Tales from La La Land

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!

One week from today I will be 36. I can’t believe it. I truly don’t feel any different at 36 than I did at 30. Things aren’t as tight in some areas as I’d like, but I think it has more to do with wine consumption than age. Yes, I am the person who will make whole wheat pasta for dinner, do my best to eat a small portion, skip dessert, and then cap the night with two glasses of wine. Any complaints about my non-six pack bring the evil squirrel side eye from Laef – “Well, maybe if you didn’t drink 1,000 calories in wine you might have abs”.

He’s right. So, I’ve stopped complaining about it. At 36, things are pretty established for me: I like wine. I HATE doing sit ups (I don’t even want to think about or know what the P90X thing is). From time to time I considered cutting out wine, but realized I do enough (um, hello, running a marathon) to be healthy. I’m not giving up EVERYTHING.  You gotta enjoy a little vino from time to time. And chocolate. And cheese.

Anyway, I feel great despite now being closer to 40 (stomach punch) than 30.

However, I am starting to notice some things on my face. Lines that definitely were not there when I was 30. I’m trying to think of every possible reason for what is causing these lines. For example, there’s a new frowny wrinkle between my eyebrows. I woke up the other morning to Laef gently massaging the space of skin in between my eyebrows.

Laef: “Do you feel OK? Are you having a bad dream?”

Me: “No. Why?”

Laef: “Oh, nothing. You had a frowny face. I was smoothing it out.”

Well, shit. Of course I got up, stared at myself in the mirror for 5 minutes trying to smile, loosen up the frown line. But then smiling shows the eye wrinkles that are being born. It’s fucking exhausting. Because you can’t control age and the changing of your body and face. And, I’m sorry Demi Moore, but I know drinking water and having great sex is not the reason you look amazing. I, too, drink an insane amount of water and am married to a younger guy.

I was thinking that I was getting the wrinkle because I wear glasses, and therefore can’t wear sunglasses. So I squint a lot. Now I wear sunglasses over my glasses when I’m driving. YES. I am that girl. And, it’s all in the name of combating wrinkles. However, I don’t know what to do about my elbow wrinkles.

I mean, seriously. WHAT are those lines? Thankfully, it’s hard to see your elbows unless you are posing in the mirror with the hand on the hip pose trying to look extra cute. I have stopped trying to perfect the Paris Hilton pose so that I never have to see my elbows.

Botox is out of the question seeing as I’m a regular person, and not a movie star. I know how the conversation would go with Laef if I tried to broach the idea of Botox.

Me: “I want Botox.”

Laef: “Hurry up and start your period so you will stop having PMS. It’s making you insecure. You’ll be fine in a week.”

It is true. PMS doesn’t help in the confidence department. Especially when it gives you acne worse than what you ever experienced as a 15-year old.

So, at the peak of my frustration with my skin, I trekked over to Sephora last night to browse skin creams and beauty products that make all sorts of promises. Specifically, I wanted an overnight cream that would make me look like Jennifer Aniston in the morning, and eye cream that would make me look all bright and cheery.

Let’s discuss overnight cream: $80. Let’s discuss eye treatments: $75.

Had I been a tad more fed up, I might possibly have put both on my credit card and kept a little white lie from Laef. But, I was too disgusted. Yes, I know you can buy creams at Target, but I am hesitant to do that because I tried that, and I had a horrible allergic reaction to which my face is still recovering. I know there must be reasonable priced products out there, so I’d love to hear ideas.

I left the mall and thought about what the fuck I was doing. And what other women must be doing. No doubt people drop hundreds of dollars on beauty supplies all the time. The price to make yourself feel pretty is ridiculous. Hair color, make up, lotions, creams, body washes, perfumes. I have always done what I can to cut back on costs in those departments – color my own hair, buy cheap make up, and I don’t even own perfume right now.

But sometimes I want to pamper myself with fancy lipsticks and salon hair color. And these companies know our weaknesses. I mean,  I almost paid more for face cream than I paid for my wedding cake all because I wasn’t feeling pretty. Or youthful. Well, the giant zit on my cheek does make me feel like a teenager, I guess.

I love that Brandi Carlile tells us that the lines on her face tell a story, yet her face has zero hint of any lines.

I do a lot of things to block out the fact that I’ve become everything I thought I wouldn’t in terms of my professional life. Never in my life did I think I’d be a person who sat behind a desk from 8 a.m. – 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. While I don’t miss the Sunday afternoon hours of working in college athletics, I do miss the roaming around I did for most of my work day.

Let’s be honest, I miss the bullshitting with people while standing at football practice pretending to work. I miss the free grub in the Autzen Stadium press box on a frigid Saturday morning after a long night of drinking (nothing says Saturday morning college football like Hole In The Wall). I miss wandering all over the Cas Center looking for Jonathan Stewart because he’s found the best hiding place to avoid interviews. It annoyed the crap out of me at the time, but now I realize that I was constantly in motion. Rarely was I behind my desk.

That was over 3 years ago. Now I sit behind a desk. The good news: I have my weekends completely free. I don’t stand in freezing rain pretending to care about whether or not Nate Costa took reps with the first team. The bad news: Fuck. I sit. A lot.

Office jobs are funny. It’s all of the stereotypical stuff one might think. Our color printer broke the other day and it was like a 6.0 Earthquake had struck. I am not trying to be disrespectful in light of the recent quakes – I am telling you that people lose their shit when office supplies go haywire.

Pandemonium, I tell you.

So, there’s the stress of: “You stapled this wrong”, “The printer is broken”, “How do you scan this?” (Yes, important people really are that stupid), “WHY CAN’T YOU DO 17 THINGS AT ONCE?”

And then there’s the joy of your Office Max order arriving.

I swear to God I get so excited when my new Post-Its arrive.

It’s disgusting. And I hate myself  for loving ballpoint pens so much.

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.

I recently visited home for the holidays, and being back in my old room from high school brings back a lot of memories.

Now, I didn’t totally hate high school, but I also didn’t totally love it.

I was a zoo in every sense of the word. I was a cheerleader with jet black hair who loved The Cure and played softball in the spring. I’ve never been the kind of person to fit into one type of mold – I somehow always find something in common with almost every person I meet.

That doesn’t really work in high school, and people end up questioning your moral character.

“Damn. Why is that bitch talking to them?”

If I somehow lived the life of the characters on Friday Night Lights (I know, I really need to get over this show) where they all seem so grown up and mature (they go to bars for fucks sake), that might have been OK.  While they all go through serious drama, they come off as way more mature than I ever was.

Anyway, I recently came across this photo of me snapped in my bedroom when I was a senior in high school.

It’s no fucking wonder my parents (and my brother) hated me. If I wasn’t lazy, I would get on photoshop and draw arrows to the MANY things that are wrong with this picture.

For starters, God forbid I allow myself to get a little sun. And, secondly, lose the goth/emo/I hate life bitchface.

You will notice that there is a bright yellow construction/traffic light thing. Apparently, I thought it was cool to steal it and bring it home. I remember that. It was cool until I tried to go to sleep at night.

Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.

WHO THOUGHT STEALING A BLINKING LIGHT WAS COOL? WHY?

A few things of note on my mirrored closet doors.

1. I thought the GAP was THAT cool that I put a sticker on my wall. The GAP. Seriously?

2. There is a photo of my brother (taped above a photo of some male model) in which I clearly drew devil horns and a goatee on him. What a nice person I was.

3. Apparently, I thought that Bartyles and James wine coolers were so cool that I put their labels on my mirror. Wine coolers? Seriously.

4. I guess I liked black and white photos of people kissing. A LOT.

5. Wire hangers were totally acceptable to me.

The point is, if I ever had to go back to those days, I might die. Even knowing what I know now, I would never want to be an angst-ridden 17-year old who covers her wall with stupid shit and has enough anger to last a lifetime.

As you’re probably aware, I’m currently on a Friday Night Lights binge.

I am almost done with Season 2. I have forsaken all of my other shows. They sit, in the DVR, waiting for the bender to end.

And, yes, I’m also running a marathon.

These are the things that keep my mind occupied. They are my escape from long days at a cubicle. The escape from taking orders, battling traffic and wondering if I could be doing more with my professional life. Wondering why the fuck my numbers never come up in the lottery.

Yesterday was one of those particularly rough days. During the drive home, I told myself to let it go. Be over it by the time I walk in the door. Let it go so that I have the evening to salvage what’s left of the day and enjoy it.

I never know what each day will be like, so I always savor the last 5 minutes in bed before getting up. And, I savor the last 5 minutes before I fall asleep. Somehow, I know that those moments could potentially be the best part of my day. I want to remember them. They are what carry me through.

When I got home last night, I was still trying to snap out of the funk when I noticed a piece of mail from the Longeteig house.

First of all: How exciting is it to receive mail that isn’t a bank statement or a pack of coupons? With email and facebook and cell phones, real mail has become SO exciting.

Inside was a CD of songs from a band that does a lot of the songs on Friday Night Lights. There was a note. Just a quick note to say “I miss you.”

And just like that, the best part of my day started.

Thank you, AL. I needed it right then.

I miss you too.

I’m putting this on the internet and in writing so that it is real. So that there’s no turning back, and so that I can lean on random people for support.

After weeks of debating in my head, I have decided to run a full marathon. I have 15 weeks to train, and will do my first (and almost certainly last) marathon in Eugene, OR on May 2.

When I ran my first half marathon, I watched in awe as people continued on for 13 more miles after I had crossed the finish line of the half marathon. I have very close friends who have run full marathons, so I know it can be done. I know you don’t have to be an elite athlete, and that anyone can start from walking and progress to 26.2 miles.

But, I am nervous. I’m worried about the time commitment, the possibility of injury and about the complete change in my life over the next 4 months. Because the truth is, I can’t really make weekend plans because running 20 miles on a Sunday doesn’t really coincide with a night of drinking on a Saturday. Nor does it coincide with doing ANYTHING on a Sunday aside from that run.

And so I thought a lot about this decision. It comes at a time where I have been seriously assessing certain things in my life and wanting to change those things. Focusing on this will force me to make some of those changes – drinking less, eating better, thinking about positive goals as opposed to dwelling on petty things that don’t matter.

There really isn’t a more perfect time to attempt this. There’s no wedding to plan, no babies planned in the very near future and no big plans over the next 5 months.

So, here goes.

WTF am I doing again?

Oh, yeah. Eugene 2010.

My favorite place for so many reasons.

Programming Note: Tomorrow is TheCulinary Throwdown! Make something yummy with Leeks and come by the blog and leave a comment that says, “I’m up.” Moi will be around later in the day to check out all the recipes. (Please don’t make me be the douche bag that has two fucking people participate. I don’t care if you have to eat a raw leek, do something.)

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As far as I can remember, I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions in 2009.

If I did, I certainly can’t remember keeping any of them. There are things that I want to be better about (my abs, drinking less wine, eating less cheese, reading more books), but I can say that as 2009 came to a close my wine and cheese (AND CHOCOLATE) intake were doing abso-fucking-lutely NOTHING for my abs and the Julie and Julia book I started in October fell behind the bookshelf and was rescued only after I saw the movie and decided to finish it.

I am horrible at finishing things. I can get 112 pages into a book that I love, and then something just takes over me. I simply. Can. Not. Turn. Another. Page.

I can get 22 minutes into a decent movie, and then something takes over me. My. Eyes. Must. Close.

However, I did get married in 2009, which is a huge accomplishment for me. Marriage is pretty final. I’d venture to say that I’ve “finished” my dating days.

And, THANK GOD, for that.

Anyway, now that I’m settled into a very happy married life and have put the last 10 years behind me, I can’t help but want to do all sorts of things over the next 10 years.

I’m not talking about stupid shit like waking up an hour before work so that I can eat a proper breakfast and read the newspaper (I contemplated that as a 2010 resolution and promptly woke up 17 minutes before I had to leave for work yesterday, at which point I realized that new year’s resolutions are stupid and I need to think long-term to give myself ample time to succeed).

I’m talking about big picture: Career, Family, Home, Happiness and Health.

There’s no way I can fail. If I am still working at my current job in 10 1 year, then I don’t deserve happiness. Truth be told, I can hold on for another year or so because it pays the bills and gives us opportunities to live our life. Between the two of us, we have a roof over our head, food on the table, and the things we need.

I’m lucky to have a job with benefits. (Sometimes, it feels like a friend with benefits because I often feel fucked when I leave to get on the 405).

But, I want a career that I love. I’m determined not to be one of those people that wakes up at 50 only to realize I didn’t follow my dreams.

We’d like to start a family. We’d like to have a home to put said family. And we’d like everyone to be healthy.

So, here’s to pacing myself with my resolutions. I figure if I’m pregnant I can quit worrying about my abs.

Or, I’ll have at least 5 years to lose the baby weight.