, off color.

Like, there is probably one "white" girl in the whole school, and she landed the role of Harriet Tubman. And during the part about the Civil War, all the little Korean kids were digging in the air with garden spades, sporting Mammy rags on their heads and talking about Abe Lincoln without being able to make the L sound. And during the Cesar Chavez chapter, which featured a nice variety of color waving "Viva la Causa" and "Don't buy grapes" signs in protest, the namesake lobbied for farmers' rights through a thick Russian accent.

All the while there was a banner the size of my apartment hanging behind them that proclaimed, "I love America."

It was very cute, especially the little "reporters" wearing their fathers' trenchcoats and looking like cartoon characters, but after the flashes from the million digital cameras stopped blinding me, I felt a little bit like I felt the time I watched the Wal-mart morning warm-ups that go on in China. Or the time I watched Jesus Camp. It was cute, but it was also indoctrination parading around as American history.

They are seven, and like 2-year-olds, 7-year-olds repeat what you tell them (although more robotically and without pauses suggested by commas). Maybe it is better to teach them all the words to "This land is my land, this land is your land" before they really understand what that means, but maybe these kids, who are most likely the first generation born in America, have a better sense of what that means than I do.

And even if they don't now, maybe they will when they see their kids doing this play in 20 years. If they can put their cameras down long enough to see what's really going on.

Dammit Joan, why didn't you insist harder that I watch Flight of the Conchords?

As if I needed another TV show to worship, but at least this one really deserves it. 

I love Bret & Jemain and I'm sorry, Mack, but I am drafting a marriage proposal. I've only watched three episodes that were on the For Your Emmy Consideration DVD that my boss got in the mail, and already I want to be the Hiphopopotamus and I wish I had found the Tape of Love song so I could have used it at my wedding or something. 

In case you're not a groupie of the Flight of the Conchords yet (because you are as lame as me or because you too can't afford internet AND HBO), here's a little number they call Business Time. In honor of Wednesday night. And 2 minutes of heaven. 

Fine, I'll tell you all about my amazing weekend adventure

Getting the hell outta dodge is officially my preferred form of therapy. It costs almost as much as a session by the time you secure vegan hotdogs and the most amazing tofu veggie burgers ever made and two tanks of $4.29/gallon gas and what we'll refer to as "refreshments," but you'll get more sweet relief running away from your problems than you'll ever get sitting and stewing about them.

I'm proof.

California has long kept me in awe with its ridiculously varied topography -- deserts, rocky coastlines, docile beaches, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Joshua Tree -- and my escape to Montana de Oro this weekend just reinforced that this is the most beautiful state I've ever set foot in.

You expect most destinations in California to be breathtaking, so if they are breathtaking, it's fairly unremarkable. It's nice, but it doesn't leave you speechless. But the thing about California is that while breathtaking is ordinary there's always a little layer of "this can't be real" on top.

Here's what I mean. I expected Montana de Oro to be stunning blue ocean spilling over ridges of gray rock, and it was. I didn't expect that I'd spend 2 days hiking BAREFOOT over sand dunes that felt like baby powder. I couldn't have imagined that at one point I'd have to stop, look deep into my mind to look for words that describe how wonderfully beautiful everything around me was, and finally have it pointed out to me by a fellow writer that it's "like we're in the middle of a painting." And there was no way I would have ever suspected that I'd picnic at a tide pool I'd affectionately name Vagina Beach in honor of all the strange vagina-like sea anemones Mack discovered.

Just like on my barefoot hike, my head spinning from all the beauty enveloping me, I can't find the words to do it all justice. I want to go back, even if it means I don't shower for another three days or eat off clean dishes or get internet access ever again.

Yes, that is the ocean out there.

This is on a rock on the beach that has a beach on top of it.

The crest of the sand dune of powder soft.

Rocks that point to the sailboat I should probably be living on.

One of about a million little crabs we found.

About the time I realized how lucky I am to be alive.

Layers and layers of amazing.

Mack discovering sea vaginas.

Mr. & Mrs. T on the run.

An Abbreviated Leave of Absence

Dear Lovelies,

Don't try to call me this weekend or email me or expect me to be anywhere or do anything. I am running away to this place. The neighbors are watching Miss Kitty, who can just deal with her own pee on the floor for a while, and me and Mack are escaping the concrete jungle and hunkering down with our vegan inspirations. We are going to hike and lose track of time and stare at nothing and drink whiskey from the bottle while the campfire crackles and pops.

Here is something that will make you jealous, which is the way I like you...

Enjoy your weekend.

Love,
Me

A Diet Ad that Didn't Make Me Hate Myself

Quietly e-stalking as a wind down to my beer soaked weekend, I discovered this advertisement on Facebook. 

I don't really find that midriff very enticing. It kind of reminds me of monkey bread, which I like to eat, but even with all its cinnamon gooey goodness, it's still not a good model for a sexy tummy. Let me just say right here that if my stomach looked even close to that midriff up there, I'd be okay with it. But if you're going to picture a sexy tummy courtesy of "this year's most talked about diet. As seen on CNN and Fox News," you might as well pick one that doesn't look like one a normal person would have, am I right?

Here are some midriffs that I find captivating. My stomach will never look like these (read the part about the beer soaked weekend above), but I appreciate them all the same. 

  

If I was in heaven when God was handing out bodies and this one came up, I would have sold my soul to the devil to get it. Which is probably why I ended up stocky. 

Yes, Eva, you're beautiful, and it's probably hard to look like a beacon of fitness in mid-stride even with all that beauty on, but somehow you do it. Which is why I hate and love looking at you.
This woman may be a lesbian, but if I could have that much ability to kick ass around my belly button, I might not need men either. Reminder: she does run a gym and works out a billion hours a day while I run a website and sit at a desk a billion hours a day.

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

I don't do snot, boogers, loogeys, rockets, anything that comes out of the nose.

The mere thought of nose stuff makes me nauseous. While I haven't particularly liked snot and its kin my whole life (seriously, I never ate a booger as a kid, NEVER), my dislike ballooned into disgust one innocent afternoon when I was volunteering painting old ladies fingernails at Parkview Medical Center when I was 11. I'd just zipped down to the 3rd floor to visit one of my favorite crazy old bats who would squeal with delight when we painted her nails. She wasn't all there, probably never had been, but she was happy and I liked her. That's why I made a special -- and as fate would have it final -- trip to her floor to do her nails.

I pulled out my little suitcase of color, took her hand in mine, listened to her glee manifest, and then headed off to meet Heather on another floor. As I reached out to push the elevator button, there, right there on the middle knuckle of my index finger, was Crazy Old Bat's 100-year-old booger.

Discovering an old person's booger on your finger while in an old folks' home calls for a delicate response. I swallowed my urge to run screaming to the nurses' desk yelling, "GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" -- along with some vomit -- and instead tried to handle the situation with some semblance of composure. The need to flee was so great, I squirmed into the elevator and was left to face the booger on my own. Since I was 11, that meant I wiped it on my jeans.

For some people who wipe boogers on their socks (you know who you are), a little booger on your jeans may be something you can overlook [no kidding, I just gagged right now]. But for me, someone who has a little OCD and can't leave things alone especially if they aren't symmetrical, that booger was like a mental parasite, plaguing me with panic and discomfort and squeamishness. That booger was all I could think about, and the feeling of it on my finger is as distinct now as it was 20 years ago.

I'm subjecting myself to physical discomfort to bring this post to you, the innocent single people in my life, who have a right to know what "I do" really commits you to. Now that you understand my feeling about nasal discharge, humor me.

Today was rainy (can you believe it?) and Mack didn't have school, so I took the car to work. We had a shoot this morning, and since I never have a car, I offered to drive. When we were finished, I decided to take the car back home because I don't have a parking space at my office. On my way home, I stopped by Blockbuster to get a couple of movies since the weather suited a movie night so well, and as I went to get back in the car, I noticed some light green smudgies on the side of the driver's seat.

"What is that crap?" I thought as I leaned in to inspect the crusty debris a little more closely.

BOOGERS! MACK'S BOOGERS! A SIDE OF MY HUSBAND I NEVER WANTED TO SEE!

I choked down the chunks that were trying to expel from my mouth, hopped onto the seat to avoid brushing up against the child-like treasures stored on the fabric, and immediately called Mack.

"You cannot pick your nose and wipe your boogers on the side of the seat. That is disgusting."

I am going to say he laughed, but you should know that he really guffawed, hee hawed, almost snorted and thoroughly enjoyed himself for about 11 minutes. If we were dating, this discovery would have been a deal breaker, but unfortunately when you are dating, people keep these parts of themselves a secret, under wraps, buried deep down in the place only you know about, exactly where they should be. After you say, "I do," that's when you really start to learn what you got yourself into.

30 Down, 300 to Go

Since I'm planning to live mostly for forever, I decided that for my 30th birthday I probably ought to get a beauty regime.

I don't shower everyday, don't put on deodorant every day, and don't brush my hair everyday, so a beauty regime is a bit of an undertaking. If I look close enough to my best with minimal effort and awkwardly my best with extra effort, beauty for me just isn't worth... well.. the effort.

My new beauty regime is based on multiple magic potions that I learned about from the lady who invented my DIY French manicure kit. I did an interview with her a while ago, recruited her to write for Capessa, became enlightened about collagen and the size of Vitamin C molecules, and gained access to wholesale pricing.

Prior to getting a price break, I was keeping myself up by dusting my eyelids with skin-colored shadow to cover some blood vessels that showed up when I turned 25 and using the glare from my glasses to downplay the tired hue of purple under my eyes. That was working well enough until fine lines started accentuating my mouth and a few ravines of worry/annoyance started traversing my forehead. Because I didn't wear nearly enough sunscreen as a child. Or last year.

Now my bathroom vanity is like a chemistry lab, complete with droppers and small glass bottles of active liquid. I have about as much grace dripping Vitamin C serum on my face as I do putting on eyeliner, but I guess I'll just have to get better over time. Like I usually do...

Is it less than a week until my birthday ALREADY?? (aka what I want)

I can hardly believe I'll be turning the big 30 in just 5 days. I thought by the time I was 30 I'd have a million dollars, a sprawling mansion, and a few years under my belt as the president of the world. As it turns out, I feel accomplished if I feed myself dinner every night.

I've decided that this year, I'm going to be more selective about what features I add to my life so that I have a clear path to that mansion and presidency I'm supposed to have. As I've gotten older, I've become wiser, and I accept that I don't have the space or the attention for anything other than things I love, things like:

The Modern Plumbing & Remote Growth Prints by BenBen

This Screen Print Owl Hoodie in a Size LargeThese Sweetie Carved Tea Cups with A + M '03 on Them

The Most Intelligently Designed Grill Ever, Made By Eva SoloThis Sleek & Effective Windshield for My Honda Metropolitan ScooterSome Exotic Hula Hoop Classes for Beginners

A Hot Air Balloon Ride over California's Beautiful Countryside

Happy Mother's Day

My sisters and I are flung 5,500 miles in every direction. Our mom is our central anchor point, and Mother's Day is one of our best excuses to get together. She is easy to love, a delight to covet, and an honor to know. We love you.
Happy Mother's Day to all the other mothers I know and love. Thanks for the work you do.

7-Year-Old Wisdom

Mack's mom is in the Philippines for work this week, and before she left she gave me an assignment to wash Laila's hair. Normally, I think that a 7-year-old should wash their own hair, but I like Laila and her mom and so I do everything they tell me.

Laila has a mane of hair, long wavy hair that is such a rich brown color it makes wood jealous. It qualifies as luscious. I would love to have her hair, but after last night, I realized I would also love to have her life.

While she sat in the tub gabbing about how she'd played with not just one friend but two and how she spent the afternoon in the hot tub and the pool and how the day was just so much fun that when her mom called she had to tell her hi-bye so she could get back to her insanely wonderful life, I sat on the edge of it, trying to get the temperature just right and planning how I was going to wash and condition her hair without getting a drop of water on her forehead or -- god forbid -- near her eyebrows. She was carefree, completely solid in the fact that she was just going to live life and other people would make sure she was fed food she likes and didn't go around smelling like the inside of a shoe.

I asked her, "Laila, why don't you wash your own hair?"

"Holding my arms up for that long makes them tired." Then she looked at me like I just fell from outer space and that these questions, these ideas that I have, they need to stop annoying her or I will not be given the privilege of washing her hair again this lifetime. Clearly, she cannot be asked to exert precious energy on holding her arms over her head for 38 seconds when that energy would be better used playing for 14 hours a day.

Then she said, "Besides, when you're in the bath you're supposed to relax." And she is right, which is precisely why someone better be showing up to wash my hair every other day or I quit.