dearest gray hair,
hello, welcome to my head. although you are the only one of your kind - the new guy on the block - i encourage you to not be afraid. i assure you, other gray hairs will join your ranks, and you may not believe me now, but you will become the majority in due time.
it was a surprise to see you, even though i had been expecting your arrival years ago. both my parents met your kind at a young age, so i had a feeling our crossing would be soon...i just didn't know when. but now that you are a part of me, i feel relieved. i feel like i've earned you - this sign of age, this entryway into straight-up adulthood.
my mom said she met her first gray hair when she got married, so it could be quite possible you're here now because i'm getting married in less than a month. i don't know, but part of me likes to think you grew out of me now because i finally have some credibility in this world. i've been there and i've done that. and although i have so much more to experience and learn, i welcome the time, the age, and your fine presence: the symbol that represents my ever-evolving self.
have a blast, gray hair. it's about to get real.
sincerely,
the gal from which you sprout
9.21.2014
9.13.2014
like, whoa!
last week, g and i stopped by the beverly hills courthouse to get our marriage license. to be honest, neither of us knew we had to apply for a marriage license prior to the ceremony. we just thought you say your "i do's," kiss, and sign the official paper handed to you by your officiate.
nope. apparently there's a process beforehand.
once we learned about said process, we followed the necessary steps and made our trip. it was an interesting experience, to say the least. here we were, standing in line with other engaged couples, waiting to be called to the next window. it was all fine and dandy, all these happy-go-lucky couples excited about taking the next step to marriage. but then there was the "other" line. the line for people paying their traffic tickets. no smiles there, that's for sure. it really was such an odd juxtaposition...it kind of killed the mood.
once it was our turn to go up to the window, we verified information, said an oath, and signed a paper. and that was that, our marriage license ready for our officiate's signature.
although the process felt so quick and rather odd with the mood-busters, it was certainly exciting. it was like, "whoa, this is really happening!" i had the warmest feeling rush through my blood, the feeling that makes you grateful for a joyful heart. here we are, in a courthouse filled with strangers of sorts, and all i can think about is how lucky i am to be hand-in-hand with the guy who continues to make my knees tremble with giddiness.
at the closing of our little trip, i made my way to the restroom. within steps, i placed eyes on two pennies, both heads up. i'm not so much of the superstitious sort, but when i saw these little gems, my heart melted. as far as i'm concerned, a sign is a sign, and if you're going to trust anyone, trust lincoln.
nope. apparently there's a process beforehand.
once we learned about said process, we followed the necessary steps and made our trip. it was an interesting experience, to say the least. here we were, standing in line with other engaged couples, waiting to be called to the next window. it was all fine and dandy, all these happy-go-lucky couples excited about taking the next step to marriage. but then there was the "other" line. the line for people paying their traffic tickets. no smiles there, that's for sure. it really was such an odd juxtaposition...it kind of killed the mood.
once it was our turn to go up to the window, we verified information, said an oath, and signed a paper. and that was that, our marriage license ready for our officiate's signature.
although the process felt so quick and rather odd with the mood-busters, it was certainly exciting. it was like, "whoa, this is really happening!" i had the warmest feeling rush through my blood, the feeling that makes you grateful for a joyful heart. here we are, in a courthouse filled with strangers of sorts, and all i can think about is how lucky i am to be hand-in-hand with the guy who continues to make my knees tremble with giddiness.
at the closing of our little trip, i made my way to the restroom. within steps, i placed eyes on two pennies, both heads up. i'm not so much of the superstitious sort, but when i saw these little gems, my heart melted. as far as i'm concerned, a sign is a sign, and if you're going to trust anyone, trust lincoln.
now, let's do this!
9.05.2014
yesss!
you know those moments when you can relate to something? to someone? those "ah ha" moments that make you feel like you're not the only weirdo out there?
i experienced that moment today while reading when you are engulfed in flames by david sedaris. this particular passage sank deep in my heart and sent chills down my spine as i totally and completely connected with the type of love he was describing. it was david and his boyfriend, hugh, playing the parts of me and g, respectively. it was craaazy true, albeit remotely disgusting. but this is love.
"...'what do you say we lance that thing?' he said. it's the sort of question that catches you off guard.
'did you just use the verb to lance?' i asked.
he turned on the light. 'since when did you learn to lance boils?'
'i didn't,' he said. 'but i bet i could teach myself.'
with anyone else i'd put up a fight, but hugh can do just about anything he sets his mind to. this is a person who welded the plumbing pipes in his house in normandy, then went into the cellar to make his own cheese. there's no one i trust more, and so i limped to the bathroom, that theater of home surgery, where i lowered my pajama bottoms and braced myself against the towel rack, waiting as he sterilized the needle.
'this is hurting me a lot more that it's hurting you,' he said. it was his standard line, but i knew that this time he was right. worse than the boil was the stuff that came out of it, a horrible custard streaked with blood. what got to me, and got to him even worse, was the stench, which was unbearable and unlike anything i had come across before. it was, i thought, what evil must smell like. how could a person continue to live with something so rotten inside of him? and so much of it! the first tablespoon gushed out on its own power, like something from a geyser. then hugh used his fingers and squeezed out the rest. 'how are you doing back there?' i asked, but he was dry-heaving and couldn't answer.
when my boil was empty, he doused it with alcohol and put a bandage on it, as if it had been a mior injury, a shaving cut, a skinned knee, something normal he hadn't milked like a dead cow. and this, to me, was worth at least a hundred of the hundred and twenty nights of Sodom. back in bed i referred to him as Sir Lance-a-Lot...."
i won't get into the details of how i totally understand this story, in an effort to keep this post bearable. but i will say this: thank goodness for the "sir lance-a-lot's" in our lives.
i experienced that moment today while reading when you are engulfed in flames by david sedaris. this particular passage sank deep in my heart and sent chills down my spine as i totally and completely connected with the type of love he was describing. it was david and his boyfriend, hugh, playing the parts of me and g, respectively. it was craaazy true, albeit remotely disgusting. but this is love.
"...'what do you say we lance that thing?' he said. it's the sort of question that catches you off guard.
'did you just use the verb to lance?' i asked.
he turned on the light. 'since when did you learn to lance boils?'
'i didn't,' he said. 'but i bet i could teach myself.'
with anyone else i'd put up a fight, but hugh can do just about anything he sets his mind to. this is a person who welded the plumbing pipes in his house in normandy, then went into the cellar to make his own cheese. there's no one i trust more, and so i limped to the bathroom, that theater of home surgery, where i lowered my pajama bottoms and braced myself against the towel rack, waiting as he sterilized the needle.
'this is hurting me a lot more that it's hurting you,' he said. it was his standard line, but i knew that this time he was right. worse than the boil was the stuff that came out of it, a horrible custard streaked with blood. what got to me, and got to him even worse, was the stench, which was unbearable and unlike anything i had come across before. it was, i thought, what evil must smell like. how could a person continue to live with something so rotten inside of him? and so much of it! the first tablespoon gushed out on its own power, like something from a geyser. then hugh used his fingers and squeezed out the rest. 'how are you doing back there?' i asked, but he was dry-heaving and couldn't answer.
when my boil was empty, he doused it with alcohol and put a bandage on it, as if it had been a mior injury, a shaving cut, a skinned knee, something normal he hadn't milked like a dead cow. and this, to me, was worth at least a hundred of the hundred and twenty nights of Sodom. back in bed i referred to him as Sir Lance-a-Lot...."
i won't get into the details of how i totally understand this story, in an effort to keep this post bearable. but i will say this: thank goodness for the "sir lance-a-lot's" in our lives.
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