Bias in the 'Burbs

Yesterday, I took Ava and Bridget to the library for their toddler storytime. And because these storytimes get as packed as Kiss concerts for the three-and-under set, I showed up a little early with the girls in tow, ready and waiting in the eaves for the entertainment to begin. As Ava spastically ran circles around a terrified little boy who eyed her like she was the second-coming of Satan, I gazed around the mostly empty room at the other moms, bouncing children on knees and/or yelling at little Liam to stop trying to use the children's books as a potty.

And that's when I overhead a conversation between two moms near me, comparing storytimes.

". . . So that's why I like this storytime SO much better than the other one. Plus, we only live a half-mile away from this one," said Mom #1, playing with a cherubic bald baby girl wearing a hot pink hairbow the size of a basketball. 

"Oh, that's great," said Mom #2, cradling her (also) bald baby boy, this one wearing a blue t-shirt with some clever daddy's-favorite sports-related saying. "Where do you live?"

Mom #1 had clearly been waiting for this moment, probably ever since she finished unpacking her last box after her move into said house. "We live in Chappaqua Canyon*, but we're right on the border of Chappaqua Canyon and San Anselmo." She punctuated this last bit of importance with a quick flip of her perky ponytail and an air of rectitude, like she'd just won a Pulitzer. 

(* - All names of locations have been fictionalized to protect the innocent.)

Mom #2 smiled bleakly and nodded, because she (as I and every other mom in that library) knew that being a resident of San Anselmo means something. Living there means that you've made it. Though Chappaqua Canyon is a perfectly safe, tight-knit community of mostly suburban families where one or both parents works in San Francisco, house prices are much higher in San Anselmo, which is literally butted up against Chappaqua Canyon and is one train train stop closer to the city. J and I often can't even understand why they are two-separate towns since they are both so tiny and practically combine to make one. 

But none of that mattered yesterday. Sitting there in that library, waiting for the goddamn librarian to just start singing to these two-year-olds already, Mom #2 tried in vain to change the subject. But to no avail. The follow-up question was already coming, and there was nothing anyone -- including her -- could do to stop it. 

"Where do you live?" Mom #1 asked innocently. The tension was suddenly palpable, and the words resonated in slow-motion.

Mom #2 averted her gaze from her friend to the puddle of spit-up that had just landed on her leg thanks to her daddy's-favorite-rookie-of-the-year son.

"Oh we live on Oak Boulevard . . ." Mom #2 said quietly, hoping there was no followup. But of course there would be. Oak Boulevard is a pretty long thoroughfare, spanning three different cities. Saying you live on Oak Boulevard is like saying you live on Route 66. 

"Ok, then you're closer to the San Anselmo library than we are!" Mom #1 said eagerly. "You must be right on the border too."

"No, not really," Mom #2 said vacantly. 

"What do you live near then?" Mom #1 asked.

"We're near Eastwood High School," Mom #2 replied, knowing perfectly well what this meant. But Mom #1 had to just come out and say it for her. 

"Ohhh. You're on the border of Chappaqua Canyon and Jepson . . ." Mom #1 tried to say something nice, something uplifting, but nothing could be said after she threw around that border-of-San-Anselmo bit earlier, since border proximity mattered to her. Jepson is a high-crime, poverty stricken side of town where you lock your doors at night and avoid sending your kids to school, if you can help it. Which you can if you're Mom #2, since living on the border of Jepson doesn't really mean anything . . . you are only a mile or two away from the San freaking Anselmo border and you still technically live in Chappaqua Canyon, so who cares? 

Apparently, everyone cares.

The longer I'm living in this bizarre trifecta of neighboring towns, the more I'm learning about "what it means" to live closer to this border or that border. What it means to use this library over that library. What type of moms you meet in these kind of places, and what type of kids they raise. 

I know that very few would openly admit it, but I've run into more than my fair share of parents who avoid Jepson and its public facilities (like the library storytimes) because of the predominant hispanic population that reside there and frequent those venues, as if "those people" are going to somehow rub off on their children and destroy their futures as doctors and politicians. It's a bigoted, sad fact that racism still exists in this country, much less California, where everyone prides themselves on being hippy-dippy and accepting. But even in the 'burbs of what I'd consider a pretty progressive area, it's still there. Lingering within the confines of spring fling picnics and hushed mom-to-mom conversations over coffee and storytimes.

What blows my mind is that being affiliated with Jepson, even just living a stone's throw away from the "border" if you can even call it that since on any given day your normal errands take you across both communities, tags you as somehow lesser. (And let's be honest, the reasoning behind that is because Jepson's people are seen as lesser, mostly due to their ethnic and financial status.) Yet when hispanic nannies from Jepson show up at San Anselmo storytimes, toting blond-haired, blue-eyed tots, local moms don't seem to mind, since they're there in an official working capacity. Sometimes, this can even be overhead as a joke: "I was the only mom there that day, surrounded by a bunch of nannies." (Nannies sometimes perjoratively referenced as the Mexican variety.) These nannies clearly aren't good enough to mingle with in Jepson, but are good enough to raise your children. Yeah. That makes sense.

But this grossness extends past just the parents in this area. In the strip mall of a nearby affluent town, city leaders recently wanted to stop a Dollar Tree store from taking up residence in what had long been a vacant spot in the mall. Why? It was only said by a few brave commenters, but it was obvious: Allowing Dollar Tree to set up shop would bring Mexicans into the area, which is like 98% white, the remaining 2% being Asian. (One year later, the only customers that seem to frequent that Dollar Tree, which got the greenlight after a long dispute, are prehistorically old, retired white men looking for a cheap deal on shaving cream.)

But I digress. 

Going back to those two moms in the Chappaqua Canyon library yesterday, I had to just roll my eyes. If you live in Chappaqua Canyon, you live in Chappaqua Canyon. It doesn't matter how close you live to Beverly Hills . . .

I'm sorry Mom #1, but living near the San Anselmo border means NOTHING. It does not make you "one of those them" (them being those affluent housewives in Escalades and pearls) no matter how many times you repeat you live on the border. If you really need that kind of reassurance, then move to San Anselmo. (Oh wait, you can't afford it.) And can you and every other person who references Jepson as though it's the plague just stop already? It's embarrassing and offensive, and all you're doing is perpetuating this superiority complex in your poor basketball-sized-hairbow-wearing baby girl that's probably heard you say far worse with a smirk to your husband after your friends part ways for naptime.

What is this, a sequel to "The Help"? Well guess what: 1963 just called. They want their Hilly Holbrook back.

Finding my balance

Well, the dust has finally settled on this whole baby thing. And I mean that in the best possible way. I think.

Ava's going to be seven months old this week, and I think I've finally gotten a grasp on how to be a mom. Or at least pretend to be one (because in all honesty, I look in the mirror and wonder who that 30-year-old is looking back at me. It's not me, I reason, since I'll forever feel 23). And I have to say I "think" I've gotten a grasp because I'm still not sure, seven months later, if I'm doing everything right. Perhaps there is no "right" in this parenting chapter of anyone's life. After all, what's right when your baby has poop blowouts out the backs of her diapers? Or you speak baby gibberish in public, sometimes even accidentally to other adults, or find yourself picking your baby's nose and not thinking twice about it. In the worlds of Bob Dylan, "It ain't me babe." Or is it?

I might not be doing everything right, but I've learned as I go, and I think I've edged into a rhythm with Ava that is not only manageable now, but fun. I'm not sure when the erratic chaos of being abruptly thrust into a new phase of life morphed into a gentle and manageable hum, but it happened. Kind of like going to sleep one night after weeks of stress and suffering, and waking up one morning as not only wholly embracing of that which you fought against, but actually loving it. That happened to me, and since then everything's gotten easier. Like I said, the dust has settled and now I feel like this baby thing has become an easy, steady whir. 

Of course it's not easy 24 hours a day, seven days a week, but compared to how it was in the beginning, I would say Ava's become a walk in the park. Her sleeping patterns still aren't perfect, and she still has her little crying temper tantrums every time she's put down for a nap (I've decided she looks like a cartoon baby turtle when she cries), but with every hardship she throws at me, I dig deep for patience I never knew I had, and I deal with it. Through this last seven months I've learned that I actually have more patience than I ever thought I was capable of -- a fact that not only impresses me, but frightens me as well.

Now that things have died down to a whir, I find myself getting more time to write and my book is slowly and steadily coming along. I plan to have it finished by this summer, and hopefully edited and out to literary agents by the end of the year. I'm having a lot of fun writing it, so I relish in the moments I do get to work on it. J's read pieces of it and suggested I post excerpts of it on this blog, which I may just do. I have faith in it, more than the other two books I wrote, so I'm hoping readers will like it as well.

Anyway, in this process of caring for Ava, I've chosen to also care for myself. I don't want to let myself go, or lose myself in her. She may be my full-time job now, but that doesn't mean that I don't count or that I come second. I love Ava more than anything, but I love myself just as much. I'm sure some moms would shoot me cold, hard looks for saying such a blasphemous thing, but that's how I feel and I don't understand why I should feel guilty for feeling that way. After all, I existed for 30 years before she was born. I'm just as important, even if I can't wear cute little ballerina slippers the way she does.

So I do my makeup every morning, pick out our cute outfits for the day, and always try to leave the house looking polished and put together. Not only do I do this for my happiness and emotional well-being, I also do it to serve as an example to Ava. She might be too young to understand these things now, but as she grows up I want her to see that there is an importance in taking care of yourself and your appearance. I don't want to be one of those moms that is "so devoted" to their babies they use it as an excuse to schlep around in pajamas and let themselves fall apart. There are so many articles online talking about a woman's looks versus her intellect, but why do we have to choose to nurture one or the other? Why can't we nurture both? I want Ava to see that her mother can be smart and beautiful, and I want her to understand that she can be both. It's not an either/or.

Oh and the weight thing I complained about earlier? I think I've gotten a pretty good handle on it (no thanks to that hula hoop, which has sadly joined the ranks of the ankle weights, dumbbells and myriad other home gym equipment currently collecting dust in our guest room/room of good fitness intentions). Just after New Year's I began religiously counting calories -- 1,200 a day -- and the pounds started to drop away. Not an easy feat when all I want is to eat three gallons of ice cream every weekend, but lately I've started dropping down to familiar sizes and even managed to fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans the other night! Though they were still a bit tight, I did get them buttoned and zipped up, so I count this as "fitting me." This small victory will surely be a high of my year. So far I've lost 10 pounds, and I have about five more left to lose. These last five are being extra stubborn and don't seem to care that I imagine I'm eating cheesecake every time I drink my sparkling water, but hopefully they'll be gone by summer.

Ava and I in Napa.

A tale of two women

Since I started work last Monday (I know you're wondering how it is but I'd rather speak of such things anonymously on an anon blog I'm starting this week), there are things I miss from my pre-work life. Waking up without setting an alarm the night before...writing in the afternoons...lunching with family...staying up late to watch Gone With the Wind (again) on TCM (even though I own it) just because I can. But most of all, I miss hanging out with The Nana.

That six-week period, between when we moved back to California and when I had to start work, was amazing (for lack of a better term, and I know I overuse that word often but I really can't think of any other way to describe it at the moment). Having the freedom of my daylight hours to reconnect with Nana (who I wasn't that close to growing up) was wonderful. Though she's much older now, it was like I was given a second chance to reintroduce myself to her (and vice versa). And all it took was six weeks to erase a lifetime of formality and acquaintance.

It was grand. We'd go shopping every afternoon and scour the aisles at stores all over the tri-county area, filling our carts with nothing we needed but everything we wanted. (Tubes of coral pink lipstick (all her), coffee mugs, dresses, giraffe-print tote boxes, sterling silver wine-stoppers, authentic Portuguese olive oil. You name it, we bought it. (Her cart, suffice to say, was always much more filled than mine -- this was before I had the job, after all.)

We'd leave stores toting our wares in giant plastic bags, laughing the whole way home in her Volvo station wagon or her Land Yacht (a ginormous black Lincoln that belonged to my late grandfather) about the four ceramic chickens (of varying shapes and sizes) that I'd talked her into buying because of her well-documented obsession with the animal (they're all over her house: chicken sculptures, chicken tablecloths, chicken-shaped candles, chicken-print doormats. Heck, she actually just bought a red wingback chair with little chickens embroidered all over it. Without me, of course. I had to work that day. *pouts*)

If we weren't shopping for ceramic chickens or olive oil, than we were doing our other favorite thing together: antiquing. We'd spend hours at consignment shops and antique stores, strolling through the aisles and running our hands -- first old, than young -- across the wooden finishes of old tables and chairs and benches, marveling at the potential in such things with just a bit of sanding and the right stain. It was during these days in particular that I learned a lot from Nana, who's like the Obi Wan Kenobi of antiquing and furniture refinishing. Seriously. I am but a young Jedi when it comes to her knowledge of such things; she's been doing it all her life, back to her Betty Draper years -- yes she was a platinum blond with piercing blue eyes -- when she used to put my dad and his siblings to work sanding down dressers and tables with her in the backyard of their big stately house on a red-brick, tree-lined road in Moline, Illinois.

Anyway, every day the lunching and shopping would draw to a close (usually around 3pm), and we'd make our way back to her house where she'd reminisce about her life over a couple glasses of her classic iced tea (the secret ingredient? Crystal Light). It was during these conversations that I learned far more than I'd ever known about Nana. Sure I'd seen pictures of her back when she was spry (including one of her in a swimsuit on a beach feeding a sandwich to a man, who I should probably add was not my grandfather, on the cover of a 1940s copy of Holiday Magazine), but I never really pictured her having a life before my dad.

It's funny, isn't it? How certain people -- older family members, teachers, etc. -- all get frozen to a particular time period we tether them too? There is no beginning or ending for these kind of people. They just "are" -- held in place in our lives by markers like fathers and mothers, birthdays or graduations, Thanksgivings or Christmases. And any pictures we see of them outside of our parameters don't seem real. Like the Holiday cover my grandmother was on. I see it, but can't conceivably see that woman sitting on the beach, laughing with the sandwich in her hand, is actually who I've come to know as The Nana.

But over our iced teas every afternoon, between our shopping and our furniture refinishing, I began to see Nana as more than just...well...Nana. She actually had a life before she had kids and she even had a life before her marriage in the late '40s. Memories from her go back as far as the Great Depression, when she remembers neighbors and others in the community who'd lost everything come by her parents' house asking for handouts, food, anything to survive. She recounted her parents giving out food (luckily my great-grandparents were never affected by the Depression), and she remembered those people leaving, marking the stairs up to her front door with the symbol that food was being handed out at that address for any other passerbys desperate to eat. (Much like that "Hobo Code" Mad Men episode.)

She'd talk about her vacations in Florida as a young woman (just before she met my grandfather), when she and her girlfriends would dance with WWII GIs returning from the war. Or she'd tell me how some of the most favorite moments in her life were back when she lived in Illinois, near her best friend who also happened to be her sister-in-law. The two of them would load their old Norman Rockwellian station wagon up with all the kids (I believe they had around 11, combined) and antique all day with their children in tow. Just two young women in the 1950s, enjoying their all-American lives full of antiques and picnics and summer trips to Lake Michigan before things got complicated (her SIL fell out of contact after Nana moved to California in the early '60s with my grandfather) and the kids grew up. It's these times, back before the world changed and the country lost its innocence in the mid-'60s and on, that Nana misses most. I can tell by the way she talks about it.

Shortly before I started work, on one of the last full days I had with her before we'd be rescinded to weekends (if that), she told me in the car that she didn't see me as a granddaughter.

"You're more than that," she explained, laughing in disbelief that she even felt that way. "I don't know how to explain it, but I don't feel like you're my 28-year-old granddaughter. I look at you and I don't think of an age; I feel like we're the same age. We get along so well, that you're more of a friend. A good friend." She smiled, and I smiled back.

"Well, age is just a number," I said. "There's no reason why our age difference should be a matter. 20s, 80s, who cares? 'Cause I feel the same way. You're not my grandmother; you're a good friend."

Finally. Not only had we reconnected, but we'd moved past that onto a different, higher plane.

I still see Nana here and there. I try to make it over for dinner once a week and if I have time I stop by on the weekends, but because I work 40+ hours a week it'll never be the same. Then I start feeling differing shades of blue throughout my workday because of it. True, we have that bond that at this point is impervious to time, but still. It's different. I feel -- since starting work -- that there isn't enough time...and Nana's not getting any younger. I sit at my desk in SF, wishing I could be back in that station wagon across the bay, en route to some antique store or new Italian restaurant, listening to her stories. And then I feel sad, as though in a way I'm losing her all over again.

My night with Jim Morrison

The crew.

The other night we had a small beach bonfire with my sister, brother, and his new girlfriend. In Santa Cruz, after all, the obligatory bonfire is the go-to venue for meeting new significant others.

We all loved his girlfriend and had fun laughing, roasting marshmallows and playing guitar -- yes, we sit Indian-style around bonfires playing guitar -- as we watched the sun set. Soon the landscape turned black save for a few small glowing fires just down the shore. I thought nothing of it since there were five of us around the fire (two men), and the last thing I thought was to be scared of what could be out there in the dark. Not only were we on a relatively sheltered part of the beach but we were also in front of a posh beach resort, where the only scary people are those with copious amounts of Botox between their eyes.

So there we were, taking turns repeating lyrics as comedic spoken word from some of the most crass rap songs we could think of, when a figure emerged from the darkness around our bonfire. He held a piece of driftwood and his arm was outstretched as though it was guiding him toward our fire.

We abruptly stopped our Lil-Jon-as-spoken-word fest as he placed the wood in our fire and joined us, cross-legged on the sand. The man, who had to have been in his mid-20s, had a wild look in his eyes, his clothes were dirty, his hair long and dreaded. By firelight he resembled part-Jim Morrison and part-Charles Manson. None of us said anything until he spoke.

Random vagrant: "There's petroleum in this fire. I can smell it."

(He erupts into laughter. We remain quiet, slightly freaked out, and watch him.)

RV: "I just inhaled it. Do you smell it? Do you?"

(No one answers, so of course I chime in.)

Me, in a conversational tone: "I don't think there's any petroleum in this fire."

RV: "Yes there is. I saw it from a distance. I can see things, you know. I can see the cancer growing in all of us. In all of you. I see radiation in people's eyes."

Me: "Interesting... Are you from around here?"

RV: (Laughs.) "No, I'm from Connecticut."

Me: "Wow, you're a long way from home."

RV: "I have no home. ...I don't belong anywhere... I go where I want."

Me, as though I hear this every day: "That's cool."

(Silence.)

RV: "I once took 56mg of shrooms." (He laughs maniacally again and suddenly everything is quite clear to us.) "I also took acid a couple times. Those two blotters of paper, man, they changed my life."

Me: "It sure seems that way."

RV: "And you know when I took the acid I saw people for who they were, I saw the truth about humanity in the eyes of everybody I passed. I saw the death growing in each of us..."

Me: "You don't say..."

RV: "...people live their lives and they don't remember they're going to die someday. We're all going to die. How can you ignore something like that?" (He giggles for a minute.) "I know we're all going to die. People forget about that. But I see. When I look at people, I can already see they're dead."

Me: "You do have a point."

RV: "After the acid...I just never looked at things the same again.

(By this time no one besides me has spoken up, so of course this has turned into a conversation between he and I. Or just he and he. I wasn't sure.)

RV: "I have a son. His name is River, he's three years old. His mother was pregnant with him when I decided to marry her."

Me: "You have a son? How old are you?"

RV: "23. But I don't see him anymore. His mother won't let me see him. I know why -- it's because she's a demon. I've married a lot of people, in my own way. Not by society's way. One day I took shrooms and told her I wanted to marry her by the ocean so we did, but when we were standing there, marrying each other, she turned into a demon."

Me: "Far out..."

RV: "...So I ran away. I couldn't marry a demon. Then law enforcement wouldn't let me see my son after that."

(I vaguely see the outlines of my brother and his girlfriend, shifting and uncomfortable on the guitar case they're sitting on. My sister to my left is making "let's-get-the-hell-out-of-here" eyes at me. J has his hand on a piece of firewood in case anything cray-cray goes down since this guy is obviously strung out on some pretty intense narcotics.)

My brother, who begins to stand up: "We're going to start heading up to the car."

J: "Good idea."

Brother to random vagrant: "Hey man, you can have the rest of the fire. Stay warm here as long as you want tonight."

RV: "Thanks. Oh, I'm -- I'm sorry. Did I mess up your bonfire? I keep doing that to people." (He laughs and actually looks genuinely embarrassed -- as much as someone who's got pupils dilated to the size of saucers can.)

Us: "No, it's fine, enjoy the fire."

We start to walk away with our guitar and towels and marshmallows and realize RV is following us up the dark path we need to climb to get back to our car. My brother's girlfriend grabs my arm and we put our heads down and run up to the front of our group since RV is lagging toward the back, talking to J about demons and Connecticut and this girl he once knew who had pentagrams burned into her arms by her parents.

Now I'm not scared of homeless people and I'm not scared of drug addicts, but I am scared of the unpredictability of a homeless drug addict and what said person is capable of doing to a handful of unarmed beachgoers on a dark hillside path. We collectively decided by a few raised eyebrows and shared whispers to follow the trail up to the resort instead of taking the fork toward our car. Being in the vicinity of resort-goers en route to their bungalows sounded much better than being murdered in a thicket of Eucalyptus trees.

My brother began fumbling with his blackberry, and before he realized it was on speakerphone, a loud "911, how can I help you?" cut the tension and RV's murmured conversation he was having with himself behind us. We couldn't help but giggle as RV, completely ignorant of why 911 could possibly be called, said "That's a random number to accidentally dial."

Once we reached manicured landscaping we took a hard right up a cement path past a jacuzzi full of overly tanned men, and RV absentmindedly kept walking straight, into the gullet of the resort area. Whew. After taking his phone off speaker, my brother told police that RV wasn't a threat but needed to be picked up from the grounds for some sort of psychiatric evaluation (I forgot the code number for this but since my bro used to be in law enforcement he could speak the language).

The irony is that much of what RV said around the campfire -- though it was said in a drug-induced haze -- was poetry. The kind of poetry people like Jim Morrison wrote down and put music to. Jim, like RV and others, was high out of his mind when he rode the stream of his consciousness, but in a strange way his words made profound sense. In fact, some of the greatest poetry and literature and music of our time has been written by those experimenting with substances I am not condoning. I just think it's interesting, and my night with RV affirmed this, that it's bizarre how we herald so many artists and visionaries as geniuses because of the profound, often-psychotropic words they write, and yet a disheveled vagrant uttering these exact words to a group of strangers seems crazy and unpredictable.

Genius and Crazy...much more closely related than I thought.

What makes home

Two days ago I drifted awake in my childhood bedroom. For a minute I had no idea where I was. By an act of God was I (finally) waking up in some seaside hotel room in Barcelona? Heaven? (The thought flickered when the glow-in-the-dark stars above me came more into focus.) Was I back in DC, surrounded by unpacked boxes, just waiting for the smell of my neighbor's chicken curry to waft down the hallway and under the gap beneath our front door? Then I heard what sounded like muffled warfare in Kuwait in the next room and instantly knew.

I was home.

And not only that, both my brother and sister were home too. (The simulated warfare was thanks to my video-game loving brother.) Just like in The Royal Tenenbaums my parents had, once again, found all three of their children living together under the same roof. At least for this week.

I smiled to myself in bed, wiping the sleep from my bleary eyes, half-surprised by the hot water pad lying next to me. My mother insisted the night before that I sleep with it to keep me warm, and I think in some odd way it's supposed to make me feel okay without J here. The strange thing is it almost does. Granted J is not made from rubber and poured full of boiling water every night, but the warmth was calming, like most things here are.

There's something so comforting about being home. Always has been. No matter how many places I've lived in and apartment keys I've carried, home to me has always been this house, where some centerpiece made of citrus fruits always adorns our dining room table, where there is no dearth of ice cream in the freezer, and where the same green lamp I've had since I was a kid sits on the new nightstand in my old bedroom.

To most the lamp would look like nothing more than a dated relic from the '70s, but I see so much when I look at it. It makes me think of slumber parties I had in elementary school of now faceless girls I can't remember the names of -- girls I thought would be my best friends my whole life, the lamp behind them shining as the only constant. Then I remember the familiar click, click of the light switch as I'd scramble to switch the lamp off when I'd hear one of my parents' approaching my bedroom door to scold me for staying up so late (in my defense I was reading -- even at 12 I was a book nerd). I remember, later, the lectures I'd have to listen to from my parents in high school, the lamp on behind me, as I'd roll my eyes and cross my arms in defiance against whatever it was they were reprimanding me about. (Usually it had to do with boys. Sigh.) They couldn't possibly understand, I'd think. When they were done talking they would leave and I'd remember how angry I was as I'd click that green lamp off for the night and fume. Then college came and I packed up most of my things, excited to embark on a new chapter of my life. The lamp was left on my nightstand, the clutter gone but it and other staples remaining. And it's still here, to this day. Some of the furniture has changed and the walls have been painted over and I'm older now and married, but the lamp remains. This is what makes home for me.

Of course, it wouldn't be home without a few stock occurrences, either. Like having my picture taken by my over-zealous, camera-wielding sister. Having pics taken is fine; I'm definitely not camera shy. But photogenic I am not. And the routine is always the same: She shows me her pictures seconds after they're taken, I balk at how disgusting I look (Josie Grosie, anyone?), and she disagrees. Seriously, I look good in 1 out of every 5 pictures, and that's on a good day. So I remind her to please not put them on Facebook because the last thing I want is them going public, then an hour later I get a new Facebook email: "You have 8 new photos tagged of you!" I sigh loudly, click over, and yup. There they all are. All of me in my talking-with-my-mouth-frozen-halfway-open-and-eyes-mid-blink glory, which usually looks something like this:


Anyway, once I was wide awake in bed and certain I wasn't in Barcelona or Heaven (I'd hope neither would include the staccato of distant machine guns I heard coming from my brother's room), I hopped out of bed and thrust open my blinds a la Carrie Bradshaw in Paris when she flings open her curtains on her hotel balcony and sees the Eiffel Tower. Except there was no Eiffel Tower here. Only California sunshine. Buckets full, streaming in through the window and slopped across the carpet I stood on. It was a beautiful day and I had had an excellent Friday the day before. I smelled the ocean in the air and smiled. Today was going to be excellent, I could just feel it. So I headed upstairs to the living room, the smell of the ocean reminding me that I really needed to pick up more Steinbeck, maybe I hadn't given him a proper chance when I ...

My foot suddenly landed in a giant, cold puddle on the top step. The blood ran from my face and I froze, slowly lifting my foot up. I looked down in horror at the glistening pool on the hardwood floor, a yellow puddle that had obviously been sitting there overnight, eating away at the wood like a termite in heat. Steinbeck, sunshine, everything fell from my mind as my lips were unable to form any cohesive words. My eyes rose from the puddle to Moxie, my sister's Maltese who some of you might remember pooped on her lap a couple months ago and who I'm convinced has some severe learning disorder. (At times Moxie reminds me of a schizophrenic mallard.) She sat in her bed nearby, beady black eyes fixed on me, looking quite content that her arch nemesis had stepped in her elaborate scheme.

And I was about to yell...but I couldn't. Maybe it was the sunshine coming in from the skylights above us. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn't be mad at a mentally disabled dog. Whatever it was I grimaced at her and hobbled back downstairs to my bathroom on one foot. As I sat on the lip of the tub, sudsing up my sole, I realized that whether I liked it or not, Moxie had become a part of our home. Just like Lola had done before her (although lets face it, if pitted in a game of intelligence Lola would be solving global warming while Moxie would be finding some lap to defecate in).

But that's what a home is. It's all the bad with the good. The hard times with the easy times. The beauty with the ugliness, the tragedy with the success, the sanguine with the gloom. Without each side it wouldn't be a complete home. So no matter how uncalled for some things are, like fights or yellow puddles, they're a part of the entire cocktail. And the inanimate constants, like my green lamp, are the reminders of it all.

Keeping the Feast: Book review and giveaway

Although set in the lush countryside and antiquated cityscapes of Italy, where happily-ever-afters are are as common as cappuccinos, Paula Butturini's memoir Keeping the Feast is not a love story.

Instead it's a story about what happens after the honeymoon phase of a marriage, when tragedy strikes and wedding vows – to love and to cherish, till death do us part -- are put to the test. It's a story about how a wife copes with the metaphorical “death” of her husband after he falls into a maelstrom of clinical depression, and how instead of giving up and leaving him to flounder alone, she finds strength and sanity through food and the preparation of meals. It's a story about survival through the darkest moments in a marriage and, in the end, it's a story about emerging from the darkness into light, hand in hand with your loved one.

In this Mediterranean country, where food is seen as a birthright and hearty meals are a defining staple in daily life, Butturini falls in love with fellow journalist John Tagliabue while both are working as foreign correspondents in Rome. After a whirlwind marriage John soon gets wounded by gunfire while on a separate assignment in Romania and the ensuing surgeries and treatments send him into a spiral of depression so deep he becomes a living ghost, a shadow of his former self. In Keeping the Feast, Butturini chronicles the loneliness she feels when she thinks she's lost John permanently to the depression, her memories rooted in family and food from her childhood in New Jersey, and her process of overcoming adversity and finally healing through cooking and (as cheesy as it sounds) love.

Italy has always held a special place in my heart. The country was a favorite destination of my family's during our European trips; when I was older and in college I studied abroad in Florence. And when J and I planned our wedding I wanted to make the day extra memorable so we booked tickets for our closest family members, rented a villa and had a Tuscan wedding that I still smile about nearly three years later. I can see, firsthand, how Italy would be the perfect backdrop for healing an individual and a marriage. Though I felt the ending of the book fell a little flat, it's worth a read if you're a foodie who enjoys salivating over vivid descriptions of Italian settings and gourmet cuisine. And even if food isn't your thing, we've all come to that crossroads in a relationship when we ask ourselves whether sticking it out through the bad times is worth it.

In Keeping the Feast it was. All you need is hope and a little bruschetta.

I'm giving away one free copy of Keeping the Feast for anyone who's interested!

How to Enter:

1.) Only US and Canadian residents can enter. Sorry international amigos, maybe next time.

2.) This giveaway is only open to readers of Brunette on a Budget, so you must be a follower of my random musings in some capacity or another (feed subscriber, a follower in the right-hand column of my blog through Google FriendConnect, etc.)

3.) Leave a comment below.

4.) Contest ends in one week, Thursday, January 28 at 12pm EST.

Once I get all the entries I'll choose the winner at random using a number generator. Good luck!

Home again, naturally

Oh Washington DC, so we meet again. This last month went by faster than I expected (especially with all the drama near the beginning, including Moxie and her unconscious bowel movements), but we survived and had a great time. Some high points included:

Visiting Pleasure Point (above) every morning and sometimes at sunset. No this isn't some secluded cliff where high schoolers go to make out in parked cars, it's a favorite local spot that bodes well for enjoying takeout nachos. I miss it already.

Though Avatar was not a high point, wearing the gauche 3D glasses was. They were very Brad Goranski from The Rachel Zoe Project, which was fine with me.

New Year's Eve, though spent without J, was still fun. I loved seeing my whole family together again and, of course, always look forward to spending quality time with my brother and sister (above).

Descriptions of the MIL's place only go so far, so I waited till she was out "peeping the pots" (what she calls taking Lola out for a bathroom break) so I could snap a few pictures of the surroundings:

World ... meet the maraca gourd painted to look like a duck.

The backyard labyrinth.

The MIL's work area.

The bathroom faucet I brushed my teeth at every morning and night. I admit that nude drawing threw me for a loop in the beginning but it began growing on me as time went on. Love & gratitude?

Oh and for anyone interested in her special female coloring book I mentioned a couple posts ago, I found out you can by it here. With these drawings you should have no problem coloring within the, uh, lines. Moving on...

The next time I'll be jetting off driving to sunnier skies will be the end of May when J graduates. After graduation J and I plan to pack Lola, a tent and a 5-gallon polyurethane shower bag into our little Hyundai to drive cross-country for about two weeks, camping in national parks like Badlands and Yellowstone along the way. (For being such an urban dweller I cannot wait to embark on such an Easy Rider adventure. Squeeee!)

In the meantime reality calls, and reality is expensive.

The 12-month lease on our apartment is up at the beginning of February; signing on for four more months (to carry us till J graduates and we ship out) would bump our rent up to about $1,700, not including utilities. Highway robbery, I say, for a one-bedroom apartment a mile away from the nearest metro stop. So we found a studio up in Silver Spring, Maryland for only $1,000/month and (*breathes heavily into paper bag*) we're canceling our cable TV for our remaining 4 months on the east coast. I can find most of my shows for free online, but Tony Bourdain -- I will have to buy you on iTunes. A sacrifice I'm willing to make. But only for you.

Anyway I haven't started packing yet and have only two weeks to be out of here. Though stressed I'm thankful that by moving (even for such a short time) we'll be able to save about $600 per month. I tend to hang on to everything -- from empty shoe boxes to unread pamphlets -- so filtering out the trash, packing up and cleaning will take up the rest of my month. Joy.

On a final note I got to meet the lovely Carolyn from Hang on Little Tomato for the first time on Saturday morning.

She shut it down in this leopard coat. I die. And I want one.

Carolyn is a fashionable attorney from Austin who I met through blogging and we couldn't be more alike. Reading her blog I was convinced we'd mesh and I was right. From our obsessive natures (e.g., listening to one song on repeat for weeks) to our love of the Kardashian sisters and online makeup tutorials, it felt like I was hanging out with an old friend. I hope I get to meet others soon!

Put the Viagra down...use goldenrod oil instead

Day 13 of living in cramped quarters with the MIL. If anything it's teaching me infinite amounts of patience. Or is it just testing my true wherewithal of hippie-dom?

Rozalin Focker, the every-woman MIL.

Some days -- with the aid of hyssop oils and patchouli, walking the miniature stone labyrinth she's fashioned in her 8' by 8' plot of a backyard replete with a Terra cotta fire pit and gurgling table-top fountain -- I ride my natural highs. No drugs necessary. Other times the vibe gets on my last nerve, like when (for some irritating reason) she projects her lifelong desire to be a 1950s-style housewife onto me, convinced that I quit my job to take care of my house and serve my husband. Um, just, no. If anyone does any serving in our household it's my husband to me (foot massages and tea brewing included). But when I tell her I actually despise cooking and cleaning she tells me I will learn to love it, because I'm a woman and I have breasts. (...) Of course I grow annoyed at this assertion, but trying to explain myself is like attempting to teach calculus to a pre-schooler (most likely because she's so romanticized her fantasy of being June Cleaver).

These are the times when I politely excuse myself to the bathroom upstairs, wash my hands for no reason other than to cool down and remind myself to follow the "love & gratitude" adage penned above the faucet. But it doesn't help because all I can think is "Anymore love and gratitude and I will punch someone in the face." Most likely my husband, since he's about an arm's length away at any given moment and, really, if he hadn't yelled at my mother we would never be in this predicament. Yes, I just went there.

But other times it's worth it enough to see J's mortified face light up crimson when his mom pulls out her “Cunt Coloring Book” from the '70s, all about exploring the nether regions of the female form. It's supposed to be art, but all I see is ... well ... you know what I mean. J is so different than his mother, very Mark Darcy with a bit of a goofier side, that I often wonder how he managed to stay that way growing up with such an open, liberal, anti-coffee woman.

When we first arrived at the Zen Den it took me only one morning to realize that there was no coffee in the kitchen. It turned out there was actually nothing caffeinated in the entire apartment.

"Why?" I asked shaking, pilfering through the kitchen cupboards.

“Because she thinks its toxic to your body,” J whispered to me.

“So?” I replied.

After about two days of drinking my MIL's coffee substitute, a 100% caffeine-free root drink called “Pero”, I was ready to pour a few carafes of espresso on my head. As was J, who's typical morning starts with a good, stiff Colombian roast. Starbucks Via, you've come in more handy than I could ever imagine. Along with no coffee there's also no ice and no microwave -- because “the radioactive waves poison the food,” duh. What I would give for an ice-cold Coca Cola and a piping hot bag of microwaveable popcorn. She's also deemed wine, or any other alcohol, a poison so there is nary a Pinot Noir in sight. Because of this J has been sneaking in the occasional bottle of red that we uncork late-night after she's fallen asleep, to enjoy in crystal goblets near the fire pit in the backyard.

I try to write here, but it's nearly impossibly. This post, for example, has taken me about two or three days to cobble together since every time I sit down and open my laptop the MIL begins quoting Rumi out loud and exploring what good karma is all about and before I know it an hour or two has passed and I have no idea what's going on. None.

So last night I stayed up after she and J had gone to bed, finished a good chunk of writing then desperately searched the Internet for any and all illegally uploaded episodes of Keeping up with the Kardashians (since cable is as absent as coffee in the Zen Den). After pages and pages of bogus results I finally found a pirated site so good I'm toying with the idea of canceling my cable when I head back to DC since it has every show I watch. Needless to say I finally reached Nirvana or enlightenment or whatever it's called, headphones in my ears, eyes devouring the computer screen as I chuckled along to the general debauchery of the Kardashian sisters from some illegal Chinese television website. What have I become?

It's like the Summer of Love ... every single day. Which is awesome, but too much of anything in too high of a dose and the novelty wears off. Behold a typical night at the MIL casa:

(Open scene in MIL's small living room. Crystal is sitting nearby at the dinner table reading the New Yorker online as MIL is cross-legged on the carpet, meditating in silence. In the gap between them lies an odd-shaped gourd maraca with a long appendage sprouting from its side. The ornamental gourd/instrument is hand-painted to look like a long-necked duck, the words “love and gratitude” written across its little chest. Apartment is silent; J has gone to run errands with his brother).

MIL: "If a man can't get erect, use goldenrod oil."
Me (confused): "Uh, what?"
MIL: "Goldenrod oil. It works wonders for erections."

(I burst out laughing, amused. Are we really having this conversation?)

Me: "Goldenrod oil?”
MIL: “Yes, goldenrod oil. If your man is tired and having trouble getting it up.”
Me: “What are you supposed to do with it, put it directly on the guy's ... thingy?"
MIL (completely serious): "Yes! Or on his feet. I've read it works in both areas, but I've only tried one."
Me: "Sweet, I'll remember that ..."

(Two hours later, J and his brother are hanging out in the living room with me.)

Me: “So guess what? If you have any trouble down there goldenrod oil is supposed to do the trick.”
J (in embarrassed disbelief): “What?”
Me (laughing): “Goldenrod oil. Apparently it's a legitimate substitute for Viagra. Your mom told me.”
MIL: “Oh yes, it is. Goldenrod is a magical substance.”
J (blushing and whispering to me): “You are such an instigator. You love bringing this stuff up and prompting her.”
Me (whispering back): “No! Ok maybe a little, but it's like hearing a little kid say inappropriate words. It's funny!!”
J: “Yeah, for you.”

It's both hilarious and disturbing when anyone's MIL -- especially yours -- starts discussing the art of tantric sex. True to form J grows bright red when this happens, which makes me laugh even harder. If anything it provides excellent comic relief to the situation with my fam right now.

Speaking of the fam we had a good New Year's, though I came thisclose to booking an all expenses paid trip to Cancun next week for my Aunt's bday – then realized my passport is sitting on my nightstand back in Virginia. *Insert deleted expletive here.* My sister, like always, will get to be enjoying the fruits of the spontaneous plans, sunning on white Mexican beaches this next Sunday while I look forward to heading back to the East Coast. *Insert yet another deleted expletive here.* Moral of the story: ALWAYS carry your passport with you. I did for the last couple years, but then after my trip to South America I casually left it on my side table, thinking that with our budget I probably wouldn't be taking another international trip for at least a few months. Stupid me.

So I may not be en route to Cancun in one week, but I've got something even better coming my way. According to the MIL Saturn's moon rises every 28 years and it's the highest form of orgasm. Well guess who's going to be 28 this year? Yep, yours truly.

"It is your time," she told me yesterday.

And to think, I don't even need a passport and an H1N1 vaccine to enjoy this trip.

Countdown to 2010

"My other vehicle is the Mahayana."

Oh kiddies, looks like I've gone and become a blogging cliche this holiday season aka "where the heck have I been"? Seven posts in one month? Abhorrent. But such is the way of life when you're back home and drama is on full broil in the family kitchen! And with that, let's get to it:

Banished am I from my parents' home. Well, maybe not I, but J is. Drama went down in true telenovela fashion a day before Christmas Eve. It was like some sick mashup of Terms of Endearment meets American Beauty. It was raw, coarse and -- had it been a reality show on A&E after some show like Hoarders or Intervention, perhaps titled "Life in the 'Burbs" -- it would have had the possibility of winning awards, I tell you. Don't want to divulge all the private deets but in short J ended up losing it and yelling at my mom after she and I got into an argument, J and I leave -- me crying -- with our luggage in hand, a complicated ballet of words were exchanged between he and my mother, and now my whole family doesn't want to see or speak to my husband. Joy.

The best part? It takes me about, oh, 0.5 seconds to get over anything. I forgive too easily. For my family? Not so much. I wouldn't be surprised if it takes months, even years, for them to allow J back into the home. And this is after J saw the err of his ways and apologized on Christmas Day. Didn't matter; damage had been done. Sigh. I wish there was a way to go back and erase these kind of things.

First night spent in exile: J's brother's bachelor pad. And by bachelor pad I mean a shack of a two-bedroom nearly condemned house near the beach that gives new meaning to the word "squalor." The kind of pad a bachelor rents when he has no plans of ever finding a girl (which is funny since J's bro does have a great girlfriend ... who I don't think has ever seen the place).

I suppose it wouldn't be that bad if the unfinished hardwood floors didn't have cracks in some areas where you could see all the way to the dirt foundation beneath and there wasn't 1.5 inches of dog hair covering the few filthy throw rugs in the place. Oh and also if it didn't smell like a giant sweaty foot and have a jagged bathroom entryway that's been cut through the laundry room wall, allowing you semi-privacy as you pee behind the black silk sheet that's been tacked up to resemble some sort of door sans lock. (The bathroom also has a surfeit of dead and living daddy long legs on counter tops and shower corners, along with a rickety panel window of which one of the panels has been broken and mask-taped with a square of cardboard that has also, curiously, been punched open, allowing that chilly ocean air in late-night when the tinkle fairies call.)

Ah, and to round it all out a peculiar hobbit of a man named Chip is the one renting the other room. Chip has no job, spends all day watching television in his room with his roommate's dog, Gonzo, and didn't seem at all embarrassed by the state of things in his house -- even the light orange patina of dried urine around the base of the toilet on the floor. Think Spike from Notting Hill. But bald and with a convicted felon's goatee, minus the British charm.

Basically I couldn't help but laugh and cry that first night as a refugee. But it got better the second night when we realized my mother-in-law had a foldout couch in her living room. The thought of taking another shower in flip-flops and lying awake terrified all night that a cricket or wolf spider would crawl across my face was a bit too much to handle. My brother-in-law -- who was visiting Disneyland all Xmas weekend with his girlfriend -- meant well, but I just. Couldn't. Do it.

So here I am, currently staying with my mother-in-law who is a true salt-of-the-earth hippie. Crammed into every corner of her one-bedroom apartment are hundreds of bottles of different oils to bring inner peace and harmony, along with tambourines, painted stones and stacks of books on meditation and spiritual growth. Next to two sink spouts and a shower faucet "Love & Gratitude" has been written in small letters on the walls. To remind her (and anyone who reads them) to think positive thoughts and live with an "attitude of gratitude" every day of life. At first I didn't get it, chalking it up to another hippie way of life (a way I've always wanted to follow), but it's actually grown on me. Love & gratitude, anyone?

Sometimes I find myself half-expecting John, Paul, Ringo and George to walk through the front door for a Hare Krishna sitar session. But instead I sit here analyzing the state of things as I drink ginger tea with "joy" and "possibility" oils (compliments of mother-in-law) in the absence of cable. I may finally be unleashing my inner hippie but Real Housewives of OC, oh how I've missed you.

Maybe this happened for a reason, I've thought, living in this den of meditation. Everyone (including my brother who points it out on a regular basis) knows how short my fuse is, how little people have to do to make me impatient or irritated. Sometimes I feel like Melvin Udall in As Good As it Gets. I know I need to learn to tamp down my irritation/anger/impatience. Perhaps sitting here quietly with coconut shell musical instruments, flower petals and painted stones, eating only raw foods and occasionally playing my mother-in-law's bongo drums is the way to do it.

I've been visiting my family every day or two. It's weird now, because they're normal again around me -- almost as if nothing happened. But then I realize J isn't at our dinner table and none of them want to see him right now and it makes me sad and frustrated. "Why can't you all just move on from it??" I want to yell. I loathe that giant pink elephant in the room. But I understand why it's there, and I know that everyone deals with these things in their own time. I just hope it doesn't take too long. After all, he's a part of my life permanently, so they'll have to forgive him sooner or later.

Of course, all this had to happen just before our family trip up to Sacramento for New Year's. You know, the one J was supposed to come on. Well I want to see my relatives up north and New Year's is a special holiday for my family, so he and I will be apart this year. I'm glad he has family down here to spend that time with so he won't be alone, but it looks like I won't be getting a New Year's kiss ... except maybe from Lola (yuck, fish breath, nevermind). I guess it's not that big of deal since post-college the holiday has lost its luster. With every year that passes it just seems more depressing, like time slipping away. (And we all know there are other, more important holidays anyway, like my absolute favorite: Valentine's Day. Missing that with J would be an utter travesty.)

So that's that. I hope all of you have a frabjous New Year's and I'll see you on the other side!

Endless Summer Winter

To celebrate my brother's 24th birthday on Sunday (same day as my dad's), J took Alexander out to catch a few waves, brah. Of course I volunteered to be photographer for the morning so I tried to chronicle it as Point Break as I could:

Artsy shot (above) I snapped while J and Alex were still out in the water.

Artsy shot (above) I forced J to pose in.

In other news:

My dad took us up to UC Santa Cruz to check out a spectrometer he's building for the Lick Observatory. We had to get suited up before stepping into the sanitized engineering lab and hilarity ensued:

Learning how sausage is made, or dressing up as double helixes for a Halloween party?

My sister's puppy is getting on my last nerve. No, I do not think it's cute when you chew on the leg of my sweat pants, Moxie (if that's even your real name. I'm starting to think it's actually more along the lines of "Diablo," "Lucifer," or something like that. J's convinced your real name must be "poop machine.")

I finally saw The Road. And it sucked. It wasn't a terrible movie, and I didn't hate it, but the book is just better. No failure on Viggo Mortenson's part, I love him as an actor and the guy can definitely pull off looking hot in a beard (Lord of the Rings, anyone?), but The Road is one of those books that doesn't adapt perfectly to screen, and so I think the blame lies on the screenwriters who fell short of making it their own.

Weekly highlights

The last week and a half has flown by out here in California, but so far the highlights have included:

Witnessing WWIII between my mother and sister over some comment that was taken out of context. The conflict lasted 3 days (yes, 3 days). And it's still resonating into today, though now they are at least acknowledging each others' presence. Usually I'm the one who's at the heart of these kind of spats so to instead be a spectator is fabulous. And so insightful.

Transcribing my family's exchanges when they don't know I'm around. Since the living room/kitchen/front door/etc. are all on the upper level of our house (our home is built on a hill), all drama occurs on this upstairs stage -- which makes the staircase leading up to it the perfect vantage point for any and all overhearing. The last few nights I've settled in on the bottom step with my laptop, typing furiously to keep up with the comedy that ensues upstairs. It's almost Royal Tenenbaums-esque and would be great fodder for a future book. The thing is practically writing itself so far. Creepy, or brilliant? Not quite sure yet.

My sister's puppy Moxie pooped on her lap in the car as we ate frozen yogurt in a shopping parking lot. Her subsequent freak-out was priceless! And it happened to come right at the end of a tiff we had so it was the ultimate retribution and I got the last laugh. Well, at least Moxie did. Good times.

Okay, maybe that wasn't my last laugh of the day. That same night my sister checked her bank statement online and saw that the frozen yogurt shop had accidentally charged her $90 for her $3 yogurt. Moral of the story: Check your account often.

I got a callback interview this week for a part-time college English teacher position I applied to in Virginia. Pros: The gig pays $35-$45 per hour and wouldn't have taken much of my time since writing is my priority. Cons: They wanted to interview me on Friday (as in the day after tomorrow). I asked if we could reschedule for after January 14th when I'd be back in town but they have to fill all positions for the semester by January 4th. Sigh. They said they'd keep my application on file, though, in case someone drops out. *hoping someone drops out*

My dad is turning 60 this weekend and what better way to celebrate than with a new scientific finding? He (along with his team of scientists) were in the news yesterday for discovering two "super-Earths" orbiting two nearby Sun-like stars. My dad has been a planet hunter for decades and designed the HiRes Spectrometer for the Keck Telescopes in Hawaii in the late '90s, so I'm very proud of him and hope this makes his birthday extra special. (Lord knows the flannel pajamas I bought him as a bday present pale in comparison.)

I'm almost done with my nanowrimo book. I'm currently on page 270 and I think I've got about three more chapters left. Chugging along to the finish line, kiddies. I absolutely have to finish this thing by New Year's Eve or else I will punch myself in the face and dub myself a failure.

'Tis the season

I woke up this afternoon this morning to find the first snowfall of the year here in DC was out in full effect (or as full as it gets 'round these parts). Perfect timing since I'd been wanting J to head down to Pentagon Row shopping center with me to watch the "artificial snowfall" they do nightly at 7pm. The real stuff is just better.

Earlier today the snowflakes were giant and fluffy ("Like someone had blown up a bunch of poodles and their fluff was falling from the sky," J says) and there was just enough powder on the ground to elicit Charlie Brown eyes and Snoopy dances outside, con scarves.

Also in time for the season was our first holiday party of the month, thrown by J's professor. About 15 of us convened on the soiree last night and there was much eating and imbibing of spirits. Personally I was delighted at how many celebrity-look-alikes were there (I'm notoriously skilled at playing the celebrity-look-alike game, be warned if I ever meet you in person) and to my delight there were many to postulate on. My favorites included a spitting image of David Eggers (meets a dash of Rob Lowe) and an all-around Woody Allen (in facial resemblance, mannerisms and voice. It was incredible, and nearly twice I had to stop myself not to ask how it must have been directing Annie Hall). All in all we had a great time and I got to meet many interesting people. Who knew lawyers could be so down-to-earth and jovial?

Anyway, as much as I love the snow I'll have to get my fill of it today since I'm off to California tomorrow! I won't be back 'round these parts till mid-January. In the interim I look forward to spending time with my family and friends, partaking in truckloads of authentic Mexican food, possibly surfing with J and having many beach bonfires. (Yes, my life up until three years ago was more Gidget than Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde.)

I'll be taking Lola and J will be joining me 10 days later, Moneypenny in tow, after he's finished with finals. A huge thank you (again) goes out to "Jude" for the free airplane tickets he sent our way, easing our financial stress 10-fold. Big thanks also goes out to one of my readers, Maritzainca, who just UPS-ed me a bottle of Pinot Noir for the holidays from a winery where she works in Northern California.

Ooooh, sparkly!

Maritza's a fellow UCSB-er who I met through twitter/blogging not that long ago. She no longer has a blog, but is thinking about starting one (hopefully) soon. I love my readers! Thanks again Maritza!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Gobble, gobble...

While our turkey is cooking and I'm enjoying a James Bond marathon on SciFi, eggnog and rum in hand, I wanted to wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays besides Valentine's Day (yes Valentine's Day) and this year it's even more special since it'll be the last one I'll have to spend in Washington DC! (Insert uproarious applause here.) I suppose it's too early to reflect on 2009 just yet -- that sort of thing comes with New Year's -- but in the spirit of cliche here's what I'm thankful for:

• Even through the hard times J and I can still laugh, at ourselves and at each other.
  
• My family, friends, Lola and MoneyPenny.
  
• That I'm healthy and all the people I care about are healthy too. (Well, except for my good friend John, who contracted a gnarly jungle parasite on a recent hike to some hallowed waterfall in Hawaii, but he's on a penicillin regiment now so no worries. He won't become a Discovery Channel statistic after all.)
• Lou "The Dentures" Dobbs finally left CNN, and hopefully television for good. Immigrants everywhere (legal or otherwise) breath a collective sigh of relief.
  
• Chipotle.
• That J wakes up to make me cappuccinos and breakfast on the weekends.
  
• I won Nanowrimo. (w00t!)
  
• That Facebook finally lets you hide those annoying girls from high school certain peoples' updates so you don't have to hear about how they're pregnant again with their second/third kid, or how cute it is when their baby burps/sleeps/walks/crawls/takes a poo. The sad truth is I never cared about you back then, and therefore could care even less about your baby's current bowel movements.
  
• That my sister graduated college and is back up in the Bay Area -- for good. Also that my bro is considering staying in the area for college. Love them. Us three musketeers together are a force to be reckoned with.
• That even though money has been incredibly tight these last few months, and sometimes the idea of it gets me down, most of the time it's an afterthought. I'm writing everyday and for me that's enough. (Although owning a villa in Tuscany and/or a vintage 1963 230SL convertible Mercedes does have its perks...)
  
• The dollar menu at McDonald's. For those few times a month when we treat ourselves out to a night on the town.

I'm curious: What are you thankful for this year?

Hell called, they're expanding their guest list

My brother called on Friday after speaking to me not more than 20 minutes prior.

"Yeah?" I answered, thinking he'd forgotten to tell me some detail about his many adventures in love we analyze on a regular basis.

"Are you online? Sophia just sent an email," he blurted out breathlessly. (Ed. Note: My sister is an email queen, so getting an email from her does not usually necessitate a special call.)

"Um, no," I replied, somewhat annoyed. I was, after all, right in the middle of my DVR-ed episode of Grey's Anatomy.

"Go check it. She just emailed us. Papa got mugged down in Santiago and he got hurt. I'm on my way home right now, she says she'll be on Skype," he said, before hanging up.

First thought that came to mind: Shit.

So I dashed over to my laptop, read the email and sat there in utter shock. What else could I do? My dad is not "old" by any measure (he'll be 60 in a few months) ... but he's ol-der. And the thought of someone taking advantage of a situation to steal a few dollars from an old man pisses me off to no end. I chatted with Sophia via Skype and learned that she was with my dad when it happened.

According to her:

"We went to the store to buy groceries for the long bus ride and were walking back to the hotel in the middle of the day. Everyone was around. A guy reached into his pocket and took a wad of money, Papa turned around, yelled and started running after him. At this point three guys blocked his way, tripped him and pushed him into the ground. I was so confused because then they started helping us with our groceries. He got up and had blood running down his face. We started walking, and you know him, he was so embarrassed already not being able to catch the guy. That's when I saw that his pinky had been dislocated and pushed the wrong way, so he popped it back into position. It looked like he'd gone into shock, and he thought he'd broken his nose. I knew he'd need stitches because the gash was so deep in his forehead and I knew he'd broken his finger so I made him go to the hospital. He'd fallen flat on his face; his hands didn't break his fall because the guys that pushed him down were also holding his arms and hands back. He was so helpless. "

Not the type of "wish you were here" sentiment I was expecting from my parents' adventure abroad. After I talked to my sis, my dad then got on Skype a short while later. He told us it wasn't a big deal and true-to-form tried to downplay it all, but I saw his bandaged hand and the stitches on his forehead, and it broke my heart. This was my dad, whom I'd grown up viewing as the protector in our family. He always has been. And I know that no one could have prevented this and he couldn't have stopped it (even if he was 30 and not 60), but it killed me to see him be embarrassed about it, helpless.

I think he chalks it up to gray hair and old age, but I told him that he simply doesn't blend in and that's probably why it happened to him in a giant crowd of people. Luckily, I also pointed out, they didn't pull out a gun or knife on him and that at least he was safe. "I wish I could have caught them, though," he said. "No, you don't," I replied.

I reminded him that I've had handfuls of friends mugged right here in DC either at knife- or gun-point, and it didn't always end so pretty (one person, while being mugged, watched her mugger shoot a guy in the head right in front of her). It's a dangerous world, and no place is really "safe" anymore. My dad's attack, along with the countless other attacks I've heard happen to friends in the last couple years here, reaffirms that fact.

So the thieves ended up stealing $800 in cash from my dad who was carrying it because there were no ATMs where they planned to be. Though there is a special place in hell for people like this, I can't help but feel sorry for them too. Poverty drives people to great lengths, and I can only imagine what kind of daily lives they lead when we take for granted how we have flushable toilets and abundant food. So, $800 sucks to lose, but he'll survive. There's really no price tag for that.

Bottom line: Go invest in some pepper spray, kiddies. I have a pink cartridge I keep on my keychain, which I often hold on to in my jacket pocket if I feel a certain street is sketchy (I know, so Kill Bill, all I need now is a Hattori Hanzo sword). It (the pepper spray, not the sword) only costs about $10 and is better than nothing ... unless, of course, your attacker has a gun. At that point I -- like a mutual friend recently did when faced with the gun scenario -- would start running. Nine times out of 10 they don't actually want to shoot you, they just want to rob you ... unless they're batshit crazy. But that's a whole other story.