Auf weidersehen, 2009

I keep reading all of these posts pointing to the end of this year, this decade. They address their best of, worst of, what rocked the nation and what we'll remember going into 2010. I've been sitting here trying to come up with some dramatic thoughts regarding 2009s end and have come up short. A friend asked me if I was going to do a list like last year, and I don't think I will. I've been bathing in some sort of cerebral melancholy for the past few days and I think a list would include a lot of emotional dribble that would prompt you to phone me up and inquire as to whether or not I've been sleeping properly. Which I have. Thank you.

This year was difficult. And I say that with the knowledge that I have an extremely nice life, so I'm aware that my perspective of difficulty is somewhat different from the poor chap sleeping under the freeway. But I was looking over my posts from 2009 and they seem to be a blur of insomnia, general fatigue and me yelling, "NO REALLY! I PROMISE I'LL GET BACK TO THIS EVENTUALLY!" But I don't think I've totally recovered my verve and passion yet - some of it was squelched by professional disappointment, some just because I've had to focus so much of my energy on the healing process necessitated by an auto-immune disease.

I noticed that most of what I wrote this year was steeped in the pain of love lost...almost as though all of the heartache that I've tucked away over time needed to find an avenue out. There are some things I wrote that I just immediately banished into the far corners of my hard drive as reading them brought me back to a place that I thought I had recovered from and I'm not sure what any of that reveals. I suppose the silver lining in that is that I can mine my own psyche for material if I need it - but what? What does it indicate when one's gray matter pours out so much sorrow? It's puzzling. It's what marked most of 2009. Like the entire creative output of that year was covered with a veil of oft-hidden grief. As though somehow, there was no room for joy.

What do I hope for 2010? I hope to not only know but believe that I am brave. I hope to write more. I hope to have the energy to do so. I hope to get outside of myself and make the world I live in a more beautiful place. I'm on the edge of turning 34 and I'm very conscious of how very quickly time is moving forward. And I have felt, sometimes, like it moves forward without me. I want to grasp onto it and bathe in the deliciousness of my life. I want to love more, complain less, be an encouragement to those around me and be willing to admit when my spirit is broken. I want the blue hue of 2009 to lift and to move into a new decade with a spirit that is ready to be happy. I think I'm ready for that.

Notes from SoCal

A Southern Californian Christmas landscape. Please note the palm trees.

I hope everyone is basking in the warmth and happiness of family. Or friends. Or people that you just sort of tolerate accompanied by egg-nog with a certain amount of oomph added in. However it is that you roll. I am down in Southern California with most of my family. It's 11:30am and I'm still in my pj's which would indicate that it's already a very good Christmas indeed.

In the past few years I haven't been able to spend the holidays exclusively with my branch of the family. Marriage tends to complicate things - in the best of ways usually - but often during the holidays you find that the push-me-pull-you becomes increasingly intense. I come from parents who graciously have always said, "Do whatever is the least stressful for you," and I feel that in years past this has led to a certain amount of neglect on my part towards them. While they have never once made me feel guilty about this, my own conscience has prodded me with some vigor - sort of like a steel toed boot in the kidneys, if you will - and so this year I remedied that and flew down to San Diego with them and have been fully immersed in the usual family traditions, some of which I have forgotten after years of not being present for them.

And to be here with them? Oh, it has been heaven.

We have eaten and laughed and opened wine and snacked and told stories and traded recipes and made plans for the week and giggled at each other and poked fun and loved and have not let an hour pass without someone exclaiming, "This is so much FUN!" And it is. It is hilarious fun. Two days in and I already feel refreshed, if not somewhat fatter than when I stepped off of the plane on Wednesday. But that is what January is for - vigorous cleansing. So I will just continue to enjoy this time and hope that each one of you is doing the same.

I think we spent a lions share of Christmas Eve shopping for food. It's a family sport. Our team always wins.

Yesterday was spent in the gathering of ingredients and preparing of Rouladen which is a German culinary masterpiece. It sort of looks like a turd landed on your plate amidst homemade noodles and red cabbage. So from a visual perspective it's not the best thing you've ever seen. But the flavor? Holy Moses. It's something I cannot even begin to describe, which is probably better since I can't have all of your showing up at my sisters doorstep demanding a bite. I took this opportunity to learn how to make them properly since my parents have never written down the recipe and their version is peerless. So if I know you and you bring me a present (I wear a size 8.5 shoe), I'll perhaps make them for you. I'm now being summoned to the kitchen to learn how to make the corresponding noodles, so I must fly. Happiest of Holidays to you all.

Haggling over radishes.

Magic

It would appear that everything in my life currently needs attending to. My car just got back from the shop - did you know that if you leave $700 with your mechanic you'll get a new battery and an alternator and lose your will to live? It's true. I know.

There are a few other household things that we've been doggedly ignoring. It's amazing how you can just stop seeing things, like that splotch of paint color in the kitchen that I was "trying out" two years ago and haven't gotten around to painting over, or the hole in the ceiling that makes my brain hurt to think about fixing. It's so high up and people REALLY have to crane their necks to get a view of the gash in the drywall, so perhaps we're ok as long as we just put sparkly things in front of our guests or distract them with jazz hands.

But the dog. The dog cannot be ignored. I started getting notes from the vets office earlier this year that sang the tune of, "Kylie needs her rabies vaccination updated, lalala!" I sort of put it off for a while until a wretched, WRETCHED flea hopped on board and decided to bite the ever living shit out of Kylie which then turned into a full two weeks of scratching scratching SCRATCHING to which I recall saying to Marc, "This doesn't seem right...she never scratches this much," to which he responded, "Meh, she's fine. Did you finish this episode of How I Met Your Mother WITHOUT ME?" And since this is my blog, I feel entitled to point out that Marc will sneeze and IMMEDIATELY take himself to the doctor, all while gripping his throat, clawing at his eyes and screaming, "BLARGH! I HAVE THE PLAGUE AND AM DYING IS MY WILL IN ORDER?" He'll also mysteriously come down with the same symptoms I have whenever I fall ill and sequester himself into the best corner of the couch for a day or two, asking that I stop typing so loudly and will I make him some tea? It's true. It will be interesting to see what happens should I ever bear a child.

Anyways, this flagrant hypochondria does not extend outside of his own orbit, meaning I had to physically point out a raw spot on the dog and say, "I'm taking her to the vet RIGHT NOW!" to which he responded, "Are you sure it's not just the lighting in here that's making that area red?"

So. Fleas. I won't go into what kind of work that caused me as I'm still recovering from all of the laundry and scrubbing and apologizing I did to my dog for not taking her in the minute I suspected something was wrong. BUT, while I was at the vets, I decided it might be the right time to get the rabies vaccination updated. I mean, let's get this shit DONE. Kylie hates the vet and uses each visit to almost physically crawl up my body and wrap herself around my head all while shedding her entire coat of fur. There are not enough lint rollers to combat THAT, let me tell you.

I told the vet we were seeing that day that we ought to also follow the vaccine protocol and get Kylie updated. I should mention that he's not our usual vet and was someone I requested we NOT see again while checking out. He liberally smattered expletives throughout his speech, which is totally un-fucking-professional, and I think had this idea of me the moment he saw me...that I must be the kind of girl who sups on caviar and sleeps in the Chanel boutique at Neiman Marcus. I disliked him almost immeidiately.

So the vaccine. I mentioned it. He looked at me quizzically and said, "I think that vaccines are bullshit. Unless you're in an area where she is going to come into contact with wild creatures, she's fine." Um, like bears and bats and coyotes and things of that nature that you see when you're in the back country? Because she sees those things a LOT - our recreational activities involve carrying large amounts of gear deep into the wilderness where we then sleep on the ground and poo behind trees. I said as much (minus the poo) and the vet looked at me in complete disbelief and then said, "No, I mean, like WAY back in the woods...NOT just car camping." That's when I kicked him in the head.

I finally just said, "Look, just give me the vaccine." He seemed put out that I would at all challenge his opinion, but at this point we were neck deep in tufts of Kylie's undercoat and he fled the scene telling me he would send in a tech to administer the shot. I swear he told the tech to really go for it as she walked in with a needle the size of which I hadn't seen outside of a Halloween novelty store. This thing could have stitched a leather couch together. The tech was bubbly and sweet and trying to coax Kylie out from underneath my legs where I assume she was saying things like, "Fuck, NO!" I asked the tech to ratchet down her enthusiasm a notch since at this point Kylie was in danger of leaving the office bald. Finally, she just sort of wrapped her fist around the syringe all Dexter style and JAMMED! it into Kylie's rump. Kylie just wilted against my legs and looked up at me in a way that said she would rather have been left on the streets of LA if being rescued by me meant THIS sort of abuse. Especially since she didn't even get a fancy band-aid or a lolly pop. Just a smack on the ass and a GOODGIRL from the tech who left promptly...probably to go and find the nearest lint roller.

Regardless, my dog now has super human blood and can go and smack a bat or lick a monkey or harass any feral creature and not be in danger of dying a foamy death. She is magic. Marc is jealous. There is nothing he can come up with health wise to compete with magic blood. Though I'd like to see him try.

Recovering from Last Week

So Last Week? Let's just promise each other we won't talk about it, all right? Last Week was a straight up bitch and I'm doing my best to remove all memory from my mind. Come Friday Marc and I opened a bottle of VERY nice wine in an effort to erase the past five days, and by the time 11pm rolled around all I could do was sob something incoherent about chicken soup and Chris O'Donnell so Marc declared an immediate and swift moratorium on all outgoing calls, texts and or Internet communication and sent me straight to bed. You're welcome.

Saturday, I spent most of the morning sacked out on the couch dozing and avoiding the laundry that was screaming FOLD ME! from upstairs. I did manage to rouse myself by the afternoon to go wine tasting which was glorious. The weather has been Arctic and so pumping our veins full of the grape helped numb us from the nearly freezing temperatures outside. (Though I said I wouldn't talk about Last Week, I do have to mention that almost everyone was updating Facebook with some version of "What is UP with this weather?" Like the cost of living here should mean certain things...for instance: we don't have to put up with temperatures that require a parka AND a hat AND gloves. No one living here owns all three items. If we're not warm enough with a sweatshirt and Uggs, we're not going outside.) Despite the cold, the afternoon was lovely and we managed to go through what I can only imagine was at least a barrel of wine.

BEHOLD! The Carnage.

I woke up yesterday with an extreme desire for a crab sandwich. And no, that is not a euphemism for something else. I was craving an actual crab sandwich from Duarte's, which is this random, little restaurant along the coast known for its artichoke soup, various berry pies and the crab. OH SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN THE CRAB. The first time I ate there I though I saw Jesus and the second time I went through something not unlike a conversion. All I know is that I fell to the floor in ecstasy and when I woke up I was covered in butter and was spouting off the recipe for sourdough, so SOMETHING holy happened while I was passed out. Either way, my very obliging husband who was also recovering from Last Week said, "Ok!" when I expressed my desire for the religious sandwich. After years of marriage we have fallen into a routine of sorts. We have our Evening Routine, the Santa Cruz Routine, the Let's See How Long We Can Get By Without Folding the Laundry Routine, and the Jen Needs a Crab Sandwich Routine. This entails driving over to the coast, getting drinks at San Gregorio General Store, walking along the beach in search of seals and then driving to Pescadero, home of Duarte's, home of my Holy Grail of crab.

I won't go into great detail about the day only to say that the healing power of time with one that you love is magnificent. It's the perfect balm for tattered nerves and any lurking unhappiness that might spot your usual glow. Marc and I didn't speak much. We just listened to great music, pointed out things that made us laugh, held hands and were peaceful in the knowledge that when we have weeks that do their best to stomp out all of our resolve and joy, we still have one another to come home to. And that thing, that care and love that we provide for one another in the eye of all of the muck and mire of life, well, that's erases a world of wrongs.

BEHOLD! The weary couple. I need more sleep. Or some REALLY good eye cream.

So it was a good day. The sandwich was as amazing as it was the first time I ate it. The weather was perfect...that stormy, Gothic kind of feeling that makes you want to run along a moor and call out for Heathcliff. Byronic tendencies aside, added to the fact that my hair was starting to do strange things, we headed for home where we cuddled up on the couch and watched Up! and then retired to bed early. I'm now paying for the sins of ingesting WHEAT & BUTTER! But I'm just going to sack up and not complain about it. Marc, on the other hand, might have a thing or two to say to you tomorrow about my intestinal gymnastics. Whatever. He signed on for it.

BEHOLD! The sandwich.

Overheard

"All I want, just once in my life, is to rappel out of a helicopter with an assault rifle in my hands. Is that too much to ask?"

And here I thought finishing the New York Times crossword all by myself was a lofty goal. Note: aim higher.

Wherein I prove that I have some effing holiday spirit.

So something strange has happened this winter. I'm not as paralyzed by the holidays as I've been in years past. Usually, December rolls around and I automatically break out into hives and lock myself in a closet with a jug of cabernet. I can usually drink my way out by mid January in time for my birthday. To me, Christmas is a time of closeted resentment and seething frustration. Usually, the only nice thing I can come up with about December is, "I like ham," and even that is sort of a lie because I'm not sure I really DO like ham. But this last week, I was in the grocery store and actually found myself humming along with Frank Sinatra who was crooning SOMETHING. I don't know. All I know is that I didn't get kicked out of Whole Foods for standing in the middle of the frozen food aisle shouting "Fuck THAT guy!" I then had "Silver Bells" stuck in head for a day or two and it didn't drive me to plunge a dull pencil into my ear. I caught myself humming "Make Me a Christmas Bride" while chopping onions and didn't automatically thrust the knife up towards my jugular to MAKE IT STOP. So either my meds have given me a stronger immune system AND holiday cheer or Marc is slipping something into my cider. Hard to say.

Either way, it was time to bring out the fake trees! that I bought last year. I say that with an exclamation point because I unfailingly kill live things. Well, plants, let's be clear. If you bring your kids over, they'll be in one piece upon leaving. Mostly. If they don't like salt licks, you might want to find someone else to babysit.

So the trees were yanked out of storage by their trembling limbs, stripped of their Glad bag covers and the halls were decked. So here. Photographic evidence that I'm slowly moving past my brittle acceptance of Christmas.

All good decorating starts with a fire. It should be stated that the women in my family - along with being prone to bossiness and never having to ask for directions - are complete pyromaniacs. Let me be clear: if you cannot get your fire started, call one of us. We can get wet logs to throw out a flame that will negate your need to get your eyebrows waxed. Perhaps ever. It's on my resume.


Kylie does not like fires. Her bed normally sits in front of it, but the moment she sees me carrying logs into the house she high tails it into the dining room and spends the rest of the evening alternating between peering around the corner at us and disappearing upstairs to polish her nails black and read Sartre. But look how cute she is:


And then! LOOK! ORNAMENTS! I have this extreme aversion to Christmas colors (shock) and so the ornaments are what my nephew would refer to as "dull colors". But I think decorating with the standard red and green and those shitacular epilepsy lights would cause my spleen to explode. And who wants to clean THAT up?


And then I took a nap. Or stumbled across that jug of cabernet that I was talking about earlier. I don't know. Either way, I woke up under the cabinet that houses our liquor and BEHOLD:


Small trees with Buddha! Who is holding a candlelight vigil. Presumably for the tequila that seemed to have walked off the other week and hasn't returned back to the cupboard yet. Strangest thing. Actually, I'm full of shit here. I put these little trees up last Christmas and then just totally forgot to take them down and then got used to them and then just stopped seeing them altogether, so really, they were already there. But let's just focus on the nice photo composition. Lalala.

And then finally, the outdoor wreath. This photo caused a bit of consternation. Kylie was trying to get outside to avoid the fire, I was opening the door wider and wider to get a good angle on the thing and Marc was screaming, "YOU'RE LETTING ALL OF THE HOT AIR OUT!" and I was yelling back that he ought to just speak more and then that problem would be solved and then his cerebellum exploded. Either way:


There you have it. We are CHRISTMASSY, dammit! And there is cheer. I think.

Wherein I talk about my dogs inability to produce a normal poop.

It seems as though my entire week has been focused on poo. That's right. I just went there. Kylie spent a lions share of Saturday through Tuesday in a state of complete digestive disrepair. It started on Saturday with a steady 24 hours of vomiting which turned into my favorite - diarrhea! She thoughtfully kept her anal leakage for the night hours, coming up to my side of the bed each time she needed to be let out (which was every hour on the hour). Consequentially I've wandered through much of this week with wild hair and bloodshot eyes muttering things like, "I HATE LOOSE STOOLS!" I've met a lot of new people this way. You should try it.

To wrap up, I took her for a walk yesterday and she poo'd normally, and act for which I did a slight jig on the sidewalk and then called everyone and shouted, "SHE DID IT! SHE POOPED!" Clearly, I need more excitement in my life. Either that or I'm overly prepared for parenthood. Regardless, Kylie is thrilled that I'm no longer following her out into the backyard to watch as she let out an audible "Pffffffffffft" along with the contents of her ass. She had taken to hiding behind every available vertical object just to shield herself from my eyes while she went. I imagine if she could speak she would be yelling something like, "OH THE HUMANITY!"

In addition to this weeks problems, my car started making a really weird sound on Monday. In sixteen years of neglectful auto ownership I've heard my fair share of jacked up car noises, but nothing that ever sounded like Cirque du Soleil came to town in my steering column. It's so out of nowhere and so ridiculous that when I hear it I can’t help screaming, “OH MY GOD, WHAT?” Then my car responds and I get kind of scared so I just settle back to ten-and-two and shut my mouth. The first few times I heard it I tried to convince myself it was my imagination so I wouldn't have to tell Marc about it. Because the second I go, "It's like a weeeeeeehaaaaaaaahhhh! sound," he's going to completely lose his shit.

And you know it's going to be one of those sounds that no one else will ever hear and after hours of me going, "No, wait, shhhh! Just listen. Keep driving. JUST KEEP DRIVING! FUCKING LISTEN!" and Marc looking at me as though all of that Zumba! might have twirled my brain in the wrong direction, I'll go insane and jam a nail clipper in his eye.

Having said that, I have to do something. I can't go on like this. The upshot is that I'm pretty sure a WEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAHHHH! sound isn't indicative of something morbidly wrong, but it's like I'm driving around with a clown committing suicide underneath my steering wheel. Would a clown do that? Because they shouldn't.