Halloweeeeeeeeening

You won't believe this. I love Halloween.

I know, mind = blown.

This year I'm partnering with my uber talented neighbors from the days of Venice for Halloween. Not only are they fantastically cryptic and trained in horror graphics and construction, they have a yard and a garage. I have demons that need exercised. It's a perfect match.

This year's theme is Lunatic Asylum. Not insane asylum. Because Halloween is not politically correct.

Last time Sandra and I threw a Halloween party together, it was crime scene themed. And it was a freaking blast, so good that it ended up being some wedding's post-reception party. It's not my job to remember whose.

Since you five readers out there won't be able to make it (although you're all invited always), I'm blowing my mood board wad here on the blog.

Now for the explanations.

Since I have a costume-mandatory policy at Halloween, I'm going to make some straight jackets out of old button down shirts and get some old hospital gowns for the uninspired Halloween party-goers. Also duct tape and mouth gags. Then I'm splattering blood in their face as extra punishment.

I'm thinking I'll turn the bathroom into a "Hydrotherapy," with a submerged body in bloody water and some weird organs and surgical tools on the vanity. Brain candles will be throughout the party, and hopefully some phrenology heads too, if Sandra can cast them. Those things are expensive.

The labels on liquor will be swapped for Spring Valley Lunatic Asylum labels, and I plan to dress up as a nurse and give people shots out of syringes.

I'd like to decorate the yard with mattresses on the ground and maybe score an old rickety wheelchair. If I can talk Billy into it, we might have a "Solitary Cell" for photo opps. Hoping to somehow finagle a lobotomy scene and an electrotherapy scene too, but I'm still unemployed so I'm not sure about that yet (here's where you send money to support my addiction).

For the food, I was thinking of cafeteria trays complete with soft foods (hummus, pumpkin chili, spinach artichoke dip) served with ice cream scoops. Just like in prison! For the sweet fix, I found these bleeding brain cake balls and I don't care how toxic frosting is, I am making those things.

I also scored an antique typewriter on Ebay, so I'm dummying up some old patient records to have strewn about. I'm not sure, but I'm thinking lucky 2013 could just take the title for Best Halloween Ever.

Apparently I'm a receptacle for emotional man vomit.

In the past two days, I have had two grown men -- STRANGERS -- take me on an hour-long tour of the emotions.

The first started innocently enough. I was talking in a group about Facebook, and as the group started to disband, the man (he is sort of an acquaintance I guess... and he is very sweaty and his spit collects in the corners of his mouth all the time) and I were left sitting on a bench alone. And then he said, "I mean, I'm married but I definitely look. You know, I LOOK."

It was so weird and suggestive that I almost said, "Dude. I don't feel comfortable with this conversation." Because I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head, I considerately said, "Well, you're a human, and marriage is hard, but anything beyond looking could be terrible for your FAMILY. How old are your children anyway?"

I gave myself a mental pat on the back, thinking I'd successfully redirected the conversation. But really I'd pried open a giant can of squirmy conflicted crying worms.

He went on to talk about his children, his students, gays and lesbians, foster parents, Syria, the mentally disabled, "something really bad that happened last night," his high school soul mate, a kid who died of cancer, and about 500 other random topics. I just stared straight ahead, except for when he said something so crazy I looked at him out the corner of my eye to make sure this was really happening and I wasn't being schizophrenic.

"I guess I'm just a really sensitive guy. I have a lot of feelings."

Ya think? At this point I'd listened to him blab on for about 40 minutes, so I felt like he'd earned some of my wisdom.

"It's okay to have feelings, but it's not okay to act on every single one because feelings can change in an instant," I began. "And you have to set up some healthy boundaries so you're not having such intense feelings about other people's pain. You can't borrow other people's pain or you'll never feel good."

I'm pretty sure there was applause. It could have been in my head.

Well, today I go to the flea market because it's Antiques and Vintage Day and it's 50 cents to get in and I'm unemployed and it's too hot to stay inside. I've been on the hunt for an old typewriter for my upcoming Lunatic Asylum Themed Halloween Party (yes, that deserves capital letters) and I was hoping I could fine one Angeleno who doesn't know the value in a crusty turn of the century typewriter. I walked through the outdoor market, which is a little like visiting a bazaar in Juarez, and there it was, sitting under a rusty old toy car.

The seller was on the phone so I tried to look like I had nothing better to do and was absolutely not trying to understand his private Spanish conversation. When he got off the phone, he said, "That is my son. He is so lazy. I try wake heem up at 5, he say no. I try at sees tirty, he say no. At 7 I go or I pay more, so I leave heem. Now he come by bus."

The man is not all the way set up yet, so I assume his lazy son is his partner in this enterprise. Before I can say, "Kids suck, huh?" he says, "He was shot 7 times. One across hees chess, two in each arm, that's five, one thru here (he gestures through the front of his head) and one thru here (this gesture is through the back of the head toward the front). He 27 year old. He not the same."

I couldn't think of anything to say, and that blip of silence cracked open a can of tragic, unsettling, Jesus-infused worms.

He told me about how he was lonely because his wife had just left for Germany to help her daughter with her new baby for 3 months, how his daughter who works part time at Target has to get dialysis three days a week for diabetes and just applied for a kidney transplant, how his other son is in prison in San Francisco for gang stuff, how he had an ear ache and a hip pain but he prayed and the next day he woke up healed (the hip story came with an agility demonstration that can only be described as a jig), how all he wants is enough money to eat, pay rent, and maybe go to Chuck E. Cheese with his grandkids, (I think Chuck E. Cheese is my favorite thing to hear someone with a Mexican accent say), how he goes to church Wednesday nights and Sunday school on Sundays and eats dinner with his mom, how sometimes the people in the booth next to him get nasty because he goes over his boundary by a few inches, how he's made mistakes with women before but with his new wife it's about respect, not sex, how his brother's 13-year-old daughter had a belly ache and passed out after visiting the doctor and it turns out she's ate up with a brain tumor and she's on a ventilator and her skull is open just resting on her head. Then someone interrupted to ask how much the antique car was.

They negotiated between $5 and $7 and settled on $6. "How much is that typewriter?" I managed to squeeze in. "I'm asking $80 for it."

Normally I would have tried to negotiate him down to $40, but what human with an ounce of compassion could in good conscience do that to this man, especially when all they want the typewriter for is a prop at a halloween party? Like I said, I'm not the asshole in person that I am in my head... plus he'd put me on his prayer list and looking for a job the normal way isn't working so why not give Hay-suess a try.

He rambled on about church and Jesus and how awesome heaven is going to be, and the whole time I'm thinking, well, yeah, because your life is absolute hell. Eventually people started visiting his booth, so I managed to say, "It was really great talking with you, but I'm going to shop around and let you finish setting up. I hope life cuts you some slack soon. Good luck with everything."

There was no applause.

I'm not sure what about me screams, "I'd love to unburden you of all your troubles," but if I get emotionally dumped on by one more grown man, I'm going to send him a bill.

Abuse: making aunties amazing

In a whirlwind trip to Kentucky last week, I got to visit the little things who are more fun to watch than Breaking Bad.

We let the babies try to drown in a bucket. We let them play with fire. We let them run with sharp objects. Everyone survived.

Ben, being the oldest of the tinies, was the one who first taught me that the quickest way to squealing joy was a little bit of abuse. He loved being pushed down and smashed and tripped and thrown on the ground. Gently, of course.

Now his sister is in on it. Luckily I'm armed with jiu jitsu now, so my abuse has become even more delightful.

Two against one requires the first line of defense known as "Push Them Babies Down."

One attacks while the other one recovers from the pushing, letting the auntie practice scissor sweeps on a toddler.

They don't relent because the auntie is being too easy on them. Soon she finds herself in the dreaded North-South position with the added bonus of a diaper.

Auntie lets them think they're in control, but she is bigger and stronger and faster and smarter. She hulks out of the pin and controls the biggest threat - the kid who sat on her head.

With his arms pinned, his brain makes him think the rest of his body can't move either. Auntie lets out a knowing laugh and, without giving up control of the kid, shifts her attention to wrangling the toddler, who has taken her back.

Auntie stands and plans the second line of defense known as "Turn Them Babies Against Each Other."

Auntie sits on kid and makes toddler sit on kid's head so he can get a taste of his own medicine. Everyone laughs and expresses what fun it is to be abused.

In case you've got zucchini coming out your ears.

Oh, I remember the days of having a garden.

Okay, I only had a garden twice in my life. Once at Bob-O-Link when Dave, Amy and I planted everything under the sun and then let the earth eat our harvest because it was too hot and too much of a blood sacrifice to spend any time in that mosquito village. And once when I lived with Shannon and I came home from waiting tables one day to find a giant patch of dirt in the back yard that she had decided to use to feed Sudan.

Even though I don't have much personal gardening experience, I do know that the one thing that is always in abundance for gardeners is zucchini. Tomatoes are easy to get rid of if for no other reason than there are probably thousands of mes out there just waiting to get your overruns. But zucchini is a different animal, and if you get four zucchinis what exactly are you supposed to do with them when zucchini bread only calls for one?

Well, here's one idea that my mom surprised me with when she was out here visiting earlier this month. We had to buy our zucchini since the only dirt I have access to is the 8" x 30" window box handing from the stair railing outside, but I bet my two readers living in places with yards and neighbors will appreciate this super easy, super yummy, and super healthy recipe the next time your co-worker is all, here, take this fucking zucchini.

Zucchini “Noodles” with Sesame-Peanut Sauce

Ingredients
3 small zucchini (sometimes I go crazy and use 4!)
1/2 red bell pepper, shredded or julienned (sometimes I go nuts and use THE WHOLE PEPPER!)
Edamame, baked tofu, chickpeans (optional, and I opt not to because I am lazy.)
1 tablespoon peanut butter (I don't measure from here on out. I just consider these ratio suggestions. Also, I use crunchy peanut butter.)
1/2 to 1 tablespoon water
1/2 tablespoon cider vinegar
1/2 tablespoon soy sauce, gluten-free tamari, or coconut aminos (bonus: this can also be gluten free)
1 to 2 cloves garlic, pressed or minced (there's can never be too much garlic.)
1/2 to 1 teaspoon sriracha or other chile sauce or red pepper to taste (Liz nicknamed this stuff Thai Ketchup and I put it on so much stuff. Including eggs. Mmm.)
1/2 teaspoon toasted sesame oil (this can be a million dollars in the oil section, but in the chinese food section you can get a little container of it for like $4. just keep it in the fridge.)
1/2 teaspoon grated fresh ginger (or the whole inch of it that you have in the freezer... another genius trick my mom taught me. peel the ginger, cut it into 1" piece, wrap each piece in plastic wrap, throw them all in a freezer bag, ginger at the ready. also it grates SO EASY when it's frozen.)

Instructions
Wash the zucchini well and trim off their ends. Use a spiralizer or a mandolin (they sell these at Bed, Bath & Beyond) to turn the zucchini into “noodles.” Line a large serving bowl with paper towels or a clean tea towel. Place the zucchini noodles in the bowl along with the red bell pepper. (I used the spiralizer thing on the red pepper too and it mostly worked. When I got down to the nubs, I just chopped them really tiny and threw them in the bowl.)

In a small bowl, whisk the peanut butter with 1/2 tablespoon of water and all remaining ingredients. If the mixture is hard to combine, add up to another 1/2 tablespoon of water, but be careful not to make the sauce too runny.

Remove the towels from under the zucchini noodles. Add the sauce and stir well to coat the noodles completely (can I just tell you tongs are magical for noodle coating... another mom trick). Serve right away.

(Leftovers can be refrigerated, but water from the zucchini may seep into the sauce, making it pool in the bottom of the bowl; stir well before serving.)

Vacation Life

I still don't have a job. It's starting to feel like that one time I was unemployed before I started nursing school when I built a dollhouse in July for a party in October. I have some leads and some talks and some emails, but still no schedule or paycheck. I'm booooorrreeedd.

I didn't realize quite how vacationy I'd been acting until I texted this picture to Heather the other day and she pointed out that since I've moved, most of my replies to her "what's up" texts have had something to do with beaches and/or books. That girl can spot a pattern 2,000 miles away.

To be fair, I've had a lot of reading to do and the beach is a nice place to do it. Laila is on a reading bender this summer, and I'm trying to keep up with her AND my mom. You have no idea what a full time job that is.

Well, last week I decided to get off my lazy butt and do something else that I've been seeing people do on the beach. Rather than Lay Down Reading, I went Stand Up Paddleboarding. 

A couple of jiu jitsu friends with surfing skills were kind enough to humor me in the harbor since I am too much of a chicken to learn to surf, especially while uninsured and while the sharks are here. I set the lofty goal of "Don't Fall In" and we cruised around the relatively calm harbor looking at pelicans and sea lions and dodging 6-year-olds learning to sail. Show offs.

 I guess until I get the ol' "Can you start Monday?" I'll just keep living every day like it's Saturday.

Slaving away at job hunting

You know what? There's a beach outside. One so close that I do not have to pedal for my bike to make it there. Despite that fact, I have to look for a job.

Dr. T started his rotation today, which meant that I was all by myself all day with nothing to do. I woke up at 10, brewed some coffee, felt like a total slacker, and decided I was going to apply for jobs all day long.

A full workday of job hunting.

I've been applying for jobs in bursts since we got to LA. But then Ruble came, and then Shannon came, and then there were weekends, and then there was Game of Thrones, and there's always that beach just down the hill, and my gumption to work all day every day kind of, well, it died.

Today, though, today I got on the job hunt train, full speed ahead. I found a gig through an agency that sounded promising, drafted a cover letter, attached my resume, and sent it on its way.

Now, do that three more times and oh my gosh, I think I can actually hear the ocean waves crashing outside...

Focus. Okay, an interesting position at a swanky hotel. Hmmm, it's a little farther away than I want to go, but it sounds doable. Apply.

At this point I had to complete a seven-part application. A SEVEN-PART APPLICATION. One that required me to attach my resume, then make sure my resume was auto-filled in correctly, then fill out a tax incentive questionnaire, and then answer 43 questions about scheduling and budgeting wisely and having common sense. I got a warning when I started the 43 questions that I had 75 minutes to complete them. 75 MINUTES FOR A JOB APPLICATION THAT I'LL PROBABLY NEVER HEAR BACK ABOUT.

This is the second job application I've filled out that took hours to complete. The last one was kind enough to email me that someone else was more qualified, but only after they required me to get a copy of my college transcript ($12) before they'd consider my application. For that "no," I invested $12 plus three days of content aggregation plus invaluable brain power plus the opportunity cost of time I could have spent on the beach.

I'm a hard worker and I think I come up with some pretty creative ideas. I know I've never left a position in worse shape than I found it, and I know I've been a crisis avert-er at more than one company. I can't help myself when it comes to doing a good job, and I usually end up putting in way more than the people who hire me expected.

But man, looking for a job is worse than working. I quit for today. Besides, there's a beach outside.

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.