Who doesn't love celebrating baby girls?

I started my nursing orientation with a gal named June a little more than a year ago, and our first real conversation was about her period being late. I casually said, "Are you pregnant?" and her eyes bugged halfway out of her head as though I'd made a sexual joke about Jesus in his presence. Public service announcement: if you're having sex, you can get pregnant. I thought nurses knew that.

Fast forward a year later, and June pulls me into the med room, which is where nurses have all their private conversations, and tells me she is pregnant. June is awesome and sassy and snarky, and even though it wasn't planned, there's no way it wasn't kind of expected. See the PSA above. Then and there, I called dibs on her baby shower.

Well, this weekend was the big event, and because I love big events, I did a mood board for this shower, which was inspired by an otter family and the woods of the Pacific Northwest, which is where June is now living. 

We got a bit of a downpour during the day, but everyone had a good time and can you really bitch about the rain when your state is desperate for water? The games were fun, the food was delicious, the mimosas were bottomless, and the baby was healthy in the belly of a lady who is sure to be an awesome momma.

The girls went inside to hide from the rain. Because we are smart.

And the boys huddled under a patio umbrella. Because they are boys.

Not Exactly Smooth Sailing

I went to Louisiana to visit Amy and Liz over Valentine's Day weekend and when I got home, Mack was in a committed relationship with a 42-year-old lady named Gypsy.

Yep, he bought a boat. A 27' sailboat. Because he loves himself and what better way to spend Valentine's Day than doing some hardcore self love.

I went on the boat the day I got home, and I totally get why he fell for Gypsy – the map table. Sure, the big windows and spacious entry to the cabin and all the nooks and crannies that are like surprise treasures when you find them are cool, but that map table... it just makes you feel like having a peg leg and gravel in your throat would be pretty awesome.

A guy was living on the boat when we took ownership of her, but he got out on Friday and we spent every day this past weekend loving that boat. Mack replaced the bilge while I scrubbed every inch of her.

When we weren't on the boat, there was an undercurrent of "boat, boat, boat, boat" running through our heads. I went to Target for Magic Erasers and $200 later Gypsy got new dishes and towels. Then I went to Joann's Fabrics armed with 50% off coupons and $350 later Gypsy's cushions are getting a much needed facelift. I'm even learning how to sew piping for this girl, thanks to help from my mom, who has also met and approves of Gypsy.

I was perfectly content just to play house, but Mack was all, "We need to get this baby out, see how she handles." We were so anxious and excited about taking her out to sea we didn't really think things through. We barely knew how to get the motor in the water, we sort of knew the sails worked, and we kind of remembered how to get out of the slip. Even with these knowledge gaps, we managed to get out of the marina and into the open water with the sail up. Where we took deep breaths and remembered how awesome sailing is.

About 2 minutes in, someone came over the radio saying, "Clear the area. Gunnery testing. Latitudes 'RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE.' Expect to be annihilated and arrested if you don't turn back now." Okay, I'm not sure if those were the exact words, but the gist was they were shooting things and we weren't sure if they were talking to us. Mack was like, "It's a great day and there's no other boats out, so maybe they are talking to us." And I was like, "No way. They'd never be testing guns this close to the marina and the beach." And then he was like, "Let's get the hell out of here. Drop the sails. I'm motoring in!" And I was like, "Shit! I don't know if I know how. Oh god, I'm going to puke if I don't only look at the sea. We're going to die!" And he was like, "Don't take that tone with me!" And it was terrible and scary and then we were back in the marina, laughing at how stupid we'd been and learning our lesson that we need to freshen up our skills and our radio knowledge.

Just as our heart rates were returning to normal, we turned port to head toward our slip. The wind was at our back, and as we approached our slip, we were going faster than either of us had ever practiced. I told Mack to throw it in reverse to slow us down, but it didn't slow us down. He yelled for me to come steer, I held the tiller and tried to remember that you point it in the opposite direction you want to go and he fiddled with the motor. Then he took the tiller and I revved the reverse and the motor popped OUT OF THE WATER! Luckily, there were some Filipino fishermen on the dock who saw us losing our shit and Mack yelled at them, "Can you help? I've lost control! I'm going to hit the rocks!!" I ran to the front of the boat, swung myself off the railing and onto the dock, and held the boat there. The saviors attached a line to Gypsy, and we dock hopped her back to her slip, coming within inches of hitting other boats but somehow managing to miss them.

When we got her tied up, I laid on the dock and died for a couple minutes.

It turns out that docking the boat with the wind at your back is pretty much the hardest thing you can do in the world. Mack spent last night watching videos and reading other people's horror stories, and we felt some relief that we are not retarded and it happens to everyone at some point. After you experience it, you learn to worry less about your speed and more about getting the nose of the boat in the slip.

I have a feeling this is just the start of the things we're going to learn from this relationship with Gypsy. That woman is a handful.

The Exceptional Nothingness of Today

Today I did laundry and washed dishes and got the mail and took out the recycling. I made veggie burgers and sweet potato fries for dinner. I watched music videos and caught up on Homeland. Today was the first day I've had off work in 7 days and it was perfection.

The past week was a bit of a blur. I treated people with everything from a twisted ankle from a fall while hanging a whiteboard to a hemorrhagic stroke from smoking too much crack. I rubbed the head of a guy newly paralyzed after being shot nine times and carried a man with a blood sugar of 25 to his bed. We had a retirement party for one of our most beloved housekeepers and a going away party for one of our best nurses. The ups and downs of 7 straight days in the emergency room makes me relish the mundane-ness that are days like today.

My days off are deliberately empty. They involve sleeping as long as I want, followed by some Two Dots until I almost explode from needing to pee. Then they go wherever they go. Sometimes that's to the beach, sometimes it's to lunch with my mom, sometimes it's to the couch, sometimes it's on a slew of errands. I don't even obligate myself to answer my phone on my days off.

On the agenda today, however, was a walk to Walgreens. That was my big activity for today – a one block journey to a drug store was the only thing designated for February 12, 2015. And look what I got to enjoy on that mundane-est of walks (which I made in a tank top and flip flops, I might add).

This giant beautiful thing was just dancing around all over this flower. Like he didn't have a care in the world. Like all that mattered was the sweetness of those purple blossoms. Like today was made for feeling the sunshine on your skin and having no agenda other than what presents itself in each moment. This guy made today extraordinary.

Broken

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

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

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

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

 

Dulywed: Year 8

Dear Mack,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloweaning...

Guys. I have an announcement to make.

I might be getting too old for a Halloween party.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Skippers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Extreme Office Makeover

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

So I took over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now for your tour of a closet.

The doctor will see you now.

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

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

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

The Electric Slide

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freud and Jung

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

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

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

Again, I'm never leaving this house.

The 2014 Tour of Dead People in American History

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

She picked Washington, D.C.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little offering from the ocean at Mourayo.

Going for it!

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

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

Hey Congress. Read this, assholes.

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

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

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

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

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

Home Sweet Perfect Sanctuary Vacation Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love and the Woods

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

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

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

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

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

Catching a Wave... of Terror

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An anniversary I'll celebrate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy 8th anniversary, Jen. I love you.