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.
8.29.2014
a white affair
last weekend was definitely one for the books.
the annual LA pop-up dinner, an event that brings people who enjoy food, wine, and dancing together for an evening shared under the stars. part of the excitement was from the event's "rules": everyone dresses in white; guests bring their own picnics and wine; the tables are bare so that we set them however we like; candlelight is required. the location was kept secret until two hours before the start time, which as you can imagine, made us even more eager for the festivities. once we discovered the dinner would be held at the will rogers mansion, we were thrilled to begin the night of eating, drinking, and frolicking to and fro.
at the end of the night, we joined the throngs on the dance floor. it was in that space where every good feeling was captured. we danced like it was no one's business, carefree, and with gusto. perfection.
i look forward to next year's pop-up dinner: for the people who will be with me, the food that will be eaten, and the memories that will surely be made.
8.20.2014
when water tastes like air
you know you've certainly made the best decision in your life when water tastes like air. when you watch said best decision spend hours squeezed underneath the sink, installing a reverse-osmosis water filtration system. when he cranks and drills, fidgets and hammers without the slightest sign that it is a pain-in-the-ass. when he cares enough about your present and future health, that he will move mountains for you (and replace a water pipe). when, after a frustrating afternoon of handiwork, he pours you a glass of the purest water to ever touch your lips. when he kisses you and asks how you like it.
and then you say to him, with the most respect, gratefulness, and love you can possibly muster: this water tastes like air.
and then you say to him, with the most respect, gratefulness, and love you can possibly muster: this water tastes like air.
dedicated to g, the best decision of my life.
8.10.2014
hard to part
running in my new shoes today, i felt like i was skipping over clouds, as light as air and as graceful as a ballerina floating on stage. they were invigorating, if you can describe shoes that way. but as i took them off and placed them next to my previous pair of running shoes, i thought to myself: when am i going to get rid of these? and for that matter, when am i going to get rid of the other three pairs of torn-up, overly used shoes that are still piled in the closet?
there's something about my running shoes that makes it terribly difficult for me to let go. they are the physical manifestation of my time spent on the trails - every tear and flattened sole, a reflection of my feet pounding the surfaces in search of clarity. and then there's the pair of shoes that carried me through the finish line of my first half-marathon, and the other pair that helped me beat my race time in my second half-marathon.
i look at all my old running shoes as if they are time capsules, locking in the memories of challenges and triumphs, stressors and newfound freedom. but looking at this pile, i've come to the conclusion that these running shoes are just that - shoes. they are things, not the memories themselves. my heart and mind have already engrained the emotions from my running, and so with that, i'm finally going to let my shoes go.
my dear, sweet running shoes.
there's something about my running shoes that makes it terribly difficult for me to let go. they are the physical manifestation of my time spent on the trails - every tear and flattened sole, a reflection of my feet pounding the surfaces in search of clarity. and then there's the pair of shoes that carried me through the finish line of my first half-marathon, and the other pair that helped me beat my race time in my second half-marathon.
i look at all my old running shoes as if they are time capsules, locking in the memories of challenges and triumphs, stressors and newfound freedom. but looking at this pile, i've come to the conclusion that these running shoes are just that - shoes. they are things, not the memories themselves. my heart and mind have already engrained the emotions from my running, and so with that, i'm finally going to let my shoes go.
my dear, sweet running shoes.
8.07.2014
zombie
work is kicking my ass. BIG time.
it's just so busy. crazy-busy.
on my days off, i start the day off with a run, or a swim, or spend some time at the ceramics studio just so i can clear my mind of the busyness.
and then i become a zombie and do things that don't require a life-or-death, on-the-edge-of-your-seat attention span. i do things like...
...listen to podcasts about toast; read articles about families who live in tiny spaces (don't knock 'til you've tried it); laugh way too hard through books written by david sedaris; nap in the morning and afternoon and right before bed; peruse through travel sites for good deals on airfare (something's gonna come up, i know); jam to some tunes as if they were written for me; and, really, my most favorite - be absolutely silent because i can.
i know it's just a season - The Hold-Onto-Your-Umbrellas-Beacause-It's-Raining-Babies Season - but when i'm not at work, dedicating myself to new life (!) and joyful celebration (!!), i give myself full permission to be a resting zombie.
it's just so busy. crazy-busy.
on my days off, i start the day off with a run, or a swim, or spend some time at the ceramics studio just so i can clear my mind of the busyness.
and then i become a zombie and do things that don't require a life-or-death, on-the-edge-of-your-seat attention span. i do things like...
...listen to podcasts about toast; read articles about families who live in tiny spaces (don't knock 'til you've tried it); laugh way too hard through books written by david sedaris; nap in the morning and afternoon and right before bed; peruse through travel sites for good deals on airfare (something's gonna come up, i know); jam to some tunes as if they were written for me; and, really, my most favorite - be absolutely silent because i can.
i know it's just a season - The Hold-Onto-Your-Umbrellas-Beacause-It's-Raining-Babies Season - but when i'm not at work, dedicating myself to new life (!) and joyful celebration (!!), i give myself full permission to be a resting zombie.
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