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.

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.

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.

I must be growing up. The old me would have typed “Fuckin’” in the title of this post. Now I will just write it in the first sentence.

It’s that time of year again where something like $1.8 billion will be lost in the work force because people will spend hours filling out brackets, watching games online and pacing for the world’s longest 2.2 seconds of the dreaded 12-seed vs. 5-seed first round matchup instead of filing their bosses reimbursement. (Not that I know anything about that).

Sort of.

As usual, I will do my friend Derek’s pool, which I actually did well enough in last year to win some money. I think that might have been the first time I ever won anything on a bracket. I don’t usually care all that much if I’m winning money or not, but I will admit that it was quite a bit more fun when I was in the running.

It was also a lot more stressful.

This year, Laef and I are going to Vegas for the first round. I would say that betting money on the games is going to be stressful, but let’s not kid ourselves: The maximum bet Laef will allow me to place will be $10. He is not allowed to gamble on sports whatsoever, and if you’re wondering why, you can read all about Rick Neuheisel here. So, I will spend our money gambling and drinking while Laef watches Siena versus Purdue just for the fun of it.

I never feel educated about picking my bracket for the tourney, but this year I feel even more skeptical. I tried my hardest to follow college hoops because of Laef’s new gig at UCLA, but I didn’t see much outside of the Pac-10. Which might be why I was not loving college basketball this season. It wasn’t the greatest year for Pac-10 ball, but at least there are two teams in.

Other than that, I usually base my choices on random things or hunches, but I don’t really have any hunches this year. I picked Ohio State to go pretty far because I love this blog, written by one of the teams walk-ons. Funny guy. Funny blog. So, I picked them. Awesome strategy, if you ask me. (Talk to me in a week and we’ll see how it worked out).

I’ll try not to bore everyone with my tales of bliss and misery regarding the tourney, but there might be some cursing on the blog over the next month.

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.

First, I want to say thank you to all of you who commented for the crockpot giveaway. I used Random.org to determine the winner. It’s a pretty simple process, and based on the comments to the blog, it should come as no shock that AJ won! Yay. She commented the most and there weren’t tons of comments, so the odds were stacked in her favor.

Meanwhile, back at the crib.

We are in the midst of holiday chaos and basketball season.

Something new that I have learned about Laef: He can not get dressed in the morning without turning on the light, opening and closing his dresser drawers 50 times, putting his cold-ass hands on me to warm them up and generally making sure that I am WIDE awake by the time he leaves.

I don’t know why the glaring light from outside is enough for me to get dressed in the morning, but not him. While I try to tip toe around the bedroom so as to not bother him, he will do the following:

1. Turn on light. THEN say: “Cover your eyes!”
2. Stand in front of the closet for 5 minutes, which makes no sense because ALL OF THE UCLA SHIRTS LOOK THE SAME, HONEY!
3. Open his sock drawer.
4. Close his sock drawer.
5. Open his boxer drawer.
6. Close his boxer drawer.
7. Open his sock drawer.
8. Close his sock drawer.

Me: “OHMYGOD, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?!”
Laef: “I need socks”.
Me: “In the dryer.”

Laef will then walk outside to the dryer (it’s a long story, don’t ask) and leave the light on in the bedroom. Then, from outside, he will yell into the bedroom window: “I NEED NEW SOCKS!”

Once this has been determined, he will come back to the bedroom, get his pants, spray them with water and go back to the dryer so that he can “iron” his pants.

It never dawns on him to turn off the light, but it’s just logistics, I guess.

By the time he leaves for work, I am awake and wondering why some things have to be so hard.

And then the other day while I was shopping at Ralphs, I was staring at dish soap for a good 5 minutes. Normally I make such purchases at CVS or Target because it is usually cheaper. However, I was in a rush so I went to Ralphs.

I stared at my options for at least 3 minutes trying to figure out the best deal. All the while this little old man kept walking up and down the aisle, mumbling.

Finally, he came right up behind me and said, “Starch.”

Me: “Starch??”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: … completely baffled. I am thinking starch as in foods with starches.

We start wandering up and down the aisle together, and I’m just as lost as he is. I ask him if I can please look at the list, and when I see it, it is so obvious that his wife wrote it for him in her pretty writing. She had the brand and everything.

I’m still baffled. Finally, we both realize that I’m of no help and I wander away.

And, about five seconds later, I realize: “OHMYGOD! SPRAY STARCH! MY PARENTS USE THIS!!”

I run back to the aisle and the man is still there. I say, “spray starch?!” And the excitement comes over him. “YES!”

Me: “Like for ironing?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “I know this!”

And there it was, on the top shelf of aisle 6 (where the little man needed me after all because he could not reach this shelf).

I practically skipped away so proud of myself.

And then I realized: What a total loser. Ironing in our house consists of a spray bottle and a dryer. I can’t remember the last time I have ever used our ironing board let alone spray starch.

So, I am thinking that men either really don’t know how to shop or that they pretend not to so they can ask random girls to help them.

Jury is still out.

He’s a multi-media phenomenon.

TV star.

Print legend.

Internet sensation.

He is my husband.

And, seriously, when the fuck did Laef become the most famous person in our house?

It started on Monday night with UCLAs first regular season game, which was televised nationally by ESPN.

He was shown trying to heal a point guard with leg cramps.

Some people’s (Hansen, Moseley) version of heal might have the words, “rub one out”, but he was on TV for fuck sakes. For a lot of minutes.

And, as much as I want to, OK, am going to, mock my husband on my blog, I will say that seeing him dressed up, doing his job, made me super proud.

I got several texts during the game from people who were watching, and who were also excited.

Go honey. You are so LA.

Then on Tuesday, I was told there was a front page sports photo of mah boo from his days at Oregon (This because the Ducks are traveling to Tuscon to play Arizona and when Laef was working at Oregon, the starting QB suffered a season-ending injury. And there’s a photo of Laef carrying him off the field).

Now I’m wondering if we need an agent. I mean, fuck, there’s got to be a reality show here somewhere, right?

Because wouldn’t people love to see how at home the DIVA is just another man.

For example, he took my cocktail dresses out of my garment bag so that he could use it to transport his suits to the tailor and when he was done with the garment bag it somehow ended up on the bottom of the closet instead of wrapped around me dresses?

I blog this because I found it completely hilarious. It falls in the category of him taking off his dirty clothes and leaving them on the floor.

A mere inches from the hamper.

I literally sit there and stare at it for few seconds and try to understand it. How can it be harder to put them two inches to the right?

Maybe that’s how DIVAs roll.

I almost didn’t know what to do with myself last night.

No new Top Chef.

Perhaps it seems odd that I put so much stock in a TV show, but as you may know, I am married. I don’t go on dates, or hit the clubs with my friends or chat online with hot babes.

THANK. GOD.

A lot of people inquire about married life. Our married life is great. To be honest, it’s not much different than what our life has been like since we moved to LA together almost three years ago.

I don’t know why (or how) I remember this, but way back in the day, I read a quote from Heather Locklear regarding her marriage to Richie Sambora (OK, so they are not the best example as we all know how THAT turned out, but stick with me here). She said that him traveling a lot was the best thing for them.

Laef and I seem to go in many different directions, but we do spend quite a bit of time together. Which is why I value my alone time when he works late or travels.

I know the lady at the sushi restaurant I used to frequent when Laef was traveling thought I was some weird cat lady (somewhat true), who had a fake husband.

Surely, the patrons – in pairs of two or for or six – thought I was a lonely alcoholic drinking sake alone (somewhat true).

Going to sushi after sitting in traffic for 1.5 hours to read The Week, sip sake and watch baseball on a high-def TV is one of my hobbies.

I WANT to be left alone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to enjoy being by myself. I love it.

Laef and I are about to embark on a whole new experience in our relationship. He will begin basketball season in two weeks, and, as he says, “his life will be over.”

Mentally, I am preparing myself for the fact I’ll get a lot of that alone time I claim to love so much. I like it in moderation. I think I’m about to have the opposite of moderation.

I’m preparing for the fact that I’ll be going to San Diego for Thanksgiving alone. That he might get two days at Christmas so we can visit my family. That he’ll be gone Wednesday-Sunday for many, many weekends from November-March.

Thankfully, I have my hobbies, which include running half marathons and planning a month’s worth of meals. I also like my shows, writing on my blog and just reading magazines at the beach.

(NO, this isn’t match.com. Shut the fuck up, I’m just telling you how I prevent myself from calling Laef 2385742832 times while he is gone.)

The thing about the half marathons is that I occupy myself with long runs on Saturday and Sunday, which leads to a long shower, stretching, making a yummy meal, napping and plotting how I can beat my personal best time.

It beats sitting around waiting for Laef to come home.

The thing about planning our monthly meals is that I can occupy myself by reading cook books, going to the grocery store, cooking, and generally just figuring out ways to incorporate new things into our repertoire.

It beats crying and wondering when my husband will show his face again.

And all of these hobbies give me things to blog about, which is yet another hobby that keeps me happy.

So, as we prepare for this new phase of complete chaos and conflicting schedules, I am happy that I’ve finally found a couple of things that I have proven I can stick with. Things that keep me sidetracked from the fact that I miss mah boo more than words.