Good News and A Story About Scones

The good news is that Theo doesn't have any parasites or creepy crawly's other than tape worm, which is apparently not a very big deal. We start his de-worming meds tonight and our vet said we don't need to worry about treating the other three animals since they are not exhibiting signs of tape worm (i.e. dropping worms out of their butts all over my bed) so it is highly unlikely that they have worms too. The other really good news is that Mike and I don't have to worry about de-worming ourselves since it is also highly unlikely that we contacted the worms. Even though they were in our bed.

Now to make up for yesterday's awful post, here is a story my mom sent me. It is true, about her, and may give you some insight as to where I get my quirks.

But first, let me preface the story by telling you that my mother loves scones. LOVES THEM. One of my happiest memories from childhood is of coming home from school to find that my mom had baked scones so that we could have a little tea-party, just the two of us. We spent the afternoon drinking pink tea and eating scones and even though I didn't like them as much as I liked marshmallow cookies, it was absolute heaven. So while my parents were in town for an early Christmas celebration, I baked a batch of raisin scones. At the end of the day there was only one scone left and I sent it back to California in a zip-lock bag so that my mother could enjoy it once she was home. This is what happened:

So, what does the Scone Lover do? What does she do, after she walks downstairs, makes a cup of tea, and turns toward her last scone (which she transported all the way from Sugar Hill, NYC)? What does she do as she turns toward The Scone with great anticipation?

And finds it, in it's plastic bag (where it was presumed to be Safe), Covered with ants? COVERED.

I'll tell you what she does. She curses, and then she puts it in the freezer. Freezes the many ant butts solid. Then takes it out, brushes the ant butts off of it, and puts the lovely scone in the toaster oven at 350. Then she Enjoys it (every mouthful), with Orange Marmalade!

I love you, Mama. Thank you for making me laugh with such a funny story! And I'm glad you got to enjoy your scone, ant butts be damned!

I figured it out.

This blog started long ago, on a misty, grey afternoon in May of 2007. Back when I still had hopes that "the rainy season" would end soon, when I was cutting my bangs too short and when I thought I looked good in puffy-sleeved dresses. The first post was a flippant one-liner, something I agonized over because I had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. What was a blog? I had no idea. I read a few blogs, blogs written by close friends, and they were all kinds of different. I decided that blogs were a little like online journals - journals you wouldn't mind everyone and their dog's mother having access to. So I started writing a little online journal. I did not censor myself at all.

I don't believe in censorship as we think of it in regards to great literary works and newspaper articles written by educated journalists and things like that. But when it comes to self-censorship? Let's just say that blogging taught me a little about not writing everything that just pops into my head. Because what you say is what you say. But what you write? It's there forever.

So that was a good lesson.

In the last year or so, this blog has almost become ... I hesitate to say it because of how much it will sound like I'm squeezing it out of a velveeta bottle, but this blog has become my friend. And the fact that you read it once in a while? That you come back and read after I've taken off and disappeared for weeks on end? And you only ever say nice things. It's kind of amazing. I wish you knew how grateful I am to you. You bring me a tremendous amount of joy. Your comments put a smile on my face for hours.

All that being said, for as long as I've been writing here I haven't really known what I was writing about. It was actually a lot easier when I was in the obnoxious-wussy-whining stage because it didn't take any time or energy, really. I'd just open my blogger page, type something like, "as;lkdfjiouwe;LKEJ; ROIU WALEKRFJ;S LKDFJ A;SOID FU;LSKDFJ S;LKDFJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" then write, "That's me screaming in type," and that was that. (Ah! Remember the good old days?) But since I've actually started caring about what I write and whether or not you'll like reading it, this writing has become something I'm really proud of. And don't say that I shouldn't care whether or not you like what I write because, Damnit, I am an ENTERTAINER. I LIVE TO ENTERTAIN. IF I AM NOT ENTERTAINING YOU THEN AS;DLKFJWOPIURELW K;AEJRA;SLKDF J;ASIODFUAOPSI EFJA;KLSDFJ!!!!!! I WILL JUST SCREAM IN TYPE ALL DAY LONG.

But I do care. And so I vow to never again subject you to that kind of mind-numbing irritation ever again.

So what am I writing about? Most of the blogs I read are mommy blogs written by young mom's raising little kids. Dooce is my favorite because she has the same sense of humor I do, and I like Girl's Gone Child's whole alterna-mom thing, but my blog isn't a mommy blog because I don't have kids. It isn't a blog about dogs, even though I talk about the crazy mutts a lot. It's not a blog about being an actor in New York because out of over 400 posts, only 30 are about acting. It's not about cooking or baking, electronics or photography, so what's it about?

It's a blog about family.

Did you figure this out ages ago and I'm only just now catching on?

Last year I tried to read this book my dad lent me, about managing one's time. I gave up in the first chapter because the book asked me what I would do if I found out I was going to die in six months. I didn't like my answer so I walked away from it.

Would you like to know what I would do if I found out I only had six months to live?

I would do whatever it took to spend every waking second surrounded by my family. I would move back to Los Angeles and I would spend every moment possible with the wild and beautiful clan that I was lucky enough to be born into. And of course, every private moment I'd spend in the arms of my wonderful husband.

Moving to New York taught me about family, and how to be a family with Michael. I don't know how to explain it except to say that until we moved to New York, until we went through that fucking awful year together and came out of it stronger and happier and more in love than I ever imagined was possible, we weren't really a family. Before we moved, he was my boyfriend, my partner, my team member, blah blah. We got married and that was great and relationships take work but are totally worth it. We spent years in couples counseling and had epic arguments and a storybook romance to keep it all worthwhile. We had all this great, awesome, important stuff. But now? Now he is a part of me. He is my family. Even though a forensics guy would never say so, Michael's blood beats through my heart.

This blog is about family.

Valley Upbringing: Cons

Me: John Quincy Davis is on the new gold dollar.

Him: Who's John Quincy Davis?

Me: (Scoffing loudly.) Um, the sixth president of the United States.

Him: ...

Me: Wait. Did I say Davis? I meant Adams.

Him: I'm sure you did.

Finir!

Two Headed Boy

Michael Frost, 2009

Acrylic, dog hair, pencil on canvas.

Hand-carved frame, built and carved by the artist.

1/1555

Mike and his brother took 1,555 photos on their backpacking trip. That's 2.5 GB of information. I haven't even come close to looking at all of them yet, but this one popped out at me. And I've decided that despite the lack of restrooms, showers, malls and restaurants, the next time they go, I want in.

The Unveiling

Of course, as soon as I took these and got permission to post them, he declared them both unfinished and went back to work. And then he made them even better.

I am very proud of him.

I wish you could see them in person. Much of the detail is lost in the photograph. But you get the idea.

Two headed boy

Don't take those pills your boyfriend gave you

I urge you to click on the photos so you can see more of the detail. Look closely at the boys face. The detail is incredible. And the dresser on the right in the second painting - that open drawer seems alive to me. Also, check out the reflection in the mirror. It's ghostly!

8/27/09

Good morning, Sunshine!

Me: Can you explain why it is that you feel the need to use your feet to shove the covers off of your body all the way down to the foot of the bed where they get all tangled up and make it nearly impossible for me to make the bed?

Him: Is there anything I do that I've been doing for my entire life that doesn't irritate you?

He thinks roadkill is good eatin'

I always have these grand imaginings. Adam says that my life is like that part in (500) Days of Summer where the audience sees the split-screen of Tom's Expectation next to his Reality and it's so awful because his Expectation is SO HIGH and Reality is. so. average.

Speaking of that movie, who's title I don't feel like typing out again, have you ever seen a movie so brilliant, that while you are watching it you alternate between wanting to call everyone you know to demand that they see it and feeling like your life is a worthless mess because you could never create anything so beautiful? That is how I felt when I watched that movie. And then it ended. And the ending was so awful, so lame, so cheap, so insipid... that I finally understood why my dad is always talking about the third act of movies and why they're so important. The ending actually offended me. I was actually offended. Because of the ending, and only the ending, I would recommend that you spend your $12.50 on a different movie. Or, at the very least, that you leave the theatre at the 1 hour 20 minute mark. I mean it.

So anyway, I have these grand imaginings and I'm frequently disappointed. (Right, I should probably work on lowering my expectations. But the fantasy is so fun.) I really thought I would write a big beautiful heartwarming post about my husband's return from the JMT, and my experience of not being able to see him or talk to him for twenty-one days. You know, I'd write all about how much better my life is when he's around, yet how much I learned about myself from being on my own for nearly a month, blah blah blah. Because it's a kind of a big deal to be out of communication with your spouse for twenty-one days.

But I didn't write a thing. This post was written eight days after his return. Eight! Because when he came home and it was time to write the big heartwarming post, I just couldn't tear myself away from him long enough to write. And then? When I finally could tear myself away? By then he was leaving dirty socks on the floor again, so... you know.

I'm kidding. He is leaving his socks on the floor, but it's also so wonderful to have him home, even with the dirty socks, that sometimes I just sit and stare at him, like when he's in the middle of doing something or whatever, and I just can't believe he's sitting there. Home. Mere inches away.

That's usually when I reach out and pinch him, really hard. And then he gets upset and yells about how violent I've become. But at least he's home.

I didn't take any photos the night he came back, and I only took a few the next day. I was too busy staring at him with awe and adoration to take a lot of photos. But, and aren't you lucky, I did take photos of his scary weight loss and his mountain man beard:

Escada is doing a whole Mountain Man look this fall. Just wait.

I'd like to point out that in this photo, Mike is wearing the jeans that were giving him muffin-top the day he left for his trip. If you ever want to lose fifteen pounds in three weeks, all you have to do is hike 15-20 miles every day while wearing a fifty-pound backpack. It's way better than that maple-syrup-lemon-pepper diet. (We're not going to comment on the farmer's tan though, ok?) (Update: Mike has corrected me. It's a hiker's tan. My sincere apologies.) (Weirdo.)

We spent his first day home whispering over our pillows, catching up on life over the last three weeks, going through the photos from his trip and eating. A lot. I cooked for him and fussed over him and rubbed his feet, he read all my blog posts and exclaimed over my new cooking skillz, and then he took me to see District 9 which was brilliant. Loved it. LOVED it. Including the third act. GO SEE IT.

Also that day? We shaved off The Beard. Which we really should have named, by the way. That thing had developed it's own personality.

The first cut

A young Colonel Sanders.

If Michael were a Civil War reenacter.

Or a hipster.

P.S. Look closely at his shoulders. Do you see the red scabs on both shoulders? In the shapes of backpack straps? Gnarly.

8/24/09

Just now

Me: I can't believe I have a man in my life who I'm so crazy about.

Mike: Me neither! You're so hard to get along with!

(But then he kissed me like Patrick Swayze kissed Jennifer Grey, so I didn't smack him.)

Hodge Podge

I am married to this guy:

On a scale of 1-10, how offensive is that photo? And would you believe me if I said it came about in an entirely innocent manner? Because it did. It really did.

Moving on! Saturday, August 1st, I kissed my husband good-bye while wearing very large sunglasses so that he would not be able to tell that I was crying. And then I hopped in my sister's car and she drove off quickly as I sobbed like an idiot in the front seat. And then we ate Thai food.

Back in The Valley, it was time to get down and celebrate my father's 70th birthday and my brother's 35th.

My handsome brother and his gorgeous daughter. They look a lot alike:

Clearly, I frighten her:

These two?

He proposed to her on Valentine's Day, in such a movie-romantic way I couldn't even believe it, who knew he was so romantic, but now they're getting married and the family couldn't be happier.

8/1/09

Where did the day go?

I seem to have forgotten to take a photo on July 28. I'm not really sure how that happened. But the worst part? I can't even tell you what I did that day. Did I work all day? I don't know. Did I hang out with friends? Highly unlikely. Did I spend the whole day drunk? A possibility.

Ha, I kid.

Or do I?

Anyway, here's a photo I took in March of 2007, of my sweet and beloved husband taking a bath in our first bitchen. Did you know we've had two bitchens? We've had two.

My beloved is hiking the JMT, as I've mentioned, and has no phone or Internet access, so it will be several weeks until he realizes that I've posted a photo of him in the bath on the Internet.

I am so glad I'm not married to me.

George affectionately named this bathtub the 'bounter', as in 'bathtub/counter', because that ugly slab of wood you see on the wall behind the tub? That is the underside of the kitchen counter. It folded down when you needed to use it, and then folded up and latched to the wall when you needed to bathe. And I only spent $1500 a month on my rent! Have I mentioned lately HOW MUCH I LOVE MY FABULOUS NEW APARTMENT?

7/28/09

Kiss Goodbye

Writing this on July 30, for a photo that was taken 7/25/09. It was the only photo I took that day and Mike will probably be annoyed I'm posting it, but what's a girl to do? I love that face so much, it's hard to find words to explain it.

Today we leave for California. We have two lovely women from Ohio staying in our apartment, taking care of the beasts, the worms, the little potted garden. We'll be staying with Mike's brother and his family for a couple of days and then Mike and his brother will start their near-300-mile journey along the John Muir Trail. It will be 23 days until I wake up and see that beautiful face on the pillow by mine. I am very much looking forward to his safe return.

Once Mike hits the trail, I head back to The Valley, to spend time with family and friends. I plan to keep up with Project 365+, taking photos every day. Wouldn't you know it though, my laptop is on the fritz, so I have no idea if I will be able to post while I'm gone. Check back periodically, but I can't promise I will post between now and August 10. Of course, that just means double the posts when I get back!

All of my love,

t.

7/25/09

YOU DON'T NEED TO TAKE MY PICTURE.

Mike getting ready to leave for a training hike.

This August he will hike nearly three hundred miles

of the John Muir Trail. In the meantime,

he walks around MANHATTAN dressed LIKE THIS.

This is a common before-bed conversation in our home:

11:00 p.m.

Me: Babe? Did you lock the front door?

Him: Yup.

Me: Thanks.

11:03 p.m.

Me: Babe? Did you lock the front door?

Him: You just asked me that.

Me: I did?

Him: Yes.

Me: Did you?

Him: Yes. I locked the front door.

11:07 p.m.

Me: Did you lock the front door?

Him: This is the third time you've asked me.

Me: ... it is?

Him: Yes.

Me: ... really? Because I don't remem-

Him: This is the third time you've asked me. YES I LOCKED THE DOOR.

The thing is? It's not my memory that's the problem. My memory is fine. It's my brain. My brain is moving faster than the rest of me. I'll think to myself, "I wonder if Mike locked the front door?" And before my mouth has time to say, "Did you lock the door?" my brain has moved on to something entirely different.

As a result, I am frequently accused of 'not listening'. I would like to state my defense here: I AM NOT LISTENING TO MYSELF EITHER. It's not much of a defense, but it's something.

It's funny, when you get to the point in a relationship when you begin to see all the little ways you drive your partner crazy. Mike is the only person I've been involved with for any significant amount of time, so I've experienced a lot of firsts with him. First airplane ride with a boyfriend, first time a boyfriend held my hair back while I threw up, first one-year anniversary where I realized I still genuinely liked the boyfriend, first time I realized another person found any of my little habits and idiosyncrasies annoying, et cetera.

For the first two years of our relationship, we were drunk on love. We (mostly) thought the other one was perfect. Then, we moved in together (because we are sinners) and (probably as a punishment from GOD) I started noticing little things he did that would drive me crazy. Little things like leaving his socks on the floor. Or how he lets his floss dangle out the side of the garbage can after he's used it. Or how he leaves produce in plastic bags in the fridge. Little things.

This August 23 (or is it the 24th?) will mark the SIX year anniversary of our first date the second time we started dating*, and even though we've been married for three years, it has only been within the last year or so that I've realized that I have habits that genuinely annoy him as well. And again, they are little things. Like, how I nag him about his socks on the bedroom floor when I have three pairs of shoes scattered on the floor in the living room. Or how, if it were up to me, the inside of our shower would be orange from mold because I am that uninterested in cleaning it. Or how I always pour myself an extra large mug of coffee, take four sips off it, then leave it somewhere in the apartment to grow fur over the next week. Or how I ask him eight times before bed every night whether or not he locked the front door.

But the thing that knocks me over? The thing that completely blows my mind is how clear it is that no matter how annoying I may be, he still loves me.

And I? I would jump in front of a train for that man if it meant that he'd still be alive and well enough to leave his dirty socks on my floor. Even though it makes me crazy.

7/18/09

*We dated twice. The first time was NINE years ago, the second time was six years ago. This July marked the NINE year anniversary of when we first ever met. Which now means that, officially, I have known Mike longer than his first wife knew him. I WIN.

It's easier than we thought it would be

I really am not sure how all this started. For years we've talked about making our home a space that was more an artists studio than a living space. We've dreamt and whispered about how wonderful it would be if everywhere we looked there was a work in progress, if any time we wanted we could pick up a paint brush or a mallet or an instrument or a pencil and just play. But it has only been in the last several weeks that we've made it a reality.

And neither of us really know what we are doing. We are each confident in a few creative outlets and the rest are a wild experiment. Sometimes I feel frustrated and embarrassed and he talks me out of it. And other times he gets frustrated and embarrassed and I talk him out of it. Our biggest fight in years happened this week when I came home from work and he'd put away all of his paints and hidden his canvases under the bed and turned our "studio" back into a "living room". I don't remember the last time I cried that hard. I felt terribly threatened.

The next day I pulled all the art supplies out again, found his canvases, set up the easel. And that night he started working on his third piece in as many weeks. And they are all works in progress and he is just learning and it is incredible to witness.

And what am I doing? I'm writing. I'm playing with my camera. I'm getting a lot more auditions than usual and nailing them. I'm learning guitar. I'm practicing yoga on a near daily basis. I'm cooking. COOKING! And enjoying it! Life is full of wonder, sometimes.

07.12.09

Two very different beauties

I finally understand why people make such a big fuss over East Coast Ivy Leagues.

Of course, I mean, other than the fact that they are incredible institutions of learning. But also, goodness! Have you ever seen anything so gorgeous in your life? Welcome to Columbia University.

And then there is this. This is what my life has been for the last ... it's been weeks.

Perfectly beautiful, serene, full of laughter and love and creativity.

I can't believe this is my life.

07.07.09

p.s. I love this photo because I think it looks like it was taken in the seventies. And I am a little obsessed with vintage photographs. Although, not fake vintage photographs like this one. You know what I mean.

Ring Finger

This is my engagement ring. I've always loved old things. Things with stories. Things that once were loved by someone else.

We'd been talking about marriage for about six months when Mike took me to the jewelry district in downtown Los Angeles one sunny Sunday afternoon. We wandered the stalls and he pointed out pretty solitaires and glittering pave settings and stunning emerald-cut sparklers. And I shrugged and shook my head and passed the booths and wondered out loud where we could find some coffee.

"What kind of a ring would you want?"

"Something simple. I don't know. My great-grandmother had this ring that was all setting and very little diamond. I always loved that ring."

He stopped at the nearest booth and asked the woman at the counter if she had any antique diamond rings. She reached under the counter and removed a small velvet box. It was dingy and the velvet was wearing thin on the corners. When she opened it, the hinges creaked, but inside was magic. A tiny, tarnished, delicate ring, a cupcake of filigree surrounded by intricate engraving. A relic of artistic virtue from long ago. I couldn't breathe. The woman handed me the ring and I slipped it on my finger and my heart was beating so fast and tears spilled from my eyes. And then I was embarrassed because who cries over an old tarnished ring? Mike started laughing then, and said, "So I guess you like that one?" And he put his hand on the small of my back, winked at the woman, and took me out for coffee.

A week later we were sitting at the top of the ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier and he was fumbling around in his pocket and then he was holding the little ring out to me and asking me to be his wife. And I was laughing and shaking and then he dropped the ring and thank God we were not in one of those ferris wheels with the open bottom.

When we married, we could not afford a wedding band to match my engagement ring. I wanted something delicate and slender, that I could wear on its own or as a set. Something feminine and lovely and simple. I work with my hands a lot, I am not a prissy girl, and I did not want my ring to be in my way. It wasn't until this past Christmas that Mike was finally able to buy me a wedding band. Again, he let me pick it out, this time in Manhattan's jewelry district. And again, I did not know for sure if we were just looking for fun or if he was planning to surprise me or what.

Christmas morning he handed me a tiny blue box and it was like getting engaged all over again.

Every time I look at these rings my heart swells and I think it will overflow. They look like candy to me. They sparkle and catch my eye and make me laugh. The wedding band is full of sapphires that are such a deep blue they are nearly black and Mike loves them as much as I do. As simple and lovely and small as my rings are, I find that I am always taking them off so I won't hurt them. I take them off to shower. I take them off to wash dishes. I take them off to hike and bathe the dogs and paint and practice yoga and bake. I find that I am not wearing my rings more often than I am wearing them.

"Does it bother you?"

"Not at all."

"Really? Because you bought me these beautiful rings and you went to so much trouble and now I never wear them and you must think I am so ungrate-"

"You know what I think of a woman who can wear diamonds every day? I think she must not use her hands very much. It says something about a woman."

"Are you sure you won't feel like it was a waste of money to buy me jewelry if I only wear it once in a while?"

"You deserve to have beautiful jewelry that you can wear when it is appropriate to wear beautiful jewelry. And the rest of the time you can wear something that makes sense with our busy, wonderful, useful life."

Two days before we married, we purchased matching sterling silver bands. They were to be stand-ins until we could afford something nicer. But as time went on, Mike realized he didn't want anything nicer because he, too, uses his hands so much. It wouldn't make sense for him to have something with filigree or stones. And I've begun to realize that the same is true for me. I'm a no-nonsense girl. I wear very little make-up. I live in sneakers and jeans and t-shirts. I use my hands a lot. I get dirty.

This ring, simple and sturdy as it may be, is a much better symbol of our marriage, our life. And it matches his. Perfectly.

07.06.09

I'm practically peeing my pants.

It has been a very exciting week, Internet Friends. Very. Exciting. I have about a hundred-eighty-three projects (that's an exact number) going right now, including the editing of a brand-new film reel, the writing of a children's book (What-what?), auditions and call-backs gallore, and a garden. I have a garden. I live in Manhattan and I have a garden.

Ok, it isn't really a garden. It's more of a collection of potted plants that I can eat when they're done growing. BUT STILL.

Do you remember when I posted all about sustainable eating and community supported agriculture and how I lusted after large open spaces where I could grow vegetables? Well, dreams come true, folks. They really do come true.

This past Tuesday Mike and I were the proud recipients of our very first CSA share. We are members of the West Harlem Community Supported Agriculture Program, which means that every Tuesday we get a big box of organic, locally grown fruits and vegetables. AND IT IS LIKE CHRISTMAS, IT IS THAT FUN.

Look what we got this week:

Is this not the Most Beautiful bok choy you've EVER SEEN?

What the F is this? I can't even tell you. But it was delicious.

(It's called Kohlrabi)

And it comes in red, too, in case you were wondering.

Also, in case you can't tell by my husband's beard, we are hippies now.

This is a garlic flower. Did you know that garlic flowers?

And you know what it tastes like? GARLIC.

It's beautiful and wonderful and grown in New York state.

And here is a sneak-peak of our bedroom. (It's not done yet.)

Those flowers? They came from the CSA also.

F-ing-A. How happy am I?

And this? This?

LIVE HERBS WERE ALSO A PART OF OUR CSA.

Oregano and Thyme.

How badass is that?

VERY VERY BADASS.

We also got a sh** ton of kale, swiss chard, strawberries, and other stuff I am too excited to remember.

The other thing that was freaking awesome was that four days before we picked up our CSA share, our good friends Josie and Johnny came over for dinner and brought us this house-warming gift:

Basil, sweet basil and cilantro

A TOMATO PLANT! AAAAAHHHHHH!

I am ridiculously excited about the tomato plant. RIDICULOUSLY. EXCITED. And since I took this photo, our little tomato plant has grown even bigger and is even more beautiful and holy crap I am growing a vegetable. It is my very first time ever growing a vegetable or herbs. And forever and ever, wherever I live, wherever I roam, whenever I grow vegetables and herbs I will think of Josie and Johnny because they got me started.

I am so freaking happy right now. Who knew that vegetables and herbs could make a girl THIS happy? It is the little things in life, truly.

*very*happy*sigh*

He's definitely sitting closer to God than I am

I like to think of myself as The Clean One in my marriage. I believe I am the one who is tidy and neat and organized. Mike, of course, is The Messy One. I like to think I am always running around picking up after him, wiping up his spills, picking his socks up off the floor, cleaning up his little messes. I like being the Felix to his Oscar. Gives me a reason to feel self-righteous and honestly, who doesn't like feeling self-righteous?

The other night I was putting away freshly folded laundry and I was just having the darnedest time putting my shirts in my shirt drawer. "I should really re-organize my drawers," I thought to myself. "There's just so much stuff in here, there's no room for the clean stuff!"And then I opened Mike's shirt drawer to put away his shirts.

Hers/His

My drawer is the one on the left. The one where nothing is folded and everything is just shoved in haphazardly. My drawer is the one where if you want to find something, you just pull everything out and then stuff it back in when you're done. Michael's? His is the one on the right where everything is folded perfectly, so clothes are easy to find and everything fits. Like a jigsaw puzzle.

And once again I was forced to acknowledge that, though in my fantasies I am the self-righteous clean one, the reality is that Michael is totally the Felix to my Oscar. And the worst part? HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TO GLOAT OVER IT.

Can I get a HELLS YEAH from my sisters?

Him: I need new jeans. These are getting really tight around the thighs.

Me: .... Um ..... how did that happen?

Him: It's all the running we've been doing.

Me: So ... it's a good thing?

Him: It's a great thing!

Me: Oh. Ok. See, if my thighs are getting too big for my pants, it's a very bad thing. A very, very bad thing.

Him: No way. Not if it's muscle. Then it's awesome.

Me: No, it's not.

Him: Yes it is.

Me: It might be good when your thighs get bigger, but trust me, it is never good when my thighs get bigger.

And now he has a chest infection

Since I can't seem to write about much else these days, I'm going to continue on in the vein of NOT shutting the F up about my Magical New Apartment Named Rachel. Even though I totally promised I would. I'm obviously a liar.

Michael has completely dedicated his entire life, and also the use of both of his lungs, to making our apartment beautiful. What do I contribute, you wonder? I do laundry and surf the web and complain about sawdust and eat the meals Mike prepares. Ours is an equal partnership.

Most recently Mike got a bug up his ass to repair the door sills. Which are not called lintels, after all, like we thought they were. They're called sills. (Did you know there were door sills in addition to window sills? I didn't.) Our door sills are wooden, but they had been painted a sickly grey and then, because they weren't ugly enough, someone screwed horrible metal strips into them. (And this is totally off-topic, but you know what? Yesterday I pronounced "horrible" like "harrible". I think I've been in New York a while now.)

Sickly grey with harrable metal strips.

I hate to admit this, but I never even noticed the door sills until Mike pointed them out to me. I didn't really think much about them even after he pointed them out because I was thinking about all the gorgeous sunlight pouring through the many windows. And also how wonderful our bathroom sink is. And how little furniture we own. But Mike just couldn't stand the sills. Not when he knew there was wood! Glorious wood! underneath all that awful paint. It was keeping him up at night.

So my darling, wonderful, brilliant husband who has reactive airway disease, spent the next two days stripping and sanding, polishing and staining, applying urethane then sanding then applying urethane once more, to our five wooden door sills. All while NOT wearing a mask. Because masks are expensive! he argued. Is a t-shirt wrapped around your face expensive? I'm just saying.

Kitchen door sill, stripped and sanded, waiting for stain.

As a result, for the past three days Michael has come home from summer school and collapsed into bed wheezing and snarfling and coughing. And he stays there, curled in a painful sounding lump, until his alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. I was starting to get really worried, but this morning he swore up and down that he feels better. Something about massive amounts of eucalyptus tea he's been sucking down. I wondered why our bedroom smelled like a steam room.

And as I left for work this afternoon, leaning over to kiss his forehead, listening to him hack and squawk, I had to admit, those door sills? They are gorgeous.

Admit it. You're blinded by the sheer gorgeousness, aren't you?