Best Role Model. Yes, you read that right.

Mack's residency program had its graduation last weekend. In addition to certificates and speeches, they gave out awards. Mack, likely because hell froze or someone owes him money, was awarded Best Role Model, or BRM as he's calling it.

I'm not exactly sure of the politics behind this award or the campaigning he did to get it, but I assume he earned it because of his unique ability to impress people by doing the absolute least but with extraordinary efficiency so it looks like he does a lot. Needless to say, this will likely be mounted next to his GED certificate because it is his most amazing accomplishment.

Auntie Phone Home

It's hard to catch my clansmen with the time difference, but I got to video chat with them the other day and this love sandwich is all I need. Just look at Nyralie cheeks! And those eyes! She's like, "Dear god, what have I got myself into now?" 

Wish I could jump through the screen and wedge myself right in the middle there. 

One more member of the United Nations of Lovies

Everybody, meet Nyralie Josephine. Or Nyra Jo as her Southern kin will call her.

The newest one of us. Let's see how we can mess her up, shall we?

Shannon gifted this little monkey to earth on April 6. She weighed 7 lbs. 15 oz. and had a head full of thick black hair. Shannon is doing great... she barely even noticed baby girl was about to come out that epidural worked so well. Nyra Jo is squeaky just like her big brother Kieron was, a little fact this desperate auntie got to see thanks to Dude sending a video.

Look at that beautiful gooey baby. And her gorgeous glowing mommy. I love these things so much.

I get to go home and meet my fresh new baby on April 18, but until then Shannon is doing a good job of sending photos to torture me as only a big sister can. I mean, my god. Is this not a literal bundle of joy right here?

Today I got this one.  I'm pretty sure this was taken right after Shan said, "Nyralie, tu tia favorita va a visitarte en menos de una semana." To which, she threw up a power arm and mustered a smile as only a 6-day-old can, which is baby charades for "HELL YES!"

Nyralie brings some Cuban flavor to our family, adding to the mix of Iranian, Filipino, and White Trash. I, for one, think that is awesome. Although I hope she doesn't feel like an alien if she has natural rhythm or singing ability. Sorry, Nyralie, that's not strong in the DNA over here. Welcome to our crazy family!

Bittersweets

Two weeks ago, we bought a new (old) sailboat! Last week, we sailed Gypsy down to San Diego, handed her over to Uncle Scott, and said goodbye.

San Diego is a looong sail, and due to work schedules and El Nino weather issues, Mack decided to do the sail in a few parts. The plan was to make three hops along the coast depending on conditions. On the first day, Mack and Scott left Gypsy's slip and planned to get around the peninsula. They ended up getting to Dana Point. They docked her in the marina with plans to make another hop the next day. In the morning there was a small craft advisory, but since everything looked okay, they headed to their next stop. The radio kept SMALL CRAFT ADVISORY YOU ARE GOING TO DIE though, so about two hours in, they decided to turn back. Gypsy napped in Dana Point for a week before we could get off work and make another hop.

Mack, Scott, and I met up late on Friday night at the boat. We slept a few hours, and then Mack and Scott woke up at like 5 a.m. to get things going. I took some drugs and went back to bed until like 9. It was chilly on the water (it is January), but the sun was out and I had my powerful sleeping bag to keep me warm.

I was on drugs, which meant I was basically in and out of a coma every hour. I'd periodically pop my eyes open, looked around, and remark, "Wow. This is gorgeous." Sailing is hard.

A few hours out of Dana Point, just as the morning fog was burning off, the ocean started popping up hundreds of dolphins. They came swimming toward our boat like a pack of happy dogs, and those far off in the distance were shooting their bodies out of the water like cannons. It was so cool, and Mack was able to get video of it. I apologize for my voice. And my commentary. Remember, I'm on drugs. 

Just as we were getting San Diego in our sights, Mack and Scott were discussing docking at Mission and then finishing up the last leg in the morning. The sun was out, we were making good time, and by their calculations, we had another four hours of sailing. So, the girl on drugs in a sack on top of the roof said, "Why don't we just go for it?" And the boys, who never listen to what she says, listened to her. 

As we plugged along, we got stopped by the San Diego sheriffs, who asked us if we'd been on international waters and if it was just us three. One of the guys was holding on to his boat in such a way that he kept flexing his arm muscle and generally being all man in uniform gorgeous. I'm pretty sure the oogling girl on drugs in a sack, the brown guy with the Isis beard, and Scott the vodka loving pastor were quite an unusual bunch, but the cops believed our story and went away. We got Gypsy going again and watched a humpback whale flash her tail at us.

San Diego's port is bordered by a giant kelp forest that entangles boats on one side and submerged rocks from an old jetty on the other. There are channel markers though, and as long as you stay in them, you are fine. Trouble is, just as we were getting to the start of the kelp, fog swallowed us. We could see enough ahead of us not to cry, but it was hard to see the markers to know which direction was safe. To demonstrate, at one point I saw what I thought was a building in the distance. I figured maybe it was a bait shop or some other weird little floating gas station or something. Nope. Submarine. A submarine was leaving the port as we were approaching it. Because fog and kelp and rocks are not enough of a challenge, here's a fucking submarine.

It took a while, but we managed to head toward all the right markers and avoid death. As we headed into the bay, we breathed a sigh of relief and got some better visibility. We passed the San Diego skyline and headed into container ship territory. Scott had booked a slip in the farthest recess of the bay, which meant we had to sail for another 3 hours once we got into the bay. It became night as we went on, and we kept seeing these posts in the water with signs on them. As if we could read them in the dark. Were they telling us where to go? Or were they telling us to stay away? We stayed away and held our breath. The scariest part of not seeing came as we were approaching a bridge. They had lights and then no lights. People tend to go toward places that are illuminated. Water tends to be where things aren't illuminated. I am blind at night, so I handed the tiller over and retreated into my sack since my nose and hands were frozen. 

We managed to avoid Navy ships and container ships and posts of despair and Mack brought Gypsy home to her slip. We tucked her in, told her thanks, gave her a kiss, and said see you soon. I hate to see her go, but I am so excited about the experiences we'll get to have on our new boat thanks to everything Gypsy taught us. 

You can read about the next phase of our sailing adventure at www.sailingkenutu.com. 

Once upon a time...

There was a boy and there was a girl and they met at Speed Dating. He was all, I'm afraid of being exclusive, and she was all, well, you ain't dangling my thongs from your rear view mirror if we ain't being exclusive. So they became exclusive. And he became Boyfriend Dave in her cell phone.

They did the exclusive thing for a couple of years. They had great parties and lots of fun nights out, most of which had her sisters tagging along because that's what we do. One night he let her get over-served and brought her home to her parents house, where her kids were sleeping and her sister was living. Her sister, being the kind, caring, generous, doting, extraordinary person that she is, offered to make sure she didn't die and told him he could go home. Her sister gave her a just-in-case-bucket, a glass of ice water, and made her take ibuprofen. Then she went to bed. But at one point she got out of bed and went to make sure her sister hadn't died, and she found the boy, laying on the ground next to the couch, because "I just like to be close to her."

Yes, the sister threw up at that comment. But she decided to love him then for loving her sister so much.

There were some bed bugs, a fight about sunglasses, a robbery, and an ex-husband situation, but the boy couldn't help but fall in love with her and her son and her daughter. And she couldn't help but fall in love with him. Even though he was a Louisville Cardinals fan.

They got engaged and he became Fiancé Dave in her cell phone. There were more parties, weekends at the go-kart racetrack, and one time he tried to die after crashing a lawnmower and falling down some very steep stairs. They moved in together and he played Minecraft with her son, built a Barbie Dream House for her daughter, and didn't seem to notice how much laundry she did not do. Love makes you crazy.

In December, they did this.

Their families met them in Mexico and watched them become realllllllly exclusive.

His family showed off their dance moves, and her family showed off their collection of dads. His friends made everyone in the pool get drunk on Don Julio and her friends put such special touches on the celebration that everyone felt loved and embraced. Everyone put their toes in the sand, watched the wind in the palm trees, and ate too much food. And the two kids got to see their favorite auntie.

Love stories are not perfect. People are not perfect. But happiness comes from love, and the amount of love between and around this boy and this girl will hopefully get them to the happily ever after that they both deserve.

If anything or anyone tries to get in the way of that, there will be Man Time. You don't want to know the wrath of Man Time. Trust us.

Dulywed: Year 9

Poppy,

I'm sorry. When I held your chocolate croissant ransom tonight and made you answer how many years we'd been married before I turned it over to you, I was wrong. I thought it was eight years, but it was only after taking two punitive bites that I realize it's nine. Just think of it as me saving your life with calorie restriction.

This year I actually had to contemplate whether I could save your life. We started this year with you getting some scary swollen lymph nodes on your neck and head. You've had this persistent cough for a few years, and I'd always assumed it was asthma. When those nodes popped up, I was worried. Maybe that cough was something else, something scary, something named Hodgkin's. I started keeping track of your nightly fevers and the dates we went to the doctor for stuff. I tried to take control of something, even if that something is data, because my heart would be in chaos without you in it. One day I had a cathartic cry in my car in the driveway, asking myself what if it is the worst case scenario? Can I handle it? I took stock of myself -- my ability to provide for us financially, my ability to care for you physically, my support system's proximity -- and I felt relieved. I knew that even if you had to go through chemo that put you in a coma, I could carry you up our steps. I could go full time at work and keep our health insurance. I could coordinate help from my mom and yours now that both of them live in our city. I knew I could handle it, and that made me confident that I could get you through it.

Luckily, you got better. Must've just been some pretty intense asthma.

Since then, our year has been awesome. So good that we've wondered aloud when we're going to get our share of the bad luck. I mean, my family has basically disintegrated, your family finally had a mini crisis, but in between those bad-ish times, we've been having a blast. First we went to Turkey and rode in a hot air balloon over one of the most magical landscapes in existence. I cried and you laughed at me. Then we went to the cabin in Yosemite and explored waterfalls with Walt. When it was time to leave, I cried and you laughed at me. Then we went to the Philippines for Bubba's wedding and escaped to Thailand where we rode an elephant and gave it a bath. I may have cried but you'll never know because it was splashy. And a few days ago, you wanted to go to lunch at Indian buffet and I didn't want to put pants on. I cried and you laughed at me. Basically, this year I learned to throw tantrums and they are hysterical. Also, we were characters in a video game and I was promptly shot in the stomach and killed. HILARIOUS.

The thing about all this, about all these 9 years, that I appreciate the most is that we're still laughing. I mean, we're still bitching about dishes and garbage and video games and the toilet paper roll and the last of the soy milk, but our laughing is still going strong. Like the other day when I saw those gray hairs coming out of your chest and pointed and laughed. God, you are so funny when you get old.

I love the ridiculous things that you say, things that have become such a part of our vernacular that I say them to other people without realizing how insane they must sound. Like Triple X Laydowns. You know, that vegging we do on the couch in the pajamas that we change into the second we cross the threshold? The relaxing that's so intense we take the back cushions off? Not one thing sexy about that degree of lazy, but it is called Triple X Laydowns and it is the best part of my day. And your songs. Oh, those ridiculous songs that come out of your mouth before I even open my eyes in the morning. Where does that come from? If I wasn't about to kill you I'd be cracking up with your random playlist performance.

Speaking of performances, well done at the Stein Holding Competition at Oktoberfest this year. Your muscles are great even after all this time.

The gift that comes with nine years is pottery. Or maybe willow. Or possibly wicker. Hallmark can't get it together. I'm going with pottery. It seems like after nine years, if things fall apart, there's likely to be some residual that will persist for civilizations to come. Some lasting remnant that archaeologists will dig up and be like, wow, they weren't as stupid as we thought. When they dig up our graves, which will be together because if you die I'm coming and if I die you'll have no joy left in your life so you'll automatically die, I hope they find our faces frozen in a guffaw. I hope our laughs outlast us. I hope that the silliness, the freedom to be ridiculous and absurd and wonderfully appreciated for it, I hope that lasts forever.

Happy anniversary. I'm not a chicken.

Amber

Whale Tails. Not the trashy kind.

Dustin and Lena came to town for some residency interviews, and it turns out that Lena, whose education failed her since she cannot fence or speak French, is a pretty awesome sailor. She brought the enthusiasm to sailing that Mack wishes I had, but, to be fair, she doesn't have to be on antihistamines. I was just glad someone else was onboard to do the work.

We were tooling around the bay when we saw a whale spout puff up from the ocean surface so Captain Mack pointed us that way and we got a real life whale show.

With just the sails up, the whales surface and come close since they're not scared off by motor sounds. When I got home, I checked the tail and found out our entertainer was a humpback. Mack and Lena kept us on his course, and Dustin and I, well, we appreciated it. 

We also saw pods of dolphins and pelicans and sea lions. It was such a beautiful day, and then I remembered this time last year, when Mack and I were taking a test after our first sailing class, after a day on the ocean with whales and dolphins and sea lions. It's amazing how much we've learned and enjoyed in the past year on this new sailing adventure. 

Halloweenola

This year, Halloween killed me. I flew to New Orleans for Leiah's bachelorette party and I died. So did the other gals on the trip.

Leiah, Magnolia, Joanna, Alison, Me, and Chala. A handful of well adjusted, employed, inspiring, normal chicks

AND THEN THEY ALL DIED. AND GOT SLACK JAW.

Leiah had a rockin' zombie bride costume made from her old wedding dress, and it felt wonderfully appropriate to give it new life at her bachelorette party. I mean, we're all made up from bits and pieces of all the experiences we've had, the good and the bad parts, and if those bits and pieces get us to make happier and better decisions, might as well embrace 'em.

Like these hangover bags wouldn't have been possible if we hadn't all had thooooosseee mornings.

Hangover bags featuring sunglasses, ear plugs, sleep masks, hair ties, eye drops, Advil, lip balm, a little V8 can and a tiny bottle of vodka, as modeled by two people formerly known as Whiskey and Vodka.

We played a bunch of fun games, like Who's Most Likely To... and Leiah/David trivia. We may have added in a drinking component and ended up playing on a car parked in the yard of our AirBNB. EXPERIENCES. THEY GIVE YOU WISDOM.

Although, they also give you kitchen club dancing and make you sing Ahhhh skeet, skeet, skeet skeet! and dance underneath Amazon-sized women. Which are Leiah's type when it comes to friends.

Thanks to Uber, we managed to get out and see the city. We went to Frenchmen Street and ate pita pizzas. And we ran into a League of Their Own, but it was all guys dressed as ladies. We bought art at an art market. We walked down streets around Frenchmen, all decorated for Halloween and illuminated by centuries-old gas lamps. New Orleans is awesome. Covered in a thin layer of booze and/or vomit (depending on how sober you are), but undeniably interesting in a good way.

Can't do Nola without Cafe DuMonde's beignets. Even if the server was an assholes.

If you look close enough, you can probably see 3 illegal things going on here. 

Apparently Leiah and Allie know how to make goblets from gum wrappers. Which were perfect for getting those disgusting Hurricanes down in small enough portions that puking wasn't worth it.

Leiah got a psychic. In true Leiah fashion, she's pretty sure the universe is telling her to quit her job. We got another take away ;)

Crawfish! Sucking heads! At Channing Tatum's restaurant! Spicy!

The big night out was Saturday, which was actually Halloween night. With its reputation for voodoo and hauntings, New Orleans is like a living Halloween backdrop. So we all summoned our inner dead, slashed up some perfectly good thrift store dresses, shellacked some makeup on our faces, doused ourselves in blood, and got zombied.

Just as we were about to head out, Joanna went to check on her truck and IT WAS GONE. Towed. From the corner. We hopped an Uber and tried to act normal at the tow company. 

Just another zombie getting her car from the impound. So normal.

We dragged our asses up and down Bourbon Street, fumbling into a bars whose names had something to do with a cat because UK, and ended up in a karaoke bar. In case you don't know her, Magnolia is a karaoke goddess. We got her on the list, rolled her little scooter through a crowd of people to get to the stage, and her and Leiah busted out a rendition of Me & Bobby McGee that made all us cowards die of jealousy.

It rained a lot, but somehow we managed to bar hop between downpours. And when it was just drizzly, it made our costumes even better. Then we used Leiah's veil to relive the trauma Shannon and I caused her as a child when we'd bring out THE GUARDS when she wouldn't do what we said. My god, we were assholes. Clever, brilliantly manipulative assholes.

One guy was dressed as Maruchan Ramen and giving out Ramen noodles as part of his costume, so after our big night out, we made some impromptu ramen with fried eggs and fried garlic on top. Exotic drunk California-inspired New Orleans-granted ramen. 

I still don't know how we managed a 3-day weekend with drinking every single day, but we did. Each morning I woke up thinking, I don't know if I can do this again, but a couple Yeungling later and my inner 22-year-old came out. Then we all went out. And we found this... a very handsome outer 22 year old.

I love that Leiah is wearing her FEYONCE shirt.

That weekend in New Orleans, celebrating Leiah and enjoying the extraordinary women she keeps close to her, was one of the best Halloween weekends I've ever had. Perhaps not the best for my organ function, but definitely good for my soul.

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.