Let the visits begin!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, I am not a battered woman.

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

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

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

How the hell do you bruise a sternum?

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

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

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

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

Dr. Sexypants, MD

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I got my period.

These two.

Ben was allowed to write all over himself with marker because Gigi and Dude's House is a sanctuary from rules. As my mom says, "If it feels good, it's not bad," which is why dogs and babies alike masturbate in plain view of everyone. I know, it's weird.

Anyway, Ben is a little obsessed with mustaches lately. His Wii character looks like a little blond Mexican kid. So naturally, he drew one of those on. And then, because he's a real bad ass, he decided to draw himself a tattoo.

Seriously. Only Ben would tattoo himself with "Be Good."

Then there's Renee. I have never seen a kid be so good and then within 4 seconds of her parents walking in turn into a squealing freak out machine. Renee is a glob of sweet and funny and scaredy cat, and I never know if she is going to like me or give me that look that usually is reserved for teenagers that says, "I wish you would die."

Well, Renee has finally lost her top tooth, and since I love when they lose their teeth, I cornered her and shoved my camera in her face to take a picture. One that I love not just because she's missing a tooth, but also because her perfectly wonderful nerdiness is all over it. Big glasses, tangly hair, and a little speck of sweet in those eyes.

They'll probably be 25 in a couple of weeks.

Parked.

Mack and I have been spending a lot of time in parks lately. We're in the final week of limbo before we move, we don't want to spend money, and the weather has been just enough to make us ache for outside.

I'm not well versed on Louisville's parks yet, but I remember always going to Cherokee or Seneca Parks as a kid and something about a big rock next to a creek, so we did some exploring and found Big Rock. It's not nearly as good as I remember it, but there was a trail and we were able to do a little hiking and be outside.

And have a nature boat race.

Mack never finished his so mine won by default, even though as soon as I launched it, it promptly crashed into debris.

I always go to parks with the intention of doing something active, but for some reason the big expanses of grass and fresh air make me want to lay down and take a nap. Mack used to make fun of me for sleeping in the grass, but I think he has finally discovered the joy of outside daytime sleep.

Another park on our visit list is Browns Park, which is about 2 minutes away. It has a short loop trail, an awesome sycamore tree for naps under, and a bunch of ducks and Canadian geese. I don't particularly like those birds, or any birds really, but they are entertaining and they keep the kids concentrated in one area of the park. I don't particularly like whiny kids either and kids seem to get uber whiny when there are animals to feed.

A couple of trips ago, the ducks were all partnered up and sitting in duos on the hill. It was like prom for ducks. Today they were all down by the water, and when we went to cross the bridge, there was a lady duck who was being attacked by about 8 man ducks. At first I thought it was just frisky mating, but then it looked like they were drowning her. I hate to intervene on nature, but drowning AND being raped seemed particularly unfair. Mack agreed and started clapping to get the assholes off of her. It worked for a minute and she started to swim downstream when they started climbing all over her again. Mack shouted and threw things at them and the lady duck swam toward him while the others ran away. She climbed out of the water and onto the bank and practically laid at his feet.

Great. First Miss Kitty and now a damn duck. Bitches please.

I, again, had come to the park with the intention of being active, so I left Mack on the bank standing guard of his new girlfriend and walked the loop a couple of times. When I came back, that poor little duck was laying on the ground with her chin flat out in front of her. I've never seen exhaustion on a duck before, but that was my diagnosis for this one. I had Rascal with me, and she didn't even care that there was a dog close to her.

She eventually seemed to recover and dry out the underside of her feathers, but man, nothing like rape to ruin a perfectly lovely afternoon at the park.

Ktichen reno. Because that's basically where we live.

The kitchen is the heart of our home. The bed is the brain of it. That's how it has been my entire life.

When my family comes together, we don't sit in the living room or go off in groups. We cram into the kitchen, regardless of size, and we chop things. We'd rather be standing in a doorway or sitting on the counter than away from the center of the action in a posh recliner.

Our kitchen habit is especially pronounced at my parents' house, which is not surprising since they do the hosting of get togethers. The condo they moved into a few years ago had a galley-style kitchen, with black tile countertops and a black tile backsplash and black speckled wallpaper with roosters on it. It had an island that sprouted out of a corner by the door to the deck, and it was so crammed that to leave your seat, you had to play musical chairs. Above the island there was a hanging lamp with a punched metal shade. It was at that perfectly annoying height so that whenever you sat at the island, you felt like you were being interrogated. To cook anything, you had to stand in a nook between the refrigerator and the oven, with all of 12" of counter to your right to work on. It was so crammed we had to use stove top space for utensils.

 The cooking nook. Barely able to contain Leiah's pregnant belly and the Thanksgiving stuffing.

A corner of the kitchen cram. We've got no fewer than six projects going on right there.

And here's Renee's 5th birthday because you love my singing voice and need to know about the dining room too, which had floor to ceiling mirrors on one wall.

Well, the coffee pot got fed up with that kitchen. And in protest, it leaked water under the tile counter top and rotted the wood beneath. It did this for several months before we even noticed the damage it was doing. Sure, we noticed you'd put in water for 12 cups of coffee and only get out 10, but we thought that was the angels' share. All the disasters in the world, the angels can probably use some caffeine.

My parents went to see about a new counter or some new counter tiles and then came home and called some architect friends of Shannon's. Apparently you can either spend $1 million on a counter or just redo your kitchen for $1,000,050.

First they knocked everything out and sanded the floors. Then they made the door into a wall and put a sliding door in. Then they painted and the cabinets came. Then my mom and I mocked up a counter top with a giant piece of cardboard, some string, a measuring tape, and a marker. We even rounded the corners so the babies wouldn't go unconscious when they run laps around everything – a favorite pastime at Gigi and Dude's house.

The renovations started in November, and I was in LA off and on for most of the project. There was no kitchen when I was home for a couple of weeks for Thanksgiving, which we managed to pull off in my parents' bedroom with a crock pot, a microwave, and a grill (okay, the grill was on the deck), but when I came home for Christmas there was this.

For Christmas and to christen the kitchen, my mom and I went on a cream puff making bender. Since then, this kitchen has hosted Lilly's second birthday (2 parties for that) and Valentine's Day dinner and Easter brunch. This weekend it will kickoff of birthday season with Leiah's 30th birthday. My dad and I sit at the island and play Mario Kart. My mom and I sit on the chairs and watch Rascal do tricks. Lilly makes us draw buses when she's in her booster seat. Kieron leaves chocolatey fingerprints all over the baby table.

My parents may never be able retire, but we've finally got a kitchen that can really handle being our heart.

ACL in tact. Back not broken. Birthday celebrated. Great success.

Last weekend I woke up and asked Mack if he wanted to go skiing. Although his vocabulary was a little more colorful, his answer was essentially NO. I hadn't been skiing in more than a decade, I have no health insurance, and skiing is a generally a bad idea under those circumstances.

But then my dad walked in with free passes and, hello, DEAL. You can't say NO to a DEAL or the universe stops giving them to you.

One of my favorite people to make bad physical decisions with is Heather. She's conned me into jumping off balconies and walking through drainage tubes and watching tornadoes and doing mud runs. I asked her if she wanted to go skiing and celebrate her birthday, for free thanks to the magic of my dad, and after saying, "I hate skiing, I am constantly terrified by it, I will probably die and leave my children without a mother," she said, "Okay, I'll go." She also can't resist a deal.

Saturday we geared up, including some ibuprofen that we planned to take prophylactically, and headed to Paoli Peaks. We agreed that our goals for the day were to keep our ACLs in tact and not break our backs. I'm proud to report we're both in one piece and have no new medical bills.

I had a great day celebrating Heather's birthday on the slopes, acting half our age and laughing so hard I almost peed my pants on a few occasions. I was also super proud of her for overcoming so many fears, from heading down steep hills to getting off the ski lift to actually going a few feet without the brakes on. We started on the bunny slopes and ended the day, 8 hours and two cocktails later, on a blue slope for moderate skiers.

Accordiongly

Last night we watched Gold Rush and tonight I am doing Valentine's Day crafts while he learns to play the accordion.

I love my life. And as much as I hate his cup gardens and unflushed pee and I-need-it-now tantrums, I love him.

Big News from the Little Sisters

This one was named Student of the Month out of all the kids at her middle school. And then she followed that up by getting a perfect score on a science test and a flawless report card.

And this one bought her first house, a charming place on the knobby hilltops of Louisville complete with hiking trails and a treehouse and a swimming pool. In the words of Ben, "This place is AWESOME!"

I couldn't be more proud of the women these two have become and are becoming, and I feel so lucky to get to be their big sister.

Proof we ruined him.

When Ben was two, we brought him up to my mom and dad's bed on Christmas morning and asked him if Santa came last night and brought him any presents.

In the tiniest, shakiest voice ever, he replied, "Santa's not scary."

Last year we had him and Renee write notes to Santa and since Ben was learning to write letters, he told us what he wanted to say and, since you hang on my every word you may remember, his letter ended up saying, "Dear Santa, Thanks for the good work."

This year he knows how to write whole words, and all we had to do was give the monkey a marker and tell him to dance. Here's what the kid came up with.

In case you're not up to speed on deciphering 6-year-old, that says "Dear Santa, Even if you're not there, I still know you're watching!! Love, Ben."

So Ben's impression of Santa is a home invader stalker who demands encouragement. If that's not the makings of a Merry Christmas for a kid, I don't know what is.

Here's a pic of Renee with her letter too. Renee, since you hang on my every word you may remember, has a tendency to write novels about how good she has been and is hellbent on riding on Santa's sleigh.

These damn kids. Why are they so fun to torture?

Regressing is totally rad.

I live in my parents' basement. It looks like a lawyer's office and has a bar and a bathroom and a bedroom and a living room and isn't like the basements that I imagine World of Warcrafters live in until they're 40.

And sometimes, when I'm laying on the couch bundled up in a down comforter watching a marathon of Dexter and being totally devoid of any adult responsibilities, my dad will appear in my basement apartment and hand me a dish of exquisite homemade pudding topped with fluffy whipped cream.

I pay nothing for these fancy quarters and this extraordinary service, and it makes me wonder, why did I ever leave home?

The whew to end all whews.

Good news, guys. THE WORLD DID NOT END.

Instead, Dec. 21, 2012, ended up being a practically fantastic day. Yes, it was freezing outside and I had to hang posters for work and that made my fingers and toes very angry, but that was the absolute most awful thing that happened to me all day... if I actually had run out of gas on the interstate exchange like I thought I did, that would have been the most awful thing but it turns out, that was just my car's way of saying, "I'm fucking serious."

Last night, when it was snowing and I saw lightning and then I pulled into Target and everything went black because the power failed, I wasn't so sure it wasn't the beginning of the end. But now, as I'm curling up in my nice, warm covers and preparing to watch some Netflix, I realize that was just more of the usual. The usual weirds and wows and uh ohs that is the everlasting now.

I knew the world wasn't going to end. See, I am a rational person with reasonable thoughts. I don't believe in nonsense, even though I love make believe and magic and hope ghosts are real. The whole planet simultaneously going POOF! is absolute nonsense. I know this as much as I know I am Amber. Plus, USA Today said it wasn't going to happen just last weekend, and USA Today knows things. Still, I was fuhreaking out about it on and off for about three years.

I have had a great life, and if everything had gone to shit today, I would have been okay. I would have managed to drink my stiff drink and give myself over to the burning meteors or the aliens or the black hole or the angry Jesus or the whatever that was our fate. My only hang up about the world ending was this: I didn't want the babies I know to have to feel the terror that must come with an event like the end of the world.

When 9/11 happened and I watched people experiencing their personal end of the world jumping out the windows of a burning building, all I could think about was the terror they must be feeling if hopping out a window 80 stories in the air seemed like a reprieve. Babies shouldn't have to feel terror like that. No one should, but especially not babies.

Luckily, the babies are okay. In fact, I got to spend the evening pretend-eating one and teaching another one how to throw elbows. I got to have fish sandwiches and coleslaw with my parents and sister and my cousin Nate. I got to have an impromptu trip to the mall with my friend Heather, and then I got to have three long-awaited old fashioneds and watch the clock roll over to 12/22.

So, the world didn't end. Life not only went on, it continued to be better than I probably deserve. And I got to wear an awesome "I ain't going down" hat all day long. Today was the best day ever.

Cornbread you have to try before the world ends.

You have 3 days to make and eat this.

I'm only enh about cornbread but when my mom makes this, I get all OMGOMGOMGOMG about it. I don't know if it's the zucchini or the onion or what, but I love the texture and heftiness of this cornbread. It's a little, hmmm, gooeyish, when it's still warm, but I usually can't wait for it to cool, so I just make cornbread butter mash and eat it with a fork. I look real sexy when that happens, let me tell you.

Zucchini Onion Cornbread

Mix these dry ingredients with a whisk in a large bowl. Make sure it is large because you'll be pouring the wet ingredients down there into it in a minute.

2 cups cornmeal
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. dried lemon peel

Mix these wet ingredients in a separate bowl using a rubber spatula.

3 egg whites and 1 whole egg beaten well with a whisk
1 and 1/2 cups buttermilk, do not substitute
3 cups grated, unpeeled zucchini
1/2 cup vegetable oil, not olive oil
1 medium onion chopped fine

Pour wet ingredients into dry and mix into a batter.

Spray a glass baking dish with Pam (we use a round stoneware or casserole dish, but you can also use a preheated iron skillet or a muffin tin if you want bite sized cornbreads).

Pour in the batter.

Bake at 425 degrees 25 to 35 minutes. May take less time in preheated iron skillet or as muffins. It should be golden brown on top and have a clean toothpick when inserted.

Allow to cool for 15 minutes before cutting or it may crumble. (Ain't that a cute suggestion? Clearly this recipe was written before the end of the world was just a few days away...)

Dulywed: Year 6

Dear Mack,

On our sixth anniversary, I woke up next to our wife in my parents' basement and you woke up at your parents' house, hopefully alone, 2,103 miles away. How did we get here?

This year has been one of the most fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants years yet. It all started last winter when we took that impromptu trip to Belize. We had a week free before Christmas and two nickels to rub together... obviously meant to be blown on a vacation. We settled on an tropical place that wasn't too far of a flight from Kentucky and California, that spoke some English, that was cheap, and that had a beach. It seems like that is pretty much our criteria for every decision we make.

We swam with sharks, explored caves, looked at the remains of human sacrifice, polished off a 5 gallon jug of rum punch, and wasted time in hammocks by the sea. Then we came home, me to Kentucky and you to California, to spend the holidays with our respective families... a separation that has become our tradition.

When we came back together, the cold months of winter were focused on school. I had a preceptorship and my final nursing class; you had work at the women's clinic and an OB/GYN rotation that threatened your relationships with all the women in your life. I graduated, you took your boards, and somewhere in there we went to Florida to celebrate Bubba's graduation. I started working in the arts, came to peace with wasting my RN temporarily, and we had that fateful burrito that moved us into my parents' basement. We carpooled to Lexington, you threw me out of the car in the hood, I managed to black out that cruelty and probably paid it back in smaller doses. I ate Indian food without dying, we navigated Ground Zero of family drama, you bought a Miata, and we drove across the country. Then I went home, you stayed in Los Angeles, and I came to accept the aching cold of our bed without you in it.

Earlier this month, we were reunited in LA. You picked me up from the airport and took me immediately to see the boats you'd been exploring with your dad. I had heels on, totally not seaworthy, and you held my hand as we walked to the ladder and climbed aboard. This trip to the marina was more than a glamorous shopping adventure. It was a chance to touch a dream you've had since I met you, a taste of the fruits of our labor, a glimpse of the adventures that lie ahead of us, a metaphor for our relationship.

We have no doubt weathered some storms, and knowing us, I'm sure there are more on the horizon that will make Hurricane Sandy look like a pussy. But somehow, mostly by acquiescing to getting trampled and mastering the art of bottling things up, we have stayed upright and on course. Somehow we have managed to have the best marriage. High five.

It's been almost a decade that I have loved you, but today, I love you more than I ever have. I'm sure part of that is because I miss you so much right now, but part of it is because you are the funniest, smartest, strongest, sexiest man I know (keep in mind, I don't know that Dothraki king from Games of Thrones). You make me laugh more than you make me cry, you come to my rescue more than you abandon me, and you give me hope more than you crush my spirit. Our marriage is not all rainbows and unicorns, and some days it's barely got a glimmer of happiness, but in the love story of real life, the one without princesses and knights on white horses, Good > Bad = Winning.

The sixth anniversary is a supposed to come with a gift of candy. In light of the pie I've polished off the past few days, it's probably good that you're not around to give me chocolates or toffee or CHOCOLATE COVERED TOFFEE (subtle hint). Instead, I'll take all the sticky goodness you've brought into my life over the past six years. It has been a wonderfully sweet journey and I can't wait to see where we go next.

Happy Anniversary, baby. Ba-kawk.

Because we care.

Bubba is over in Seoul doing his Army thing and living it up in an apartment in the sky that has city views on one side and jungle views on the other. Oh, and the walls open up so you can get a cross breeze. THE WALLS.

His flat may make me jealous, but being away from family and familiar food at Thanksgiving do not. So Laila and I decided to make him a care package. Shahin hit the store to get his favorite snacks, Mack bought a turkey that poops chocolate at the bakery for some good humor, and Laila and I infused it all with love/cut out pictures and glued on some leaves.

Not quite as good as a dinner table, but at least it's cornucopia-esque. Happy Thanksgiving!

Genuine Nerds

Last weekend, Mack and I walked through a velvet curtain in Koreatown and ended up in the 1980s. I'm pretty sure Bill & Ted were there, but that's not the only reason this was an excellent adventure.

There was also this.

Yes, that is a Playboy pinball game. And it is sitting next to a Twilight Zone pinball game, one that shuts off halfway through your game and makes you feel like you've entered a new dimension. One named Blipsy's. One that's packed with arcade games from your childhood. One that has a full bar.

I hate new video games almost as much as I love a dive bar. The last one I gave a chance was 007 on Nintendo 64 and it was fun, but I could not play it without getting nauseous. Mack has since had every Playstation and Xbox they've ever made, but every time I've tried to play them, I end up stuck in a corner shooting myself while a monster eats the back of my head.

The video games at Blipsy's only move forward, there's no going back to screens you've past, there are a maximum of 4 buttons, there's a joystick. That's all. Pure, simple, braindead delight.

My favorite games have always been the driving games, and this place had one of those awesome sit-down-and-shift-and-use-a-gas-peddle types. I have played this game probably 100 times in my life, and I had no idea it was called Spy Hunter until this moment.

They also had Mike Tyson's Punch-out, which Mack loved. And, no surprise, killed at. Guys, he kills at modern games with 3D and 16 buttons on the controllers, so a joystick and one button is a joke to him.

I finally made it to the second block on Paperboy, something I tried to do every day after school in fifth grade and never managed to accomplish. Thank god I can check that off my list.

The end of the night I settled into Ms. Pac-Man, funneled $5 of quarters into the machine that was the only reason I ever wanted to go to Pizza Hut, and let nostalgia and Jack Daniels make me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Spiritual Sunday

I think this is what they meant church to feel like but then they got it all wrong and put it in a building and filled it with people and the spirituality went out the window and settled on the ocean.