Tales from La La Land

Before Harper came along, Sanch was king of our family. I just looked, and there are 41 blog posts dedicated to him, his shit-stained ass, and all of his other issues.

Post-Harper, it’s safe to say that the cat does not get as much ink. It’s not that he is not deserving, and hasn’t continued to do things that are blog-worthy. They say babies are smart and they learn things quickly – it’s amazing how fast Harper learned to say chocolate and how eagerly she will do the sign for “please” knowing that we get things when we say please, yet she still won’t cover her mouth she coughs. In fact, if you put her hand over her mouth and say, “cover, please”, she will shake her head emphatically and say, “nope.”

Babies basically know how to do everything, and they understand everything you try to teach them, but they pick and choose what they feel like doing. It’s one of the joys of parenthood – the proud moments when they say thank you without you prompting them – and one of the biggest frustrations – why are you screaming to get out of the high chair instead of just saying the words, “all done”?? I KNOW YOU KNOW HOW TO SAY ALL DONE. YOU SAY CHOCOLATE AND POPSICLE.

Anyway, kids aren’t the only smart ones. Cats are smart too. Sanchez has learned that when people cry or throw fits in the middle of the night, they usually get some kind of attention. They are tended to with milk and snuggles and sweet nothings. So, it is inevitable that on nights when Harper sleeps like a baby (and not a spoiled toddler), Sanchez runs amok. I can count on one finger the number of nights where they are BOTH silent for 8 consecutive hours.

When Harper is silent, Sanchez picks up the slack, meowing and scratching our bedroom door incessantly. We have tried sleep training him the same way we did with Harper, which is to say we ignore him. Sometimes he gives up, and sometimes he persists.

I guess it’s safe to say that he doesn’t get as much attention as he used to, but things are slowly starting to turn around now that Harper is older and has an obsession with cats. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but for the first year of her life, she had no idea Sanchez was even there. She didn’t want anything to do with him, and didn’t understand that he was a living thing that could actually play with her.

Then one day, something clicked and she realized just how cool it was to have her own personal play thing! And, despite the fact that she didn’t understand the difference between gentle petting and slapping (the title of my next sex memoir, btw), he never seemed to care. He would sit there and take everything she threw at him.

As time went on, she learned where his food and treats were, and she’d constantly go to the kitchen and say, “treats”. I thought it was cute to give her Sanchez’ treats so that she could give them to him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand that holding the treats in her hand, or putting them in her mouth is pure torture for Sanch. He politely follows her around waiting for her to put the treats on the floor LIKE ANY SANE PERSON WOULD YOU FUCKING SADIST.

We’re still learning that giving Sanchez his treats means giving them to him. They are not yours, they are not your baby dolls, they are for Sanchez. Thankfully, she eventually drops them one by one, and moves on to something else. Then it’s like a scavenger hunt for Sanchez, and he spends the remainder of the day trying to figure out where each gem has been dropped.

But perhaps the most tortuous thing Harper does to Sanchez has to do with water. Sanchez has always been a freak about water. Anyone who has come over to our house and used the restroom knows this. The cat will sit next to the bathroom sink for hours in hopes that someone will turn on the water for him. We used to do it, and then we stopped because he became obsessive about it. But the minute anyone gives him water from the sink (our friendly neighbor cat sat for us, and left the sink running for  Sanchez. All during the day!), he will sit there and cry for hours waiting … waiting. So we cut him off cold turkey.

Harper also likes water. It is hard to get her out of the bathtub because she just wants to sit and play with the running water. We’re still trying to teach her not to suck on her washcloth. Let’s be honest, she totally pisses in the tub, and drinking piss water out of the wash cloth that was just used to clean the lint from your neck is not your finest moment.

But, drinking water from the faucet isn’t as bad, so we indulge her from time to time.

And, it’s pure fucking torture for someone.

Have no fear. The minute we leave the bathroom, he gets his fix.

I took Harper to her four month appointment last week. I asked the doctor about weaning Harper from her swaddle, and if we could start letting her cry herself  to sleep. I told her that we usually rock her for at least 30 minutes before she is sound enough asleep to put her in the crib.

You should have seen the cut eye the doctor gave me.

“Stop doing that, ” she said.

Me: …

Doctor who obviously doesn’t have kids: “Put her in the crib when she is still awake. No paci, no rocking. The last thing she will remember before she falls asleep is that she didn’t have a paci and she didn’t have you rocking her.”

I walked home thinking about this, and built up my confidence to take the plunge. Of course, my fear is that the last thing she’ll remember before falling asleep is that her mommy and daddy have abandoned her, and um, WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PACI? ONE THING AT A TIME, PEOPLE.

Sidenote: EVERYONE has a different approach, thought, comment on parenting. I am not telling anyone what to do or judging what anyone else does. I’m simply relaying what we are doing, and how it is going for us. I know we could pick her up from the crib, or give her the paci, or rock her to sleep. We are trying to teach her to fall asleep on her own because we believe that in the long run it will be better for us, and for her. We have never let her sleep in our bed, and she’s been sleeping in her crib, through the night for a long time. It’s not that I don’t want to snuggle her and have her sleep next to me sometimes, it’s just that I have to be functioning at work everyday. And if she sleeps next to us in the bed, the only person sleeping is Harper.

Maybe this is selfish of us, but we also save ourselves a lot of time and headaches if we can teach her to fall asleep by herself. The first night we tried this, she cried for 20 minutes, and then fell asleep. We have spent more time in the past trying to rock/bouce/shush her to sleep. There are times when we spend almost 40 minutes trying to get her to sleep so that she can take a 30 minute nap.

Anyway, it was the absolute worst 20 minutes ever, and we had to work some serious restraint not to go in and pick her up.

After she fell asleep we went into her room to look at her to see if it was real. Then we stood over the crib watching her sleep, like totally proud of ourselves.

“Holy Shit! She feel asleep! By herself. She’s such a big girl.”

High 5!

Woop.

And while we were standing there gloating over this magnificent site, Sanch cruised in to her bedroom meowing his face off trying to see what was going on. So, OF COURSE, she opened her eyes. As if on cue, Laef and I both dropped to the ground, below crib height. We didn’t want her to see us. So, we sat on the floor of her room, inches from her crib, on all fours. We looked back and forth at each other, like, shit. What do we do??

Finally, I gave the hand signal that I was crawling out.

Then Laef crawled out.

I mean, REALLY?

It was like we were trying to avoid a major explosion. We took cover, and crouched in fear.

Of a baby.

What the fuck?

P.S. It might have been us high-fiving and celebrating while standing over her that woke her up. But, it’s way easier to blame everything on the cat.

Well, after 10 weeks, it’s now official: Harper has been hazed.

For years, Sanch has tolerated us. I was too lazy to look through all the blogs, but there are way more stories. Like the time Laef took Sanch in the shower with him. Or the time we put a onesie on him.

He still gets his fair share.

I used to feel guilty that maybe Sanch was feeling neglected. Now I’m starting to think he’s actually happier. There’s just not enough time for us to torture him. He is also quite aware that we are preoccupied and knows that he can sneak on the counter or in the bedroom, and enjoy both for an extended period of time before we realize he is M.I.A.

Anyway, yesterday I decided to take Harper to the pool. She turned 10 weeks old so I figured double digit weeks qualified her for such an activity. And, also, I am running out of things to do with her. Well, things that are free. How many fucking walks around Brentwood can a person make in a 10 week period? I will tell you: TOO MANY.

Little babies shouldn’t be in the sun too much, but the pool we went to had lots of shade, and we used the kind of suncreen our pediatrician said was OK so don’t yell at me.

Before we could go, however, we had to make a quick trip to CVS for some Little Swimmer diapers. Turns out they only carry size medium, which is for babies that are 24 lbs. Harper is almost 12 pounds. I bought them anyway.

Laef is not the only MacGyver around here.

Athletic tape is this family’s duct tape. It will fix anything.

She’s a fashionista in training because once she had her suit on, you couldn’t see anything wrong.

I recently finished reading the book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, and came away with a variety of thoughts ranging from “I can get with this” to “That’s probably not the way I want to go.” I’m hesitant to even mention the book here because people are c-r-a-z-y when it comes to thoughts on how to raise children. Everyone has a thought. I’m not here to say I agree or disagree with Amy Chua. My whole point in reading the book was that I read several articles about the book, and decided that I wanted to formulate my own opinion as opposed to taking what the columnists had to say as my truth.

If you haven’t heard about all the fuss around the book, you can g-o-o-g-l-e it because I didn’t have a tiger mommy and I’m too lazy to link to all of it here. (Goal No. 1: Do not raise the next Kim Zolciak).

Anyway, agree or disagree, the main thing I came away with after reading the book was that some of the articles were a little off base. People were up in arms about Amy Chua’s parenting style, but the reality of her book is that it’s a memoir. Never does she say: “This is how you should raise your kids.” No, she tells the story of how she wanted to raise her daughters, and by the end she concedes that she kind of messed up.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have visions of my kids attending Stanford and being successful in life. Of course I want to see them work hard, earn all As in school and be the best at everything they try. I want them to be the opposite of lazy, and for fucks sake I never, ever want to see them on the Jersey Shore. In that regard, Amy Chua has good points – kids don’t necessarily love to work. As a parent, you have to put in a ton of effort to make sure they stay the course and work hard at things. (Goal No. 2: Do not raise the next Snooki).

So, anyway, I passed the book over to Laef so that we can discuss further. Laef has always been more of a Tiger Mommy than I am. Ever since I’ve known him he has said things about raising kids that I always thought were way too strict. Before I got pregnant I think I planned on being the “cool Mommy”. Now that I’m pregnant and have come to realize what happens when you’re the “cool Mommy”, I have changed my tune completely. Some of Laef’s ideas aren’t sounding all that bad these days.  (Goal No. 3: Do not raise the next Lindsay Lohan).

But, I think it’s going to be hard for me at times. As I have mentioned before, we’re practicing our parenting skills with The Sanch. I mean, he totally does not get straight As, he’s completely lazy, and he doesn’t lift a finger around the house unless he hears the word “treat”, which by the way is referred to as t-r-e-a-t in our house just like with a real child! (One hilarious part of the Amy Chua book is that when the family gets a dog, she totally tries to Tiger Mommy it and make it all smart and shit. She concedes very early on that dogs can not attend Yale dog school, nor can they play the piano, so she finally just accepts what the real purpose of a dog is – unconditional love. Nothing more. Nothing less.)

ANYWAY, Laef decided that he wanted to start Tiger Mommying Sanchez. Just like with kids, the cat has good days and bad days. Some days he wakes up and just decides to break every rule RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE. That is probably the most aggravating thing of all – when he does shit he is not supposed to right in front of me. Which means I have to get up from what I am doing, chase him around the house with a squirt bottle, and hope that I’ve made my point. (Goal No. 4: Do not raise the next Sanchez).

But sometimes he’s like that punk ass kid who laughs at his mom when she spanks him. He gets that look that says:  “Sweet, thanks for squirting me, I couldn’t reach that spot on my back and you just cleaned it for me. I totally am not phased by this squirting bullshit. I am far too smart and awesome for you.”

This is the look:

And then he’ll do something else bad, and the cycle goes on all day. Then Laef will call from his awesome hotel room somewhere on the road with basketball, where he is relaxing after eating at some awesome restaurant, and I will complain about the cat and how it’s been a bad day, and he’s annoying the fuck out of me. Laef will mutter something barely audible because the food coma is too much, and I realize that this conversation is stupid, and since he’s not here to witness the epic annoyingness, he won’t quite grasp it.

But a few weeks ago, something totally awesome happened: Sanchez did something bad RIGHT IN FRONT OF LAEF. He never, ever does that. He knows who the real Tiger Mommy is, and he rarely crosses Laef. And inside I was totally loving watching Laef get all flustered and pissed.

Shortly after this incident, the cat somehow snuck out of our front door when Laef and I were going down to the laundry room in our apartment complex. Neither one of us noticed, and we were down in the laundry room for a while because Laef was trying to get me to show him my boobies (why do guys always want to see your boobies when you’re in a random place as though they look totally different next to a pile of lint and a random sock that someone lost?) and I was just trying to load the fucking clothes and get out of there before anyone saw me in my hideous (but super comfortable) Saturday morning outfit.

When we went back to the apartment, Sanchez was outside the door sitting in a puddle of piss and howling like he just got ran over by a car. He was shaking with fear. Freaked the F out that he was never getting back in that apartment. As much as we try to stop him from escaping everyday, we realized something: he’s not going anywhere. And this turned on a lightbulb for Laef. The next few times that he ran out while we had the door open, Laef let him go out and then quickly shut the door.

It only took a few seconds for the cat to start scratching the door and crying like an insane person. He was scared and he wanted back in. I, of course, was yelling at Laef: “Open the door! OMG, you are torturting him. He’s freaking out. Let him in!”

Laef: “I’m teaching him.”

So, yeah, the cat hasn’t tried to run out once since that incident. It worked, but I was ready to end the Tiger Mommying before it even started. I am a sucker for sad cries. And my skin currently isn’t as thick as Laef’s.

We also have the issue of the cat being obsessed with the shower. I used to let him climb in and lick to his hearts content, but then he would track wet pawprints all over the house. And sometimes he would go directly to his litter box, which would then lead to wet litter pawprints. So, the shower is now off limits. Which does not stop him from howling at it or scratching it for 20 minutes straight. Apparently this scratching was bothering Laef while he was trying to, um, read his magazine. So Laef decided to open the shower door, let the cat in, and then turn on the shower. Then he closed the shower door. (And you thought Amy Chua was bad?)

Honestly, I was aghast. One because of course the cat was freaking out, and two because now we will have a wet cat traipsing all over the house.

Me: “Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Laef: “I’m teaching him.”

Me: “OMG, I hate you, I hate your Tiger Mommy ways, this is totally torturing him, and you are dealing with this whole mess.”

Laef: “He’s not tortured. He’s learning.”

Sanchez has been skeptical of the shower ever since, although he is not skeptical when Laef is away. He knows my ass would never throw him in the shower. He knows I’m the cool mommy.

Fuck.

I’ve got 3 months to refine my skills.

And in case you are wondering: the cat looooves Laef just like Chinese kids love their parents despite the strictness.

UPDATE (6:25 P.M.): Holy Shit. I just got home from work and the cat was sitting on the doorstep. Filthy. Reaking of pee. I talked to the neighbor and he said Sanchez has been outside sitting on the doorstep ALL DAY. He must have snuck out this morning when I left for work. I just gave him a bath to wash the stank.

Now he thinks I AM a tiger mommy because I locked him out all day AND threw him the bath!

Progress! (Except I feel horrible and want to let him sleep in bed with me tonight to make up for it…)

I’m not a big New Year resolution person. I think after 15 years of vowing to do something different/better/Oprah-esque only to wind up at December 31 as the exact same person I’ve always been, I realized that I’m just going to resolve to be me. And to be happy with the me that I am.

Besides, I’ve already given up drinking. And sushi. And I’m having a fucking baby in 2011. What more do I need to do to feel better about myself?

I did decide to try and be a lot more patient. Especially when it comes to driving around LA. So far so shitty, but there’s always tomorrow.

The holidays are gone and things have pretty much returned to normal. I loved having two weeks off. It was great to do things around the house, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to actually enjoying coming back to work. I like having a stable routine and things to do. I kept myself busy working around the house, but if I had to listen to Oprah talk about her tribe one more fucking day I was going to stab myself. Also, The View? Horrible. Of course all the good shows – Real Housewives, Top Chef – were on hiatus. Boo.

Other things I learned while spending too much time with my husband: Most things relating to pregnancy are best left to yourself. I was uber-excited about my new maternity underwear and when I showed Laef I am 99% certain that any thoughts of sexual activity disappeared for at least 22 days. He doesn’t need to see the huge clothes, the happy trail, the tears, the fears, the 12 pieces of Sees candy gone. He’s not going to be excited about the stroller I picked out or the swaddle blanket I bought. He is excited about one thing: the baby. I will try to remember that over the next 6 months.

The cat doesn’t give two shits about the baby, and in fact doesn’t like babies. We had our friends Allie and Greg over for New Years Eve. They brought their tiny baby over and Sanch thought it was another cat with a better blanket than him. He could not wrap his tiny brain around what it was. He explored, but was petrified. So, it should be fun teaching him that he will soon be second in line for cuddling and attention.

I wish I had better stories to tell. I wish I could tell you that we won Mega Millions and Laef gave me and extra $50 for spending money, but out of five tickets we had ZERO numbers. So we’re back to the grind, but as far as I can tell, 2011 is going to be like no other year!

Slowly but surely things are starting to change all around us. We have cleaned out the spare bedroom, which was acting as a storage space for extra luggage, boxes of photographs and whatever random crap Laef throws in there when he “cleans” the living room. The items have been moved to a storage unit so that a crib can be moved in at some point. Our bedroom has been re-arranged to make room for a bassinet and and a rocking chair.

So, with each passing week we seem to make small progresses towards the eventual arrival. The saddest part of this transformation was my trip to Motherhood Maternity last Friday. I had grand plans of being super cute all through my pregnancy, and somewhere in that dream I was still wearing all my normal clothes.

False.

Right now I am at that awful not-yet-showing-a-full-baby-bump stage. But my pants absolutely do not button, and I look like I spent the weekend drinking 72 Coronas followed by a dozen Krispy Kremes.

I bit the bullet and went to the Maternity store. Um, nothing will erase sexiness faster than elastic-wasted cargo pants. But, fuckin’ A, I’m SO much more comfortable now. I gave in. Without a fight. Comfort > Cute pregnant lady.

Sigh.

However, while I might be dressing more mommyish and Laef might be doing all the mathematical equations to come up with some sort of reasonable way that we will afford daycare and diapers, we are failing miserably at parenting the two living things currently under our care – the tree and the cat.

The tree apparently needed to be watered daily. We did not know this. We gave it water the first day, and then noticed last weekend that it was looking a little meek. It was completely devoid of water, so we refilled it. Which of course was Sanch’s signal to investigate and drink said water from the tree stand.

Which is then Laef’s cue to hop on Google to find a solution.

“Oh. You’re supposed to water Christmas trees daily, and once it gets dry, there is no reversing it.”

Me: “Well, it will always be dry because that Fucktard will always drink from the water when we are not here.”

Apparently there is some kind of cat forum on Google because the next thing I know Laef is peeling an Orange and throwing the rinds under the tree.

Me: BLANK. STARE. “We are not putting random orange peels on the floor.”

Laef: “Cats hate the smell of oranges!!!!!!!!! Look, look, he’s running away.”

Me: “Great, so we are going to just have random orange everywhere.”

Laef: “I’m going to rub this on our bedroom door. And the sink! AND my clothes!”

At which point I completely drop the whole thing because when MacGyver comes out to play, everyone might as well step away. It was true. Sanch wouldn’t go near the tree for the 2.4 hours that the orange peels remained fresh.

But after two days the orange peels were dried up and crusty and lacking any sort of potent cat-killer scent. I was home alone last night when I suddenly heard the furious slurpping sound of one Sanchez Morris stealing the water from our dying tree.

At which point I screamed at the cat and shooed him away. He tried to go back for more several times despite having his OWN BOWL OF WATER because he knows I’m the “easy one”. I would like to know why cats never want to drink their own water. Apparently the water from the sink, toilet and bathtub is muuuuch better.

Anyway, when Laef came home I relayed the story.

Me: “Um. I think you can throw away the orange peels. They’re no longer working. I had to yell at that bitch twice.”

Laef: “You have to stop yelling at him. The baby can hear you. We don’t want it to think all we do is yell. At the cat.”

Me: … “Anyways, the oranges. You can throw them away.”

Much later that night, I am sleeping peacefully when I hear the sound of the cat going batshit crazy all over the house. It is clear he has found something totally awesome to play with, and is furiously running all over the living room.

Laef comes in and says, “Guess what that little fucker is playing with?”

ORANGE PEELS.

Yeah, that worked.

The cat completely dominates us, and the tree is slowly dying. And Laef wants me to squirt the cat without yelling at it. Meanwhile, because Laef put off throwing away those orange peels, God only knows where the one went that the cat was playing with.

Maybe the baby will find it when it’s crawling around.

We’ve got t-minus 6 months to figure this shit out.

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 are now in our last month of beach living and trying to enjoy every second of it. Unfortunately, June Gloom is not cooperating with our desire to spend every waking second at the beach. Couple that with the fact that it took me 1 hour, 10 minutes to make the 12 mile drive home from work yesterday, and we are actually really looking forward to moving closer to UCLA.

Because it is summer, and UCLA student-athletes are not around much, Laef had this entire week off. I believe he spent Monday on the couch. I also believe that he has not worn underwear all week, but I try not to ask too many questions. However, I did shed a small tear when I called him on Tuesday and he was outside in our storage shed organizing things to prepare for the move. I shed 6 more tears when I came home and saw the trash cans filled to the brim with random shit that he had finally decided we no longer needed to keep.

Feeling super accomplished after Tuesday’s events, my sources (Sanch) tell me that Wednesday was spent on the couch. On Thursday, Laef had to stop by work for something, so he decided that while he was showered and wearing underwear, he would go look at some apartments.

We had a short list of top choices near UCLA.

We are seeing one of these places on Sunday, but he decided to do a drive by to check out the area. He liked it, and across the street from the apartment complex was another building that had a for rent sign, so he called the number. Apparently, a 70-ish year old lady answered and hit Laef with a barrage of questions. Are you alone? Is it you and your friend? Oh, it’s your wife? Do you want to wait for you wife?

Eventually Laef cut her off to let her know that he wanted to see the place, and also tell her we have a cat so if that’s a deal breaker, no need to waste her time.

Laef: “We have a cat. Is that OK?”

Cat-Eater: “Um, oh. Does it run around outside?”

Laef: “No. He stays inside.”

Cat-Eater: “Do you have to bring it with you?”

No, bitch. We are leaving Sanch in Manhattan Beach to become a surfer dude and pay his own rent.

Besides, who would play Cribbage with Laef if we abandoned The Sanch?

It only got better once Laef was actually able to get inside to see the place. When she showed Laef the bathroom she said, “A perfect place for your kitty”.

So, yeah, whatever that means.

During the day, I called on another place that was in a perfect location. I asked the guy if it was available right now because we won’t be ready to move until July. He said yes. I said I’d keep an eye on it, and if it’s still vacant when we’re ready to move, I will call him back.

Creepy Landlord/Hustler: “Oh, you’ll watch it like Wall Street, heh?”

Me: ….

CL/H: “Why don’t you pull the trigger. Put a deposit.  I’ll hold it for you.”

Me: “Ihavetogobye!”

It’s not so much what he said, it’s how he said it. I pictured him in a wife-beater with mad amounts of black chest hair protruding and a gold Rolex that he picked up on Canal Street. He was super pushy wanting to get confirmation without us having seen the place or met him.

In a sense, we are interviewing landlords as much as they are seeking good tenants. I don’t want to be hustling with my landlord every month or worried that The Sanch’s mug will end up on a milk carton. But, there are a TON of vacancies all over the place and it seems with the economy the way it is, landlords want to find people to fill those empty apartments. So much so that they’re willing to consider a cat even though it’s obvious they hate cats.

After meeting with creepy lady who hates cats, Laef went to our top choice to check it out. I called him later to get the scoop and see if he liked it.

Me: “What did you think?”

Laef: “It doesn’t have a shower.”

Me: “Say what?”

Laef: “It only has a bath.”

Me: “How? What? I don’t ….”

Laef: “You like baths.”

Me: “Not in the morning at 6:30 when I have 5 minutes…OK, we are not even having this conversation. I’m not taking baths everyday. Who takes  a bath?”

As my friend Erin said, Ernie takes a bath. That is who takes a bath.

Or Kate Winslet.

So, yeah. I’m not a Muppet, and therefore we are not moving to a place without a shower.

To Be Continued.

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.