Sail away, sail away, sail away

This weekend I left the bay. I doped myself with drugs, climbed aboard Gypsy, told my boat mates "I'm on drugs so I'm not responsible from here on out," and sailed with Mack and Scott to Catalina.

It was awesome.

I was so unsick that I actually went in the cabin to go pee and didn't surface the color of a lime. In fact, I felt great. Sure, I had to take a 5 minute nap every hour, but then I'd be conscious and chatty the rest of the time. I even managed to snap some shots of these showoffs.

The only time things got wishy washy was just as we were coming into Two Harbors, but  Capt. Mack went below and grabbed me another half of Phenergan and the horizon settled down. I think it might have been more related to too much sun that too much sea.

A rare shot of Capt. Mack without his life vest on. That man is WILD AND CRAZY!

Scott radioed in to get us a mooring, saying "This is Gypsy" and "Foxtrot Bravo Something" and it was so cool. I had my first experience coming up on a mooring ball and pulling it up to tie off. While I went below to change into my bathing suit, Scott and Mack threw up some shade and inflated the dinghy, which has a leak. It was all very hard work. For them. I was still on drugs and on activity restriction.

I was so hot that I had no choice but to dive into the turquoise blue water. Scott ended up dropping a pole into the water, which gave me the chance to remember all those days at Plantation Pool going to the bottom of the 20' section. I also got reacquainted with equalizing ear pressure... still works like a charm... and found Scott some Captain Morgan sunglasses at the bottom of the sea.

That night, when we went to bed, I looked out the companion way and saw the boat swaying about 45 degrees. One boat to our right would come into view and then we'd swing and look at one to our left. I laid there, looking at the stars, whipping between these boats, floored that I wasn't barfing my brains out.

The next day was a lazy day of swimming and drinking beer and eating food. I did some snorkeling and found these guys.

Since my sick had been avoided, my crew mates developed some expectations. I threw up some Halloween decorations to create a party atmosphere and won the favor of our neighbors with my festive battery-power lights. Then I found myself being Galley Wench.  An evil Galley Wench who made Mack eat those sardines he'd bought and then abandoned in the pantry but refused to throw out.

Party's here!!

Even Scott is grossed out by those sardines. Look, he's almost barfing. That is a total barf face.

Actually pretty good rum, and not just because it's all ocean inspired and totally designed for sailing.

We enjoyed many Red Stripes and decided to head to town to grab a drink. We inflated the dinghy and rowed about 50 feet to the dock, walked about 100 yards to the bar, and drank about 5 Golfers each. It was all Scott's fault, which is why when we rowed our drunk asses back to the boat, he dangled off the side between the dinghy and Gypsy like a broken puppet while Mack and I pointed and laughed. We treated our neighbors to some ukulele karaoke, devoured some guacamole, and then hit the hay.

The thing about our boat is that the head is really only for pee, and you're really not supposed to pee in it but we're lazy and break the law. When you're 37 and you've been drinking all night and you wake up, your guts go "NOW, GODDAMIT!" And when they are screaming like that, you cannot climb down into a half deflated dinghy, pump it up, and row yourself to the bathroom or you are going to poop your pants. I don't have too many goals in life, but not pooping my pants is one of them. I knew I couldn't ask Mack for help because we cannot talk to him before he says "coffee" so I had to turn to Scott. While I sat in the cockpit giving my quivering sphincter some positive self talk, Scott handled the logistics. Then he rowed me to the dock. He basically saved my life.

We actually had a conversation about what color shirt Scott should wear as part of our daily activities.

The sail home was more painful for the people who don't get to take anti-emetics and speed, but I was fine. I curled up on the top of the cabin, wrapped myself around a tin of Pringles, and watched the waves. We motor-sailed back, because we had the gas and we were too hungover to only go 3 knots, and made it home in about four hours. Next time, I want to go forever.

Thar she goes!

It finally happened. My husband ran away with a Gypsy. 

Mack and Scott sailed the old girl into the will blue yonder on another maiden voyage to Catalina Island. I was invited, but I was chicken/didn't want to barf the whole time and ruin everyone's good time/was trying to avoid getting yelled at if it was rough seas/wanted to let them get one run under their belt before integrating myself into the boat mix.

I woke up really early when they left for the overnight voyage there and back so I could see them off. Also, they are forgetful and left all their cooler goods in the fridge so I brought them to the dock. The seas were glassy, the sky was pink, and as they motored off into the distance, I walked along the beach feeling jealous and excited and scared all at the same time. 

They are that itty bitty speck on the far right. Sailing without sails. 

They had a great, perfectly uneventful trip full of dolphins and beers and blue skies. Scott was kind enough to share this highlight with me. Boys are such show offs.

Mack talked to some colleagues who sail and found a magical puke solution that involves the coma-barf-preventer known as phenergan and the sleep-preventer known as Adderall, which means next time, I'll have no excuses. It's time I sailed off into the sunrise and peed off the edge too!

Cua Lee

I got a new sister! Bubba managed to snag the cutest, tiniest, sweetest Filipina ever made and the two just said I do.

To be a part of the festivities, the Griswolds went international. To the Phillipines this time. Where we rode tiny horses led by tiny guides to the top of a volcano. It was not at all awkward.

The Thomases. Have you ever seen a group who loves getting their photo taken more than this crew?

I know. That poor horse. I'm sorry.

Luckily, Lee had arranged everything for us at a gorgeous hotel so we didn't have to expose too much of ourselves to these delightful tiny people. The wedding, the food, the hair and makeup, the transportation... it was all arranged and accessible through a beautiful resort. We helped Shahin practice swimming and sat on the patio drinking cold beers and chatting with Bubba's army buddies. It was actually a vacation disguised as a wedding. My favorite kind of wedding.

One the big day, we all got gussied up and tried not to let the humidity melt us. The boys wore suits with pink ties and were adorable. Laila wore a long pink bridesmaid dress and was regal. Tom even brought out some dapper, finishing off his look that ageless arm jewelry named Shahin.

The wedding was a little strange. Lovely, but strange. Lee was stunning in her gown, but she was entirely covered by a veil, which made me keep thinking she was being caught in a net. I think it was a Catholic-ish service, but there wasn't kneeling or communion or anything. There was a part where Scott had to put a rope around Lee's and Bubba's necks, which was supposed to be a metaphor for being united but which had strangling undertones. Even with the quirks, it was tender and special and Bubba and Lee got married. And I got a new sister, a cua, if you will.

Look at that proud momma and her distinguished son in uniform.

The reception was just on the other side of the hill overlooking a pond. Bubba's army buddies danced until their shirts were soaked, and because there was music, Shahin, of course, jumped right in with them. Laila and I stood around feeling not at all awkward. Luckily, I'm old enough to drink whiskey, so I got to look busy doing that. 

Lee and Bubba treated us to a video montage of engagement photos and getting ready for the wedding clips. It was hilarious. They did a lot of the same stuff they do in American wedding receptions, but they had an emcee in addition to a DJ. When it came time to toss the bouquet, the emcee said, in an almost robot voice, "Perhaps you have heard of the running of the bulls. Watch out, as now the single ladies will try to catch the bouquet." I don't know why, but that cracked me up. I also cracked up about these giant king and queen chairs for Lee and Bubba to sit in. We also ended up sitting at some head table but we couldn't find our names. I ended up being Lanie and Mack was Bibelots. Bibelots. Hilarious, right?

It has been such a treat to watch Bubba evolve from a teenager into a man. When Mack and I were about a year or two into dating, Bubba came and stayed with us for a few weeks and worked at the cable company with Mack. They both had buzzed heads and worked long, hot days. Bubba was frenetic, hilarious, amped, never stopping. That frequency propelled him to flight school, to Texas for a career as a private pilot, to the Army, to helicopter training, to a fixed wing program, to being stationed in the South Korea and the Philippines. Now that he has Lee, he seems more settled, more at ease, and it is so wonderful to see him so happy. I can't wait to watch him as he evolves into a husband, a dad, a grandpa, and I am so excited to have a new sister to love and laugh with. 

Today.

These things are medicine. Headaches and fear too, but mostly medicine. I love these rotten babies.

Gypsy got a facelift.

You know that sailboat Mack bought while I was out of town? Well, we are broke and Gypsy is gorgeous.

The first thing I decided to do was sew new cushion covers because I had no idea how to sew new cushion covers. I guess the horror of mustard yellow was enough to make me believe I could do it. Let me tell you, these were no ordinary covers. They had to have piping and zippers. And they had to have a pattern that aligned. And there was vinyl. And vinyl piping. And it's a miracle I am alive.

Since I discovered grossness that shouldn't be talked about when pulling out the cushions, I also decided to clean Gypsy's guts from top to bottom and all around in every nook and cranny with a magic eraser and disinfectant. Which is why I now have a lung disease and a new appreciation for flexibility.

Some cushions were just too ewww to cover, like the ones in the V-berth. Those smelled like 20-year-old piss, drunk sweats, and old oysters. I became a coupon hoarder for JoAnn's fabrics and bought new reticulate fancy foam for 40% off and made a new mattress. Then I bought some sheets from target and pinned, sewed, repinned, trimmed, and resewed them, which is a long way of saying "customized." There may or may not be duct tape holding the mattress position, but shut up because look how pretty the top is. And comfy. And smells so nice.

I really wanted to personalize the place with some artwork, so I bought the vinyl octopus legs for the slats (which is sailor talk for door wood). I also found an awesome sailor, an old-timey couple in a sailboat, and a photograph of a half naked Gypsy on Etsy that were perfect for giving the old girl some moxie and sex appeal. And lastly, I framed the letter that the previous owner wrote Mack when he left the boat because it was sweet and dreamy and on a brown paper grocery bag.

All these little touches (along with the cast iron mermaid bottle opener we inherited with the boat) has made Gypsy one of the happiest places on earth. I'm terrified to sail her, but luckily Mack is brave and I can be medicated.

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.