Tales from La La Land

Back in the day, my brother and I used to play opposite day. Basically the game consisted of saying something that was the opposite of true.

Yes, it got old quick.

Since I had grand plans for this past weekend, none of which included my sweet-ass dustbuster (unless I used it naked, per Laef), I thought I’d recap our super exciting weekend.

The bad news: I did not eat 7-11 Nachos.

The good news: I stayed up past 1 a.m.

On Friday night Laef and I went to our friend Allie and Greg’s for dinner. Allie is pregnant and Greg is an Oregon grad who pretty much only wants to discuss Oregon football. He and Laef also share an affinity for watching Dave Chappelle DVDs, so the night started off with fish tacos and Chappelle show archives. Don’t get me wrong, it’s some funny stuff, but Me+Full Belly+Vodka+Comfy Couch+TV=Sleeping within 5 minutes.

Greg yelled at me every two minutes about how lame I was, so I rallied. It was kind of like when the tennis instructor told me I was lazy. I hit my next forehand as hard as I could and aimed for his balls. Greg telling me I was lame, flipped the switch.

Then we stayed up until 1 a.m. watching Oregon football highlight videos (that sounds a lot lamer than it really is). Laef set a PR for Bud Lites so we walked home arguing about who the best Oregon quarterback of all time is.

TOOLS.

The next morning things were a little fuzzy. But since my tolerance level is that of a 21-year-old slut, I was up and at ‘em by 9 a.m. By 10 a.m., I hadn’t heard a peep from Laef, so I went to check on him.

Me: “Do you want pancakes?”

Laef: “Ugh. No.”

Me: “Coffee?”

Laef: “Not yet.”

Me: “Water?”

Laef: “Ugh.”

And just like that, it was opposite day in our house. I was hoping Laef could rally so we could go to the beach, but for some reason sitting in the blazing sun with a wicked headache was at the bottom of his to-do list.

I will admit that we mopped the floor on Sunday morning, but then we went to the beach and walked around Santa Monica as opposed to sitting at home marveling at how cute Sanch is and how he looks cute on the balcony.

We are making progress people. Making progress.

The other day someone said that my blog is boring. They said they used to read it, but then I got married.

And then I realized it: If I was to do a weekend recap about last weekend, I would have told this story about how I bought a Dyson Dustbuster (which, by the way, is fucking awesome) and went to the Getty Center to look at art.

10 years ago, it would have been a blog about how I was drunk and ended up at some random dude’s house before realizing that he wasn’t even that cute, and I never should have gone, at which point I decide to walk 3 miles to Amy Longeteig’s house, stopping at 7-11 on the way to get some Nachos with a huge heaping pile of “chili”, only to arrive on their doorstep and realize that it’s 2 a.m., and of course they are not awake, but luckily they’ve left their front door unlocked so I just let myself in while their watchdog Stella greeted me with kisses and then curled up next to me by the couch.

Seriously. The dog didn’t even bark when someone entered the home at 2 a.m.

Also, the only people who eat 7-11 nachos are me and these two.

Now I’m totally refined. My drunk food is left over marinated flank steak with a side of Gruyère cheese and Wheat Thins. And usually I’m eating drunk food at 10 p.m. before passing out at 10:12 p.m.

What in the cliche fuck happened to me?

I do not want to be Lester Burnam. Jerking off in the shower alone at 7 a.m. can not be the highlight of my day. Getting yelled at over using staples as opposed to paper clips can not define my career. Walking around the house obsessing about how to annihilate any form of cat hair should not be my lot in life.

For real though. I wander around with this thing like Natalie Portman in The Professional. Do you see what they’ve done to dustbusters?

But this is totally NOT a blog about vacuum cleaners. This is a blog about how there is a 7-11 down the street from our house, and how I am making it my mission to stumble over there this weekend and eat Nachos.

Basically, what I am saying is that you don’t need your publisher to front you the money to do your own little Eat, Pray, Love type of thing. You can Eat, Pray, Love for about $1.99. First, you eat 7-11 nachos. Then you pray that your husband still finds you attractive (honestly, have you ever watched someone eat “chili”? It might look like a scene from 2 girls, 1 cup, so unless your husband is a total FREAK, he may not be feeling your “chili” lips), and then you love it up old-school style (i.e. you don’t complain about how tired you are. You also don’t say anything about ovulating, or how you need to be positioned a certain way or it won’t work.)

It’s Friday, and I’m on a mission for a super fun, NON boring weekend. Yay!

This was one of those incredibly vigorous work weeks, which can be both fulfilling and exhausting all at the same time. There’s nothing better than feeling like you’re a part of something big, and that perhaps your small part contributes to the overall success. At the end of each day this week, I definitely felt like my cocktail and bath were both well-deserved.

Sidenote: This is why I did not recap Top Chef. I watched the first half on Wednesday, and finished it last night. All I can say is: Gross. These people are gross. Plastic on a toilet bowl? Really? I’m struggling to pick out whose restaurant I’d actually want to eat at.

Now that it’s Friday afternoon, and the week is wrapping up, I am looking forward to a weekend where Laef and I can spend two days doing whatever we feel like doing. And, if what we feel like doing is nothing, then so be it. Since moving into our new place 3 weeks ago, it doesn’t seem like we’ve had a single day to put up our feet and relax. We’ve spent every weekend since the move getting our place in order. Saturday’s are filled with trips to Target, IKEA, furniture stores, more trips to Target and even more unpacking. Sunday’s seem to be filled with grocery shopping, putting together furniture and doing laundry. Basically, we’ve spent almost a month getting caught up.

I think we’re finally caught up (barely), and this might be the first weekend where we won’t have any pressing house issues. We don’t have any boxes left to unpack, and I think I’ve bought everything there is to buy at Target. There’s nothing on the schedule.

I think I just got a heroin high from typing those words.

Between work and moving, I am exhausted. But, let me tell you about the good news! Our new place has a bathtub! It’s a minor thing, really, but now I’m wondering how I got through long days without the essential 2Bs, 1C (Book, Bath, Cocktail). Upon arrival into the house after work, my routine is such:

1. Drop my shit in the middle of the floor.
2. Run the bath water.
3. Make a cocktail.
4. Make sure the cat is breathing. And fed.
5. Make sure Laef is breathing.
6. Get my book.
7. Disappear for 45 amazing minutes.

Our place also has hardwood floors and one of our new pastimes is throwing The Sanch down the hall on his back (think of yourself doing it in your socks, only it’s a cat.) We also have a balcony, which The Sanch has decided will be his new hang out. It gave me a heart attack at first, but as Laef so gently put it, “Probably he will land on his feet if he falls.” He seems to have mastered it, but the problem is when he sees a bird fly by he gets anxious and contemplates jumping a little too hard for my liking. To which Laef says, “Probably he will land on his feet if he jumps.”

So, anyway, summer is coming to an end. We are one month away from the start of college football and inching closer towards college basketball season. While I do miss Laef when he is traveling, there is a whole new crop of restaurants and shops in Brentwood that are screaming for me to explore.

T-minus one hour until happy hour!

TGIF.

Tonight will be our last night in our little beach cottage. All this time we thought it was a modest 700-square foot dwelling that we made work because we were steps from the beach. It’s easy to justify having no closet space when you see this everyday. However, the other day Laef got out his measuring tape to figure out what the actual square footage.

500 square feet.

That made it even easier to continue packing boxes in anticipation of moving into a place with some real space. Not that our new place is huge, but compared to what we’ve been making work for 3 years, it’s going to feel like we can breath a little. I honestly don’t know how we made it work, but I guess we just like each other a lot to be that close day in and day out.

Despite the size, the lack of air conditioning and the commute to work, it’s a little bittersweet to be leaving. When I ran the Eugene Marathon in May, one of the things that kept me occupied was the fact that by running 26 miles around Eugene, I went past almost every place I lived in when I was in there. Between 1996-2007 I lived on Harris St., Mill St., 18th Street, Ferry St., 245 Marche Chase Dr., 295 Marche Chase Dr., Crest Dr., and Cal Young Rd. I moved almost every single year while I was there.

I have no idea why I did that.

Poinsettia Ave. in Manhattan Beach has been our home for 3 years. That is the longest either of us has lived anywhere since leaving home at 18.

There are a lot of memories.

The Six Man. That was one of the first things we did after moving in. We didn’t know what to expect, and let’s just say it became one of our favorite things to do every year. People are insane. And, it looks like we’re moving just in time because the city is trying to crack down on it big time.

Perfect Sundays. There was no better place to walk out your front door and go on a walk. We could walk to the beach, or we could just walk around the neighborhood and look at all the houses we will never buy. We went on many, many walks. It was also the perfect town to train for a marathon. I think I’ve ran on almost every street in Manhattan Beach. There’s no other place I would have liked to train. I will miss my running routes.

The Check Out Lady At Ralph’s. OK, this is random, but the same lady has worked at the self-checkout line at Ralph’s since we’ve lived here. I love going through self-checkout whenever possible because I really hate the way people bag my groceries. Yes, I am anal, but honestly, when grocery baggers put 3 things in one bag and then double bag it, I hate it. As we all know, I used to have problems with the self checkout. But, I got better, and this lady is always there to quickly save you if things go wrong. Eventually, she stopped asking for my ID (I guess she kind of got used to the wine purchases), and would exchange eye rolls with me when there were people with 700 items trying to go through the self. Randomly the other day I said bye as I was leaving and she said, “I don’t know why, but you always make me smile when I see you.” I already liked her before she stroked my ego, but that was so nice to hear at the end of a long day. I told her that I felt the same way. Then I told her we were moving. I couldn’t believe that me and the Ralph’s check out lady had gotten so close.

That’s the thing about moving. It’s hard to leave your routine behind. I have my favorite grocery store, my favorite sushi restaurant, my favorite bar, my favorite dry cleaner, my favorite gas station, my favorite breakfast spot, my favorite running routes, and my favorite memory of all: my wedding day.

Sanch has his favorite windowsill and his favorite barf spot, so he is also struggling. At this point he has no idea what is going on, he only knows that there is a lot of cardboard to eat, and a lot of boxes to play with. What he doesn’t know is that he’s about to enter a world with an air conditioner. His life is going to change forever.

We will have an extra room, and I won’t miss  people having to sleep on an air mattress on our living room floor.

Will also not miss: The 405, overpriced touristy restaurants and questionable plumbing.

Brentwood here we come!

We Laef found our place and we are all set to move in on July 17.

My lazy ass can take ZERO credit for any of it. I didn’t even see the place until after we paid the deposit. I saw a total of one place in person. It was very clutch that Laef has several days off during the summer, so he was able to get out there and drive from Beverly Hills to Century City to Westwood to Santa Monica to see a variety of places.

I basically sat at my computer at work and sent Laef 3,238,389 links to places that I thought looked good, then he would go look, send me some pics and move on to the next place. At the end of a very long day of looking, Laef called me and said he thought he found the one.

So we took it.

The whole thing was probably for the best. Laef likes to see many, many options. He takes his time making decisions. He likes to mull over many things. I am the world’s most impatient person (the place we live now was one of  the first place we looked at when moving to LA originally), and driving all the fuck around LA is probably last on my list of things to do. I would have been cranky and grouchy, and he would have gotten frustrated as he tried to marinate on all of the options.

So, when he says he found the place, who am I to question?

The following day we submitted our applications, got approved and were able to pay our security deposit before leaving on a trip to St. Louis. The landlord offered to show me the apartment since I had not yet seen it. The current tenants were there, packing and getting ready to move.

To Eugene.

Oregon.

To teach at UO.

Say what?

We definitely found the place.

As Laef and I near our one-year anniversary, I am learning all sorts of things about marriage. Yes, it’s about the usual things that people tell you – compromise, partnership, love, fighting for covers, debating at Blockbuster for 30 minutes, disagreeing over American Idol finalists, and major debate over what constitutes good television.

It’s also about the little white lies we keep. I’m talking about harmless things, not “I just bought a $300 Coach purse and am not telling my husband” lies. I don’t know what little white lies Laef keeps, but I know his ass gets per diem on every road trip, yet he never seems to mention how much or show me where he keeps his secret stash. I can respect that. Everyone needs a secret stash to do with what they please. (Laef will tell you that he ends up spending his secret stash on me, but really, he will treat me to something in hopes of some kind of sexual something, so technically, he is spending his secret stash on himself. Hold up. Did I just call myself a prostitution whore?)

So, anyway, I might have woken up to a giant pile of Sanch barf yesterday morning. And I might have pretended to not see it. I might have left it for Laef to wake up to.

Sidenote: Before you start calling me mean names, let me quote Lt. Col. Matthew Markinson: “I don’t want a deal and I don’t want immunity. I want you to know that I am proud neither of what I have done nor what I am doing.”

I really hate Sanch barf. And I know leaving it for Laef to wake up to was an uber-shitty wife move. Of course Laef called me on his way to work, asked if I saw it. I fumbled around a little, kind of dodging the question. To make myself feel better I said, “Doesn’t matter because I would have left it for you anyway”. Then he goes on an on about how I will need to start learning to deal with barf. Somehow I feel like a baby that comes out of you doesn’t have nasty barf like a cat who licks its ass. I could be wrong, but I’m banking on it not bothering me quite so much.

Fast forward to last night when I’m talking to Sanch (um, yes, all people with pets talk to them) and I say something like, “Let’s not leave a pile of barf overnight for us to wake up to”.

FUCK.

I IMMEDIATELY got the evil squirrel eye from Laef. (Thanks for the video, Erin!)

I felt like an asshole.

I tried to justify it because the night before, Mr. Perfect Husband made a bag of popcorn. We were settled in to watch the 24 finale (check that, I was settled in to fall asleep to the 24 finale), and Laef cozies up to me on the couch with his popcorn. So, of course I reach for the bag and Laef yells at me: “My popcorn!”

The fuck? Who doesn’t share a giant bag of popcorn? When the butter is wafting in front of my face? It’s almost like the time he instructed me to eat AROUND the giant chunk of brownie in HIS ice cream tub.

So we both do things that are questionable, right?

OK, yes, I know. Leaving a pile of barf > Not sharing popcorn on the Fucked Up Scale.

And, BTW, I fell asleep the other night and Laef took this picture. Why I allow a barfing, asslicking, litterbox using cat to get up in my grill is a question I constantly ask myself.

Blog-neglect happens to everyone. And this is totally not going to be a post about how I’ve been neglecting the blog.

However, I figured I should put something up to bury that stupid Office Max Blog. You know, the one where I thought I was soooo creative with the headline? Sometimes I think I’m super funny and/or witty only to find out years (and, sometimes days) later that I was, in actuality, a giant tool.

So, anyway, since I last wrote that post, not much has happened. I thought about writing a post chronicling the shower dialogue between Laef and I, but I figured it’d make people super gaggy. But, we can not be the only ones who draw hearts with random hair on the shower wall.

Or can we?

Laef took it to a new level last week,  stringing together many of his fallin’ brethren to draw an entire face with a giant smile (not a good sign for the top of Laef’s head.) Then this morning I got in the shower and noticed that Laef had gone even further. He drew a penis. With balls. And pubes.

All I can tell you is this: When it’s 6:30 a.m., and you are fucking pissed off at your alarm clock and the cat who meows from 6 a.m.-6:30 a.m., NOTHING will make your morning more than seeing a giant penis drawn with hair on the shower wall. I cracked up. I can’t remember the last time I laughed at 6:30 a.m. on a work day.

The pressure is now on me to draw something for Laef’s enjoyment.

I guess I don’t care if you get gaggy or not. At least I didn’t include pictures of the hearts or the “Hi!” or the .

Then I thought writing a post about marathon training, and how I am on the home stretch in a sense. However, I don’t want to jinx it. I have one long run left – 19 miles this weekend – and can then begin to taper a bit. Next weekend, my long run will be 8 miles, and I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but: 8 miles at this stage is a cakewalk*.  The marathon is 2 weeks from Sunday. UNREAL. Can’t wait. There’s not much more to blog about the training – it’s kind of shitty, and if not for the help of some great friends (Angie, Erin), it would have been a lot worse. It’s draining physically and mentally, but I know the payoff is going to be WELL worth it. So, I am very excited for race day.

Other than that, there’s not much to tell. Laef is completely dialed into the Cardinals baseball season, so I just sit back and watch him swear at the TV or look doey-eyed at Albert Pujols every time is up to bat. I am completely dialed into the Real Housewives of New York City so Laef sits back and yells obscenities to me while pretending not to watch (he actually asked me yesterday if Jill and Bettheny were friends yet).

TGIF!

*Please don’t let me eat shit or get hurt on this run because I called it easy. Please.

Laef is 28 today.

Quite often he will tell me the reasons why he married me. In no particular order they are: 1. Boobies; 2. He will always feel young and 3. Home-cooked meals.

Some say that Laef spoils me. This is true. And I spoil him. We do different things to spoil each other. I need moral support and he needs grilled steak. I need someone to clean up after Sanch pukes on the floor, and he needs me to flash him at least twice a day. I need someone to kill spiders and he needs someone to tell him where his clean socks are. I need reassurance when I’m at my lowest points and he needs reassurance that there’s still hair. I cook for him because he does the dishes. I go out of my way to make sure all of his work clothes are clean by Sunday night because I know that he will drive home when we carpool.

Our wedding seems like it was so long ago. The preparation seemed to take forever, and yet the day – those brief moments as the sun set so perfectly around us – went by way too fast. I know I said my vows, and I know I meant them. But, sometimes I wish I could go back to those moments and say them again without the nerves.

Because we can’t go back in time until there really is a Hot Tub Time Machine, I’m writing Laef this little birthday blog (even though he is spoiled and already knows how much he means to me).

I’m glad you had a birthday back in 1982, bb. (That makes me sick to write). I’m glad that I met you at Oregon when you were still a young, innocent child. I remember that I had only known you for a few months when you turned 23, and that I got you a Blockbuster gift card and tons of candy for the big day. Secretly, I was hoping that you’d invite me over to watch movies, but I don’t think it ever worked out that way.

We’re a long way from the early years, and you have become more than I could have ever hoped for. I know my strengths and my weaknesses, and am very appreciative of you helping me when I need extra strength. I know you work all day with whiny athletes who ask “Can you fix me?” and so I have TRULY appreciated you fixing me as I try and run a marathon to prove to you that age is nothing but a number, and in running years, I am far younger than you.

More than anything, I really appreciate you taking on chores around the house. I wish everyone could see the look on your face when there are dishes to be done or recycling to be hauled out to the trash cans. It is the look of an 8 year old – not a 28 year old – and it is priceless. I know there are things you don’t want to do that you do anyway, and that is why I love you so much. And, yes, I will try to give you babies as soon as possible so that they can take over your chores. “Daddy will do the knives,” Laef will say, “And the rest can be done by the babies.”

In summary, you are the bomb dizzle and I’m glad to have known you for another year.

Laef hates it when I watch 16 and Pregnant on MTV.

Now that I think about it, he actually hates when I watch anything on MTV.

He thinks that by me watching, and thus giving it ratings, I am somehow encouraging other 16-year-olds to get pregnant.

I guess he has a point.

Because what 16-year-old doesn’t want to be on MTV?

Anyway, it should be noted that because of Laef’s strong objection (as opposed to his mild objection of Real World), I don’t actually watch this show with any regularity. However, I noticed that the reunion/catch up show was on the other day so I watched.

Dr. Drew totally tries to justify all of it by raising awareness. He mentions things like “protection” and “adoption”.

Shit that would have gone right over my head when I was 16.

But, now that I’m 35 and have stopped taking my birth control pills, his words actually resonated with me.

I stopped taking birth control pills because we are beginning to have the “baby” talk. But we don’t want said baby to grace us with it’s presence for at least a year, if not longer. And we don’t even want to think about said baby for at least 6 months.

My solution was quite simple and it had something to do with being born-again virgin.

Laef did not like this idea at all.

And then reality set in: We can’t just hope.

On Friday, after a little dinner date night, we went to target for Tampons (WHEW), condoms and cat food.

We were totally trying to act all cool and grown up, but we were acting totally dorky and sketchy while perusing the different brands, and I SWEAR like 22 people came on that aisle while we there.

After Laef (in his LOUDEST voice ever) made sure I knew that “Target doesn’t carry XXXXL so I guess these XXL will have to do”, we headed towards the checkout counter.

At that point, I noticed a familiar dude in the line – some guy that works with Laef at UCLA. I made some excuse that I wanted to go look at greeting cards and bailed before Laef ever knew what happened.

I left Laef at the check out counter with Tampons, Condoms and Cat Food. I know, I am totally mature like a 16-year old chick.

After feeling somewhat guilty, I made my way back to the checkout counter where Laef’s coworker was still standing, chatting about “our exciting Friday at Target”.

Whatever, dick.

We got condoms.

And we giggled like super mature teenagers the whole way home.

I consider myself a lucky wife.

From time to time, my husband travels for entire weekends at a time and I get to do whatever I want.

Doing whatever I want usually consists of me being able to roam about the house without getting the “sex” eye or the “Let’s watch The  Hurt Locker” statement.

However, over the past couple of weeks, I was in a funk. I can’t pinpoint why, but I think it had to do with a combination of getting back to the grind of traffic and the stress of work after a splendid 2-week break for Christmas. It rained quite a bit in early January so I wasn’t running nearly as much as I usually do.

Not to mention, I noticed that I was sporting a mustache that I swear I never noticed before. Also, my brows were clearly trying to meet in the middle of my forehead in an effort to remind me of the most important part of marriage: Always meet half way.

True.

You gotta meet halfway.

Which is why over the past 5 years I can’t remember a time I went to a spa for a facial or a wax. I have gotten a few massages here and there on special occasions, but basic feminine maintenance?

It’s hard to explain to men that a fucking facial costs upwards of $100. I could barely understand it.

But my face was looking tired and Lindsay Lohan-esque, I was growing hair that I can no longer hide or comb into a pretty shape.

So I deemed this past weekend a “me” weekend.

I woke up on Saturday morning, went on a 6-mile run in great weather, and then headed out for my facial and waxing.

Now I know why facials are so expensive.

It was 60 minutes of bliss.

I felt refreshed.

Which gave me the energy to go to the mall and browse around with nothing to do and nowhere to be.

Then I decided to treat myself to a $3 cupcake. Between facials and cupcakes, I am pretty sure I’m in the WRONG business. The bake shop was packed with people willing to spend $3 on one cupcake. I could have made 12 cupcakes for $3.

I am now thinking that I should open a salon that sells cupcakes. The Bill Gates of pampering, bitches.

Anyway, I sat outside and ate my cupcake, savoring every bite and realizing how happy one little cake can make a person.

After that, I headed home to watch a movie and lay on the couch. I did that until I fell asleep. At 9 p.m.

On Sunday, I ran 10 miles and it felt great. By the time I got back, I was feeling back to normal and out of my funk.

Laef came home around 4 p.m.

His first words: Get Naked.

Good thing I am out of my funk.