Beatrixy

Leiah was due to have her third baby on Dec. 19. Her belly got so freakishly big with this one that my dad said to David, "I'm almost mad at you for doing that to her." We were all ready to have a fresh baby for Christmas. But Christmas came and went. Then a week passed. Then 10 days. Just as everyone was starting to think BBG was going to come out by tearing open her mom's belly button or forcing the doctors to go in and serve an eviction notice, she decided to become one of us on New Year's Eve.

Just in time for the tax write off. 

Leiah delivered the cheekiest baby yet at 5:55pm. Then a few hours later, the world celebrated with kisses and fireworks and toasts. They may say it was in honor of the new year, but I'm pretty sure it was for Beatrix Belle Galownia. Like her big sister, she was a little overcooked but perfect in every way. She was a chunky 8 lbs. 7 oz. and 21 inches long. 

I got to meet my 7th child this week and, like all the others, she is extraordinary. She may end up being a red head. She loves baths, smiles the biggest smile when her mom talks to her about shopping for shoes, and loves her Gigi's patented face palm when she's fussy. She sleeps good, eats better, and prefers to sleep motor boating her mom's boobs. You've got to watch when you change her diaper because she loves to shit shoot you when you're wiping her cute little butt. She's adored by her big brother and big sister and sort of feels like the missing link in the Galownia house, like she was always supposed to be there and finally showed up. And I love her so much she almost makes me a kidnapper but I love her mom so much I could never do that to her. 

I'm gonna say these guys are better than baby jesus.

First, this girl. Does anyone else get slayed by those eyeballs the way I do? One look and I'm like, okay, here's all my money and my car and my house and, fine, here's my heart and whatever else you want. Just take it!

Do not be deceived by her ability to hold her own bottle? She is still very averse to it despite about 4 months of trying to get her to take a bottle so Shan's boobs can get on to other tasks. She has developed her sibling's NO BENDING mantra, so she's basically like hauling around a chunk of lead.  She likes bouncing up and down and into things, and it'd be nice to have a conversation with her mom but she won't allow it.

Meanwhile, here's this.

His favorite thing to do is squats. The boy who never cries must do 1,000 squats a day and he's a whopping 4 months old. While he was home for Christmas, Gramma Shahin started beefing him up with rice cereal mixed with baby food. Like his dad, he hates pears. Like his dad, he also has a tiny baby afro. He squeals like a dinosaur when he's having fun and no one makes him laugh quite like Gramma. She better watch out though, because once they get big enough to enjoy a little horseplay, Auntie Amber quickly takes that honor.

These babies are the best gifts I got this year. Thanks Shan and Bubba.

Californians: Pink's Hot Dogs

Laila and I had to go to the mall to do some last minute Christmas purgatory crap. And that is when we discovered that a Pink's Hot Dogs had opened up a branch in the mall.

The iconic hot dog stand has been in Hollywood since the 1930s. Whenever we've driven past that one, there has always been a line of people out front, which we interpreted as an indication that we should never go there. Well, Laila and Tom had gone once and after some nostalgic discussion about the lady outside of Kmart who used to sell Laila bacon wrapped hot dogs from a portable grill, we found ourselves in line to get some Pink's. Guys, they have a veggie hot dog so I had no excuse.

No, this is not the true Californian Pink's experience. But it's enough for me because it spared me the traffic and the longer line. And it made me realize I need to resolve to enjoy more of the unique and awesome stuff this state has to offer. Alas, for 2017, I'm making it a goal to be a better Californian.

Emergency Christmas

When I started nursing, the holidays acquired a different kind of flavor. They're still joyful and special, but now they've got a layer of suicidal and despair on them.

It starts on Thanksgiving, which is usually calm enough during the day in the ER that we nurses can have a huge potluck. But at around 9pm, ambulances start rolling in with elderly, usually white, people who just can't take the lonely anymore and start having thoughts about putting their heads in the oven.

Christmas, well, Christmas in hospitals is linked with a diagnosis of "holiday heart." You eat too much, drink too much, put too much stress on your body from imbibing, and your heart starts to quiver from it all. We also get heart failure exacerbations and drunk driving accidents and suicidals in honor of the birth of Jesus. (On a side note, when women tell me there is no way they can be pregnant so there's no need to do a pregnancy test, I say, "Well, thanks to the Virgin Mary anyone under 55 has to get one." I'm your favorite nurse, right?) 

Miraculously, New Years Eves have become a bit of a bore thanks to Uber, which should probably get federal funding on New Years Eve and July 4th for all the accidents it prevents. The past couple of years we have super staffed our trauma bay only to find it was overkill. Better safe than sorry, except for every other day when we're desperately understaffed. 

Even as families are cuddling and enjoying their favorite foods, people are still dying on these holidays. I always knew that, but being on the fringe of that loss takes some of the sweetness away. Oh, and don't forget the 3% of PTSD I have from the shooting outside room 23 just before Christmas last year. 

The Emergency Department is hallowed ground. But even with all the death and disaster that it hosts, it also hosts miraculous feats of humankind. People who are doctors and nurses step in to situations that are disgusting and foreign and uncharted and do it with confidence, kindness, and a smile on their face. We gown up, don gloves, and dive in... most often to shit. Literal shit. This holiday I cleaned a man whose diarrhea was so abundant he was basically bathing in shit, a woman who had been laying in shit for so long it had started eating the skin off the back of her body, and another guy who had shit caked under his fingernails who kindly exposed me to fungal meningitis. 

To celebrate the season, my work had a hot cocoa and tamales celebration... we are multicultural even if we are religiously inappropriate sometimes. At the party (so glamorous it was in our break room), we had a photo booth. While looking at these pictures, it made me realize that I work with extraordinary people. Who else in my life would gown up, don gloves, and dive into the shit with me, even if it means they'll be exposed to something awful? The fact that people like this exist is kind of a miracle. That's something to celebrate.

Cars. Also, I sat in the spaceship known as a Tesla.

Mack and I got wild and actually drove downtown to the convention center to go to the LA Auto Show. We are explorers.

As soon as we walked in, I thought, "Leiah would love this." All I want in a car is for it to go, have Satellite radio since all I listen to is Howard Stern, not need gas, and not cost more than $200 a month. But the things cars can have is just incredible. For instance, take a look at this half Porshe/half Lego car.

By far the most popular car was the Tesla Model X, the SUV with the falcon wing doors. The ceiling is basically glass so you can see out the roof. The computer in the dash is bigger than most of the televisions I watched as a kid. I couldn't close the back doors to see how bad the blind spot is because there were dozens of people sticking their heads in while waiting for their turn in the driver's seat, but that probably doesn't matter because this damn car drives itself. I only know about this car because Mack has car reviews on his YouTube feed and they are on a lot in our house. Plus he was dabbling with the idea of getting one and my eyes almost fell out of my head at the $900/month car payment. Do you know how much vacations $900/month is???

Anyway, that car is a technological achievement, and sitting in it made me feel like I was in the future. Almost cool enough to make me rationalize the price tag but not quite.

We meandered through the other rooms and sat in the most luxurious Volvo ever made, which comes equipped with a crystal handle and a mini bar in the back. It, however, does not drive itself. We also sampled the new Miata hardtop convertible, which is still my most favorite car we ever had even if its wheel did fall off and leave us stranded in Topanga Canyon.

The car show also had some custom car creations, and these were the coolest to look at. Here is the Pink Panther car, which has one seat for the driver and then a shagalicious limo like part in the back. I mean, I guess it's for shagging because there's really not enough head room to sit up. Who cares, because look at how cool it is!

Another highlight was the Speed Racer car. At least that's what I think it is. It looked cool and was like half a million dollars. How wrong am I? Likely very wrong.

We also got to check out some electric bikes and scooters that were pretty fancy. And we got to be a marketing victim of Ford, which had this thing that said, "Be prepared to be blown away by Ford" and then it popped a bunch of air in your face and took a horrendous photo of you that it suggested you share with your social media contacts. Um, no. 

Dulywed: Decade Edition

Mack,

I found out that the gift associated with ten years of marriage is tin. I wonder if some old timey wife was asked by some other old timey wife what the gift for ten years was when they started this whole thing and the first old timey wife blurted out TIN! because it was the closest sounding thing to ten. Because that's all the sense that you can muster after a decade of marriage. Loose word associations shouted emphatically.

This year has been a bit of a bitch. Trump was elected, which totally undermined my "Listen, there's gonna be a woman president in the White House, which means things are gonna change in this house" proclamation a few months ago. We merged our finances and got a joint checking account and started doing a budget, which means now you know how much I spend on crafts and I know how much you spend on video games. But perhaps this year is our most significant because this is the year that we got marital property.

We bought a house, which feels so adult I still don't know how it happened. There was some crying and sleep disturbances on my end and a lot of extra shifts on your end, but somehow we turned "unexpected FOR SALE sign in the front yard" into "a SOLD sign." I packed everything, you called all the utilities, we adopted electronic signatures, and now, thanks to our student loans and this new mortgage, we are a million dollars in debt. Ahhhh, the American Dream.

This year has shown us physically what a decade of marriage can do, too. Our most intimate touches come during an application of Tiger Balm to my neck or during a rub of your right butt cheek to get that knot that wakes you up in the middle of the night out of your ass. You are dosing yourself with round-the-clock ibuprofen and Tums, which is a far stretch from the Diet Mountain Dew and cigarettes that you were dosing yourself with when I first met you. At night, while we watch the political segments and sailing shows you cue up on YouTube, I stand against the wall rolling a tennis ball into my neck while you roll your ass on a foam cylinder on the living room floor. It's all very romantic.

But not quite as romantic as the day we both showed up with CVS bags full of hair regrowth products  bought on independent shopping trips. When we do things like that, when we are so peculiarly in sync, that's when marriage is freaky romantic.

Our friend Erik predicted this year would be our last while we were all on vacation in Washington together. You were doing that cagey animal thing that you do on vacations with other people and just being le miserable and I was ignoring it, and therefore you. When we did speak, we were a bickering old married couple. When he told us our future, I told him it most certainly would not be our last year because I am too stubborn for that. Now we vacillate between "Too bad this is our last year, huh?" when we're having fun and "Thank god we only have one more year of this left, huh?" when we're making it suck.

If this is our last year, if you die of ass pain or my head falls off my chronically kinked neck, I want you to know that being married to you is the most amazing thing I have done in my life. I have learned so much about what I value and what I need and what I expect, of myself and others. I have learned that, despite what you say, I am an amazing wife and our relationship is the most powerful thing either of us has been a part of. I have been on adventures I thought were available only to more exceptional people. I still laugh until I cry from a look you'll throw my way or a silly thing you'll say, and I still crawl into your embrace when I need a break from the world around us. Like after that dream I had that a couple of nights ago where we were in a mass shooting at a doctor's office. You are my sanctuary. I bet you're made of tin.

Happy anniversary, Pop. I love you.

Me. Looking like I'm going to find ET.

My job once again made me look totally ridiculous and incompetent. It made me put on this disaster suit.

This disaster suit is what we wear when something explodes and people are contaminated with dangerous chemicals and we have to interact with them/yell at them to take a shower before we can help them. It takes roughly 30 minutes to put on and you have to disrobe without touching the outside and everything is impossible so we're all going to die. Just ask the 9/11 First Responders.

After this suit donning training we had a disaster drill. And it was a disaster. Let's just say we'd do better rolling with it than following the plan that's been laid out. Apparently we had a central command hunkered down in some office, but no one knew about central command so we were just figuring things out among ourselves. Trust us. We are the people in the space suits who look like we know what we're doing.

What the nerds are up to.

If you needed an update on the coolest nerds on the planet, well, it's your lucky day. 

Ben is playing the saxophone. Lilly wants to play his saxophone but he says no. Who could say no to a girl with a beard drawn on her face? An ice cold superman sax player, that's who.

Leiah has an original Nintendo in her basement, so it took me roughly 9 seconds to decide that needed to be set up. Then I challenged kids these days, specifically ones named Ben and Renee, to play Super Mario Brothers Original Version. Of course they died a hundred times. Luckily, their auntie has the expert Nintendo chops she developed as a 10 year old and I got them a bunch of lives at level 3-1 and sent them on their way. They adopted the diplomatic "trade turns when you die" that Shannon and I used to do. Alas, the torch is passed.

These dweebs really do make me happier than anything else on the planet. It's like being an adult but playing with my sisters at the ages they used to be. 

Man, they grow up.

Kieron is 14. Well, he's just now learning his letters and he barely started kindergarten and he's freakishly accomplished as a thief, but this is what he put on his bedroom door. And that is why he is 14.

But then, just before he left, he escaped his dad's grasp and ran across the yard and jumped into my arms and gave me the best hug I ever got. So luckily, he's still barely 5 and I love this boy with the hard head so much.

20 Years Ago

Two decades ago, Ruble and I went to a football game and sat down next to Kristin and Sarah. Sarah and I had sat next to each other in English and were friendly, Kristin and Sarah had been friends for a lifetime already since they lived in the same neighborhood, and Ruble had become my new best friend since I dumped my gay boyfriend and my old band friends and had found someone who laughed dangerously loud and was dangerously fun. We became a bit of a quartet our senior year, intermittently joined by Chloe, who was also from the hood and wicked smart. One time we sat in a storage shed and Sarah was almost killed by a weed whacker.

I'm thinking it may be time to buy some Birkenstocks again real soon...

These woman became my squad during that fateful year. As we ventured off to college (Kristin to Georgia, Sarah to Ohio, Chloe to Indiana, and me to Transy... I did not venture back then) and to adult life (Ruble became a workaholic, because she did not put enough postage on her college application), our friendship was sustained during holiday visits home and trips to each others' dorm rooms. We demoralized a fraternity with our pool skills. We saved a guy from going up in flames in the back seat of a car. We donated a lot of money to the Jim Beam Foundation.

Hera was also a part of our squad cuz she was a badass cat.

In the last two decades, we have earned doctorates, gotten married, had children, endured heartbreaks, lived abroad, been laid off, moved across the country, made drastic career changes, buried parents and grandparents, bought homes, and, most importantly, stayed in touch to support and celebrate one another. In honor of our lasting friendship, our high school decided to throw a party for us. Some would call it a 20 year reunion.

I looked at the guest list and called it a RSVP No. I remembered maybe four people on the list, all four of whom I saw at the last reunion or since then. Chloe, however RSVPed Yes, and then asked us if we were going. Because Sarah, Kristin, and I have grown into full fledged anti-socialites, we negotiated a private reunion for ourselves at Ruble's house, a partial reunion at a class-sponsored tailgate function at Keeneland, and a full report on our classmates from Chloe, who would go to the actual reunion and report back to us.

We had an excellent time. Ruble, who is with Byrski child and due in February, put me up and hosted a get together of drunken friends on Friday and Saturday night. Friday I got amped and carved a pumpkin.

Saturday we got up and went to Keeneland. We tailgated at our car for a bit before all the Trump supporters and coal-keeps-the-lights-on retards made Sarah and I awkward enough to agree to walk over to the Tates Creek Reunion section. I packed a couple extra Stellas in my purse because I'm classy. As we walked up, I was transported to 20 years ago, and I remembered, oh, that's why I love Ruble so much. The girl walked up to everyone. And talked to them. And appeared to enjoy it. Meanwhile, cut to me, Sarah, and Kristin standing awkwardly on the periphery, not talking to anyone, just like most high school experiences. I just kept asking, "Is that Ashley Coleman?" That is the only name I remember from high school. I think she was involved in a sex scandal. If not, let's just go with it for fun. SOMEONE was involved in a sex scandal, I know it.

After about 30 minutes of awkward, 30 minutes which Steve, Ruble's husband, used to make friends with everyone we went to high school with, we walked to Keeneland to eat, drink, bet on horses, and enjoy my favorite piece of Kentucky.

There's HUSBANDS and BABIES in this pic.

I was drinking Old Fashioneds because I am a 90-year-old alcoholic woman, so when we went to Ramsey's after the races, I was too impulsive not to order more 2-for-1 whiskeys and a BLT salad. When in Kentucky, do as Kentuckians.

I didn't eat ALL of that. I took some home in a box and ate it for breakfast.

I'm so young and fresh that when we got home, I immediately passed out on the couch while my young and fresh friends hung out on the patio and enjoyed a fire pit. I'm pretty sure my ass was totally showing because Kristin poking my crack interrupted my nap powerfully enough that I became conscious. I put on pajamas, started drinking water, and we all joined together for a fun game of Cards Against Humanity. Only because everyone fears me and Sarah playing A to Z.

One of the questions I had was for my friends to submit a card defining my marriage. Here is what these beautiful, supportive, wonderful friends turned in.

Don't you hate it when your friends know you better than you know yourself? And when they're so hilarious with their ability to insult you? That is why I love these girls. They make me laugh. And I make Sarah cry and she still hangs out with me. That is a true friend.

Chloe came over after the reunion and brought her husband, Shae, who was hilarious and actually did cartwheels in the living room. Anyone who wants to do cartwheels in a living room is an instant friend of mine. We learned that the reunion was terribly awkward and that Chloe and Shae were the only ones who danced and that it was a cash bar and that we are geniuses for not going.

The night ended quietly enough, but the visit awakened in me a profound appreciation for my friends. These wonderful, inspiring women who continue to associate with me despite my chronic absenteeism. Who forgive me for being cruel and bossy and obnoxious. Who tolerate my whore-for-a-laughness. Who I can reach out to at a moment's notice and trust that they will always be there for me when it counts.

Taylor Swift wishes she had a squad like mine.

Behold. Thine Godson. Of Me.

Well, Bubba grew up. He got married last year and then, to really show us up, he had a baby. Now he's jobbed, wife, dogged, and babied. He's full grown. So grown that he asked Mack and me to be his baby boy's godparents, and we, atheists that we are, agreed... after, of course, Bubba explained that being godparents means we don't really have to do anything that we wouldn't normally do as aunt and uncle.

Guys, this is Mateo. We got to meet the little guy this past weekend and OH MY GOD. He is the tiniest, sweetiest, easiest little man. He has miniature male pattern baldness, and every time I look at him I just see him leading some union of babies toward equality and justice for all. He's barely alive and already he is lifting his head up and showing off his Uncle Mack's freak strength.

I know Bubba and Lee are sleep deprived and slaves to dirty diapers right now, but I am so grateful for this fresh baby boy and to them for making him and sharing him with me. I'm not sure how to be a godmother, but I definitely know how to be an auntie, and I promise to wrassle him and make him laugh til he almost pees his pants and keep him safe and honest and love him til he can't stand it anymore. I will spoil him and accidentally teach him naughty things, and he will know that no matter what, whether he's homeless or the president, he belongs to a bunch of weirdos who love him almost oppressively and would do anything for him.

Welcome to the madness, Mateo. It is a lot of fun.

Hella Pad

At my job I get to do all sorts of cool stuff. Today I sat in a helicopter after acting like I could totally handle offloading a critical patient while blades that could cut my head off swirl above me.

Nursing is 64% fake it til you make it, 20% google, and 16% skill, in case you were wondering. But now I have a yellow card on my badge that lets everyone, including me, know that I CAN HANDLE THIS HELICOPTER SHIT.

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