The End.

Oh, hello. Long time no talk.
I'm bleaching my teeth - the intensive two hour kind - after just finished ridding my hair of its silvery grays and dying my skin to match the Summer months.
After this, I'm shellacking my nails and then probably going for a walk.
All of this is not exciting, and my life in the last couple months has been the same. But not for lack of Happy, or lack of Love or anything - just for lack of Inspiration. Sometimes I reread old posts, much like I'm my own biggest stalker on Facebook or Instagram, and I am overwhelmed by the ups and downs, the uncertainty, and the absolute belief I had in deservedness and change.
And, I'm happy to report, I was right. 
My tumultuous late twenties, my Saturn's Return, they were marked by what nows and well when then?! My thirties may have started with a Bang! but since then, they've been a beautiful dull roar of contentment and care - with regards to myself and my relationships.

And now, sitting on my unmade bed years later, at Thirty One, I am an incredibly different person than when I started this project over two years ago while sitting on an entirely different made bed, in a different house, in a different town. Everything was so different. And, though I am constantly growing and changing still, the reality is... That my reality looks nothing like it did way back when I started all this, while dating the Australian or even as I was in the throws of a now relatively unimportant yet wildly exciting affair with the Dutchman, and even further away is my life from my time spent with Apartment F.

All of these experiences and those old posts, though they may have shaped me, now feel foreign (and some of them were.)
The way that a song will take you back to a period of time long forgotten, to a car ride long ago.
I no longer feel the need to dissect every misstep, as I have fewer now, and the growth and change that I have experienced with Jim, now, feel like they're 'ours' and ours alone.

I no longer seek out the crowds as a form of validation.

To be honest, if I was still writing here, you'd be sick of it just as we all got sick of the shit I dealt with with Apt F, because it would mostly be me trying to talk myself down from my hopes of a proposal.
And talking about how happy I am.
How happy we are.
I am happy.
And, I am happy I have you - all of you.

The End.

Kids.

Jim and I, we are Adults.
Grown Ups, really.
Or at least, we are the most Grown Up versions of ourselves we have ever been.

We have a nice (albeit small) home, without the craigslist hand me down aesthetic of our twenties or the fear of not getting our deposit back because the carpets that were once white* are now beige.

*The only proof of this being the virgin carpet 

underneath an area rug in the dining room.

Hey honey, did we leave the oven on?

We favor the better seats at the outdoor concerts as opposed to the cheap ones, and quality over everything else when picking out goat cheese and salami.
We have a housekeeper, and enough cloth napkins and matching serving ware for a large dinner party.
As if, somehow, those are the real testaments to adulthood.
Actually, I'm fairly certain they are.
But then, every once and a while, there is a reminder of how both of us really feel like Kids in Dress Up Clothes.
Fakers!

Most often, it is when Sunday or Monday rolls around, and one of us realizes that the garbage bins had been left out in the back alley since the Tuesday before.

And I find myself thinking,

'Ah, they can't blame us! We're just Kids. Still getting used to Taking Out the Trash All By Ourselves.'

I have to remind myself that we are, for all intents and purposes, not children; rather, we are (forgetful) adults who should really take out the trash on a more regular basis.

Absolutely.

There was a morning, a few days ago (right before my 'moon cycle' if you must know) that I couldn't help but cry at everything.

Everything. 

Petting Kat Moss, I teared up, thinking about one day, her not being with me. 

I got choked up after finding some facebook fanpage about a woman, in Texas, whom I don't know, who was in a coma. It was a rough day.

And then I stumbled upon this article, by Tom Junod, on the passing of George Jones (whose music I don't even know) and the relationship between his music, the essayist, and the essayist's mother. 

The essay ends with, 

A few years ago, when both my mother and father were still alive, I was driving my mother around Atlanta, with the country music station on the radio. She didn’t have to hide her love her love for country music anymore, and I no longer hated it, and when “He Stopped Loving Her Today” came on, I was eager to tell her that she had been right about it, all along. I never got the chance. When George Jones began to sing, she turned away, and said, “Imagine—being loved like that.” She was in her late eighties, but when I saw her face again, she was misty-eyed, and she looked only about as old as her dreams. My heart broke; it broke for her broken heart, for I knew what she knew, that her life would end without her ever being loved as she should have been, the way George Jones would have.

Later in the day, I was retelling the story to Jim in the car, probably choking up while doing so, and afterwards, afterwards there was a pause.

And, without taking his eyes off the road, he said quietly,

'You know I do. Love you like that.' 

 I absolutely do, too.

As the World Turns.

"Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different."

C.S. Lewis.

When I was a child, my mother would watch The Young & the Restless, and even at five, I was tuned into whatever it was the Victor and Nicki were up to. (Those daytime 'Naps' they took together made total sense at the time, as I too often took daytime naps. With friends.)

And, even if we didn't watch for a day, week, month, decades, Victor and Nicki's lives continued on that show, in that world.

Actually, from what I can tell from the cover of Soap Digest or whatever its called, at the market - Victor and Nicki are still on the air, now almost thirty years later.

Though they may not still be Young, they sure do still seem to be quite Restless.

So, with the advent of social networking - the facebooks, the instagrams, and yes, the blogs, we can now tune into the lives of those we actually know, as anonymously as if we were watching them from the safety of the television set. 

And just like those soaps that we tune in and out of, those lives continue on even when we're not watching. 

It is so easy to forget that Life goes on and the World continues to turn even when we aren't tuned in. 

With as many life changes as I've had in the last several years, I have moved from many different worlds - the World of the Ex & His Family, to Patio World with Beauty and Goldi et. all, from Boutique to Corporate Retailer, from Friending and Unfriending.
So many slow changes, scene changes, costume changes.

When I broke up with the Ex, I unfriended most everyone from that world; his childhood friends and adulthood friends, his family that was to be my family, and anyone else even remotely associated with Him and with them. 

I wanted to disappear, and to become anonymous. 

Untrackable. 

And, more importantly, I didn't want to watch their lives go on without me. 

It hurt to much to know how replaceable someone's girlfriend was, even when she was around for years and years. It hurt to know that no one would really miss me, especially after becoming such a nuisance in the wake of the break up.

Like on any Soap Opera, someone can be written out with ease, and perhaps they're mentioned in passing every once and while, but really - once someone is gone, moved or out of the picture - they don't matter anymore.

No one from His World is going, 'Remember her? Those were great years for all of us.' (Probably because they weren't, but regardless.) Friendships long lost aren't wistfully thinking, 'Remember the good ol' days that were so much better with her in the picture?' 

As things change, they become just the ways things are - without us even realizing it.

Change doesn't ever 'Hit' us the way we expect it to. 

Our day to day movements simply evolve, and become the Way of our World. 

So, when I inadvertantly (or advertently, lets be honest) come across one of the unfriended in a newsfeed somewhere, and they're newly engaged or five months pregnant, or really, anything different from the last time I saw them, from the last time they knew me, it shakes me a little. 

Just as my life has changed, so have theirs. 

And even though I wouldn't rather be anywhere else, I get nostalgic for the friendships or relationships that are changing so much even without me being there. Yes, I understand how narcissitic this is, but it's the truth. It makes me sad to be unfriended with people who at some point in my life I loved or cared about, even if it was just because they grew up next door to an old boyfriend of mine. 

It makes me sad that from my remote veiwing area in Orange County, I am so disconnected from people I once celebrated life's big changes with. 

Granted, it makes me happy that I have the people in my life I do now, and that those big changes in our lives are and will be celebrated together; but, I can't help but feel a twinge of sadness when I come across someone with whom I was once close and now am not, and they have changed. 

Just like I have, I realize. 

And I wonder if they ever do miss me. If they ever reminisce about thistime or thattime, or if really they only think of me when I inadvertently pop up on their newsfeed too.

I wonder if when they see me, they think to themselves that I look older; and the implication of what that means about their own aging.

You know, I have three years in between me and the Ex now?  

I have just about a year or so in between my little beach town life. 

Jim and I will be celebrating our one year anniversary in just about two weeks, and I've been at my 'new' job for a year already.

And for every five minutes, ten minutes I spend doing something, it's easy to forget that everyone else out there is out there too, minute by minute.

Changing, living, aging.
It catches me by surprise sometimes.

Their worlds keep turning too.

Just as your own does.

Just as mine is.

I wouldn't change my world for anything, but sometimes I definitely feel the loss that comes along with moving on.
Of growing up and of change.

Summer Girl.

I want it to be Summer.
Sunny, warm, with the pool and/or beach and/or any body of warm water ready for my taking.
I opened my bikini drawer this morning, on the hunt for a long unseen Pucci scarf and found an entire season's wardrobe waiting there for me.
Summer's coming, with it's concerts at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, patios and a better excuse to wear a dress than I've had in many months.
And when it finally arrives, I'll be ready for it.

Let's Throw a Masquerade.

One of these days I'll have a good excuse to don a pretty lace mask and have a ball.
Mark my words.
And, by 'one of these days' I mean 'at some point in my life'.

Sayonara NeverNeverLand.

When I return to the town I grew up in, I have this overwhelming sense of un-belonging. It's familiar to me, like an old house, but the people and places within it have changed in the ten years since I left. Its been almost ten years exactly since my dad and I packed up my mattress and headed down to the uncharted territory known as 'Southern California'. I remember on the Highway 5, two cars in-between my Volvo and his blue Astro van packed full of everything I owned at twenty one, sneaking a single cigarette in that seven hour, four hundred mile drive, and thinking if he saw me, I'd be in trouble.

I have that same sense of un-belonging now, when I return to my Tiny Town on the Beach that I only left less than a year ago - barely six months 'officially'. Coffee shops I loved have closed, businesses have changed their names, and those who I knew by face and by name are few and far between. I really only know a few people there now, one being the owner of a restaurant patio that Goldi and Beauty and all my other relocated friends frequented often.

Who are You People?

Even he says that there's a new group running around town, younger and unfamiliar to even him.
I imagine this happens often in tiny college towns on the coast - Mass introductions, studies, townies, and finally(!) Mass Exodus as they - myself included - relocate en masse. My Tiny Town, a Neverland if I've ever seen one in the flesh, sees it's residents grow up, and move on - move onto better jobs, more affordable Houses and a whole new group of fresh face'd patio dwellers take over in their absence.
It's the natural order of things, I imagine.

I know this feeling all too well.

I saw my Restaurateur yesterday, as I was in town for a quick appointment - and when I asked how he was, he responded, 'Well, I'm not living in Irvine, so I'm good' with a sneer. 
I felt as though, somehow by moving on from our Neverland, I had become a traitor of sorts. And, in returning to that funky beach town, with its familiar derelicts outside the same dive bars at 3 o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and its funky Mom and Pops, and its (now somewhat threatening) tattoo'd men cruising its streets - that I was, in fact, a Traitor. I left, returning once in a Blue Moon as a woman who wants wifi for her iPad so she can better look at Wallpapers. ('What's that? What does that mean?' the restaurateur asked, thinking it was some new gaming app, or slang for Godknowswhat.)
But, we chatted, over my single glass of wine, after his somewhat accusatory You've Left and So Has Everyone Else, and we caught up on... Well, nothing really.
There was nothing to catch up on, only things to remember.
He asked about the Ex of 5 Years, now nearly 3 years in the past - 'Still never spoken to one another'- and we reminisced about some of our wilder times. He inquired about Goldi & Beauty, and didn't seem too surprised when I informed him that they, too, had moved (on).

But as for Now: we had nothing to speak of, nothing in common. He'd broken up with Whatsherface, who didn't like Apartment F, and now was Just Hanging. And, I was looking at Wallpaper, the newest coolest thing all the ladies are talking about.
But that feeling of treason committed, that sense of 'Things have changed and  now you don't belong' permeated our entire conversation - or lack thereof. Questions of Jim's profession, and home owning status were met with...

Pause. 
A head nod.
An 'Oh.'

I got the overwhelming feeling that not only did he judge my leaving town and moving to Irrrrvine (safest city in America!) he judged my being with someone with a real job and a real house as opposed to the boys of my dating past; really, as opposed to the Lost Boys who populated my NeverNeverLand - the blue collar drunks and the terminal students and all of the twentysomething boys in the in-between.
Okay, perhaps 'judged' is the wrong word, but I could see the wheels turning in his head.
And that's not to say he wasn't - or isn't - happy for me, but I could sense the overarching impression of  'Oh, Orange County Boy ChaChing' being formed in his head. And, I guess, in all fairness, I don't blame him; there I am, hair an 'early Thirties' bob, with an iPad mini & my Malibu Bad Ass' Louis Vuitton Neverfull on mega-loan on the seat next to me, talking about picking out wallpapers for our bathroom.
But it's not because I left town to become some smug fauxsewife;

I left because it was simply time for me to leave.

Time for Me a leave this Tiny Town, just like it was time for me to leave my Hometown ten years ago.
My time was up in NeverNeverland. 
I had out grown it.
Like a house too small for a growing family, or a studio apartment to cramped for an Adult Woman.
And, like that, last summer, NeverNeverLand no longer held a place for me; and, furthermore, the place within it that I had once filled was that of an unhappy, childish girl - a girl who was (against her best intentions) sometimes not the greatest friend, and more importantly, at the very end of a cycle of self combustion.

I'm lucky I met Jim when I did, in the midst of rebuilding my own sense of autonomy and my sense of purpose and personal successes.
It just so happened that I had finished with the growing pains that came along with growing out of the that Tiny Town, and I got out, when the time was right.

And so, I got out, lucky that I had Jim to help me with the step.
And so, I moved on, holding both Jim & many a memory close to my heart.

And so, I bid adieu to my dear Neverland. 
And on my way I went. 

Confessions to Make.

I have a confession.
I keep starting to write things and then not liking them, so I don't finish the post.

I keep wanting to talk about things - the stresses of my job, the contentment of my relationship, the relatable things those I love are going through - and I get about two paragraphs in, and can't turn it into a cohesive essay about anything & I get discouraged and delete whatever has been written. I have had a huge case of writer's block in the new year, and I can't seem to beat it.

A few examples:

Jim got me a new laptop for my birthday. This one has a fully functioning 'L' Key.

Sometimes I cry when I pet Kat Moss because it was just the two of us for so long, I feel like we're a true Duo, and she's seen me through the hardest of times as well as the best.

I think I give really good dating advice.

Apartment F is fucking nuts a bit looney; with so much distance between him and that relationship, I now know that he is everything I thought of him, but worse.
The kind of worse you only see with retrospect's 20/20 vision.

I've been reading more. A lot, actually.

I hatefuck watching Girls. I really don't like it, but then inevitably end up I watching it, hating it the whole time. Except for that episode where she stays with the handsome man in the Brownstone. I loved that one. All the rest of 'em though, make me want to take a cleansing shower. And I have theories why - which range from 'I simply don't like it' to 'As a society we are taught that women who are not conventionally beautiful (or even pretty at all) do not deserve love'.

Speaking of retrospect, I suspect that's the only view of the world that my own sense of self awareness can see.

I was terrified that I 'went back on my word' about so many things I said or wrote since I was single. I did, in fact. But I have forgiven myself, and allowed myself to enjoy having a home, a partner, and few less friends because I am healthier, happier and whole.

I want to be married.

I have always known that I function better in a world with external structure; which is why I am so happy now. But that, initofitself, makes me insecure, because I wish that I had the autonomy to be successful in creating - and thriving - within myself & my own internal sense of structure. I don't.

I am not friends with Goldi or Beauty anymore. I'm waiting for someone to ask why (no I'm not, actually) because the best poetic answer I can come up with is, 'I imagine I became very exhausting to be friends with.'

I'm very midly obsessed with Reed Krakoff.

That being said, I am grateful for my friendship with My Best Friend in San Francisco, and in our entire lives we have never been closer.

My aesthetic has changed quite drastically - with trend, job, osmosis and age. Think: fewer peace signs and more peplums. More Miu Miu, less Blue Life.

I'm cooking again, and for the first time in my adult life, I am open to the bougie Farmer's Market, locally sourced, clean food, organic mumbo jumbo I eschewed for so long, as it seemed like too slippery a slope into 400 calories a day of juices and maybe some prunes to wash it down. That fear was apparently too slippery of a slope itself, because it wasn't & I love it. Admittedly, that may have more to do with the quality of Instagram photo it affords, but really? Who cares?

These are all things I have wanted to write about, but haven't had the creative energy to ruminate on. With job, and an actual life that I enjoy just experiencing, and not necessarily dissecting every detail of (or if I do, I tend to do it ad nauseam to Jim, who is a very good listener).

Though, I do try and keep the I Want To Be Marrieds to a minimum.

Thirty One.

Four days until I'm 31.
It seems like just yesterday et al. that I was planning my 30th Birthday.
And so much has changed since then.

In the blink of an eye (or year), everything has changed.
My whole life changed at 30 and I have never been happier or more loved.

And I am so very thankful.

Dining In.

Since I have recently learned that 'Lazy Sunday' is more preferable to a 'Sunday Funday', especially come Monday morning, I have taken to making a cozy dinner for two (or sometime three or four) as opposed to passing out after far too many bottomless mimosas imbibed over the course of brunch on a patio.
I do, however, miss a good bloody mary. So, as a result - I created a Bloody Mary themed dinner menu last weekend, which was, if I do say so myself, quite delish. It may sound a bit odd, but the flavors all work together, a la a Bloody Mary, and it was really quite easy.
Mind you, these aren't my recipes, though I tweaked them a bit (and that's what you're reading) but the combination of the two were a hit!

Behold!

Penne Pasta with Spinach & Bacon, with a side of Lemon Horseradish New Potatoes.

Serves 4, with a side of warm French bread and butter.

Begin with the potatoes, and make the pasta while they cook.
(The toughest part about cooking is making sure everything is done at the same time!)

Penne Pasta with Spinach and Bacon
1 (12oz) package of Penne
2 tbs olive oil, divided
6 slices of bacon
2 tbs minced garlic
1 (14oz) can diced tomatoes (drained)
1 bunch fresh spinach, torn into bite sized pieces
Grated Parmesan cheese to taste

1. Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to boil. Cook penne as per directions on the box.

2. Meanwhile, heat 1 tbs olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Place (cut up & separated  bacon in skillet and cook until browned and crisp. Add garlic and  and cook for about a minute. Stir in tomatoes and cook until heated through. 

3. Place spinach in a colander and drain hot pasta over it so it wilts. (Though, be careful not the let all the pasta dump on it at once, drain mainly the water, as to not over cook the 'nach.)

4. Transfer to a large serving bowl and toss with the remaining olive oil and the bacon/tomato mixture.

Sprinkle with Parm to your liking.

Lemon Horseradish New Potatoes
1/2 cup butter
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 tbs prepared horseradish 
2 tbs fresh lemon juice
1 1/2 lbs small new potatoes, unpeeled.

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

2. Melt the butter in a small pan, over a low burner. Stir in salt, pepper, horseradish and lemon juice. 

3. Put potatoes in a 2 qt casserole dish and cover with melted butter sauce, mixing and coating them evenly. 

4. Cover with tin foil, and bake for 1 hour, or until tender.

It was all quite delish - and even though it is B.M. inspired, it is not at all bloody mary-esque. I just originally used that as a litmus of sorts to decide whether or not the two recipes worked together.
And they sure as Hell did

And yes, I'm boring now. Next up: An etiquette section!

Dahlink! You just cannot wear those shoes to an afternoon tea!

No but seriously, I would love that. I love that shit. If you have any burning questions feel free to put 'em in the comments. It'll give me something to do.

Outbound.

 'I really like who we have grown up to be.'

A Little Emerald to the Diamond.

Writers are narcissists: They presume that their personal obsessions and neuroses are of deep fascination — or even beneficial — to potentially millions of people.

- Brian McGreevy, in his article, 'Don't Call Lena Dunham Brave'. 

I'm a "writer". Please insert your own airquotes.
And with that in mind, know that I have written and rewritten this post a couple times this morning.
I have also embraced the fact that I am a bit of a narcissist. "A bit."
I am comfortable with that as well.

So, all morning, as I have reheated my coffee while I researched brain functions and hemispheres and was going to try and propose that women (and by women, I mean me and hopefully whoever else it is who reads this little blog) have three parts to their brains, until I realized that all people have three parts to their brains. (The cerebellum, the cerebrum and the brain stem.)
I was going to try and say that the Left Side controls reason and the right hand, the Right Side controls imagination and the left hand, and a (self)Center section that controls all that is the self-centered and unreasonable that goes on in our brains. (Hopefully, this section does not control our mouths.)
But then I realized that that too is silly.
Hell, forget the Conscious & the Unconscious or the Ego, the Superego and the Id.
It's all a weak analogy for one simple thing.
Like most of my postings, all I am doing is trying to find a related metaphor for the emotions that make me feel really uncomfortable; in this case, under the guise of pseudoscientific jargon in order to justify or dissect what exactly it is I am feeling. 

Because, my neuroses are of deep fascination to potentially [seven] people. Right? Right?!?

Why am I uncomfortable with my emotions today, the day after Valentine's Day?
Because one of my very Best Friends got engaged yesterday.
On top of a mountain covered in snow.

I am over the moon happy for her. 
She deserves love and a beautiful wedding and marriage.
I love her! She's one of my very Best Friends!
Captial BFF!

That being said, the event caused an avalanche of the 'What about Meeeeeees?!?'

Which is one, very selfish, and two, very embarrassing.
So the psuedoscientific babble, the justification of it all - The whole rumble of emotions that took over in the moment, they make me flat out uncomfortable.
I realized that it is not a third, yet to be discovered, part of my brain, nor is it my sub-id or whateverego.
The fact of the matter is simple: I am Jealous. 
Not totally unlike a mentally ill person who knows that the voices in their head are Crazy but cannot help but follow their directions, you see. I know that it is immature and stupid to be jealous of such a wonderful thing, but I cannot seem to follow that knowledge's directions.
And in writing this so plainly, I am trying to exorsize those crazy making voices of envy a little.

To be perfectly honest, I couldn't help but wonder (no matter how unrealistic I knew it was) if maybe Valentine's Day would be the day he asked me.
I thought this about Christmas too.
Its these thoughts that you have that you know (you know!) are crazy, that you know aren't realistic, and you literally have to talk yourself down through reason and logic (Oh hel-lo Left Brain, welcome to the party) and even then, part of the thought persists.

I'll probably think it about my birthday, our anniversary  any nice dinner ever or weekend trip, I assure you. I can't help it; I want it so much, it's unwavering. It's in these moments that I get frustrated that he was married before, and engaged quickly the first time. As though somehow, if that hadn't been the case, our timeline would be different. While the reasonable, logical side of me knows that if that hadn't been case in the first place, we may not even be together. Regardless, the thought persists.

green with.

So, when I saw this momentous event in my newsfeed, for a person I love so much, I was (and am) happy.
And then...

I was jealous. 

I cannot be the only one who finds them feeling this way every once and while at the sight of these things in their newsfeed or text inbox, right? Right?!

I was overcome by shame for my jealously, but alas, that did not make it go away.
It stuck in my chest, and produced the most unflattering semi-permanent facial expression and then unfortunately, because I knew that my boyfriend was not going to propose, and my boyfriend did not propose, my Valentine's Day was somehow sub-par.
Which is really unlike me, as I am typically pretty good about not putting too high of expectations on events or holidays like this - rather focusing on what I can control as opposed to what I cannot.
It's not Jim's fault that I was bummed this Valentine's.
I wasn't even bummed, we had a lovely evening at home (our home!) together.
He made me a sweet Valentine & I did the same for him.
It was exactly what we had planned - low key with tacos and tv.

whomp.

He didn't get me flowers, and his Valentine was made from copy paper and Scotch tape, and I was disappointed. Because she got a 2.2 carat ring & I am jealous of that, and so then something that any other day I would think was the sweetest thing (it had a poem, you guys!) all of the sudden doesn't have the same (ahem) sparkle.

The whole of it makes me feel adolescent and shallow. And, very very ashamed.
The whole of it also wants to have pity party in my bathtub with bottle of Vueve and a good cry, but I will not give my jealousy the satisfaction. I will not, I tell you! 
All of the sudden, my boyfriend's inability to tell me that he 'loves me more than anything ever in his life in the entire world over' is not because he simply doesn't speak in such hyperbole about his feelings (something I know about him, and typically respect) becomes he doesn't love me as much as I thought.
Somehow yesterday, 'To the moon and back four times' wasn't enough. It was all I could do not to turn to my boyfriend and say point blank, 'I'm jealous of...' with a pouty face, but I knew to keep that one in.

The truth is, I am jealous. Even though I know it's stupid.
Even though I know that Jim loves me. 
And, most importantly, even though I am happy for my friend. 
It persists.

Yet, in the light of a day I didn't even put much weight into to begin with, under the reflection of a grandiose gesture of love and a lifetime of commitment, not only am I jealous that I didn't get a proposal, but now I didn't even get flowers. Even though, I know that my sometimes too pragmatic boyfriend probably thought to himself, if he thought about it at all, 'Why would I get her flowers? We already have flowers.' (We always have flowers.) Honestly, I wasn't expecting anything other than tacos and a Valentine up until the morning off. And then, it's not enough? I do wonder how much the boy picked up on - I oft think that I am being so opaque - playing it super cool - then later find out exactly how transparent I truly am.
This is an emotion I am not accustomed to feeling; and I know that with time it will fade - I expect by sometime around 2 or 3 pm this afternoon - but for the moment, for the morning, I am trying to work through it.

This gang of immature emotions, this gang I can't seem to shake, its just about to jump me in.

So, I decided to fight it. I fight it by doing this.

And that's the best I can do, right?

Funny.
Even in the time of writing this, the feelings started to fade. I could tell, because I just started to get really excited about the specifics that go along with throwing a bridal shower.

And I feel as though I should note that I am in no way am trying to take away from my friend's engagement, and am truly very very happy for her, but this is my platform, and sometimes the view from the perch that is my brain - made up of three parts - is not the prettiest. Or the most mature. 
I am - from my core - so happy for you, James. 
I love you. 
Thats why this is so frickin' uncomfortable.
Also, you better let me pin to your wedding board, or else. 
I should also mention that I will not drink anything, anything! out of a penis shaped straw.

Shhhhhh.

I have a secret. 

No no no, I'm not getting married. 
I have a Secret Wedding pin board on Pinterest*. 
I'm so Ashamed. 

*Yes, I'm talking about Pinterest, like its a 'real thing'.

 Because it is. 

And I'm a smug Pinner too - like, 

'Whatever bitches, I actually do the stuff I pin.'

Take note, I also have an entire board devoted to shoes.

Smugly pinned, I promise. 

Actually, its quite fun, because my Baby Sister can pin to it as well, & I'm in love with how well she knows my taste. Funny story actually. When she first started pinning to my Not Too Secret Board, she randomly pinned a dress by a Southern California designer that I like, Stone_Cold_Fox. I have a few pieces from their collections already, but she didn't know that. She just thought I would like the dress. Not only did I like the dress, I had actually inquired about that specific gown a long long time ago, in my past life, when I thought I was maybe/one day/perhaps/someday going to marry the Ex of 5 Years.  I had already once thought, 

That should be my wedding dress.

What are the odds?

Oh ho ho, it gets a bit weirder. (Why I wrote 'oh ho ho' is beyond me, but I'm leaving it, though I have never once said that outloud*.)

*I hope.

Fast forward a couple days, and one of my old shopgirl cohorts is sitting pretty at my dining room table, drinking a glass of chardonnay while we're collecting all of her ideas together for her own upcoming nuptials. 

I quickly let her in on my Secret and show her the dress that my Baby Sister had pinned - she's quite familiar with the designer herself.

My strawberry blonde Bride looks at the photo & laughs,

'Oh! I took that photo.' 

My Baby Sister blindly pinned a dress from her couch in Oakland, a dress that I pined for in Long Beach many years ago, a dress from a collection photographed by my dear friend in Dana Point.

Kooky, no?

Cue, Its a smaaaallll world after all!

So there you have it. 
I have a secret wedding board.
I've become my own cliche. 
Ah well, we all have our lame-o hypocrisies.

I waaannnntt tooo maaarryyy yoouuu.

You know what bothers me though? 
Is how much it used to piss me off when people would say, in response to my I Don't Ever Want To Get Married!s, that when I found the One, I'd change my mind. 
It was so... Ah, I don't know the word, not condescending but kind of condescending (what's the word for that?) and I hated it and would get defensive (even though I wanted them to be right) and they were (right), which means I was wrong, which is not an easy thing for me to admit. 

I was wrong!  

All You People were right! 

It probably also means that whomever it was I was dating at the time of shouting that nonsense from the rooftops, I didn't ever want to marry them. 
So instead of thinking, 

'Well shit. I should break up with this person who I don't want to make a lifelong commitment to', 

I just said, 

Eh, I don't want to make a lifelongcommitenttoYOU  ever get married'   

And continued dating them. Probably because I thought I didn't want to get married.

So, my sister has amazing taste. S'riously. 

And I can't keep a secret from Jim, I told him about the Secret Wedding Board too, because I had to tell him about the weirdness of the SCF dress. 
So, he knows I am a weirdo. 
What he doesn't know is that sometimes when he's sleeping a stare at him and think 'I waaaaannnttt ttoooo maaaarrrrrryy yoooouuuuu'. 

Let's not tell him that part. 
Its not relevant to the story. 

Unless I'm telling a story about what a creepy girlfriend I am. (Actually, I think that is exactly the story I'm telling.)



So. I'm a creep. 
A Creep with a  Secret PinBoard Wedding Creepy Creeper. 
And that makes me happy.


Sidenotes:
See more of my strawberry blonde Bride's photos Here. 
(She also did the panoramic shot that has always sat atop this little project.)

And follow my Pinterest Here if you're so inclined. 
(But not my Secret Board, entitled 'Creeper' obviously).

The Girls.

There is a girl.

A girl who reads tiny canvas-bound novellas with the same sense of 

satisfaction you'd get from 

smoking the thinnest of Capri cigarettes in the sun. 

A girl who once whiled her time away on patios, surrounded by friends and wine and sunsets and brunches.
She'd spend her last twelve dollars til payday on a glass of wine plus tip.
Overdressed, she kissed boys, wore in her hair intricate braids, often with a flower tucked behind her ear.
These were the things, she felt, that defined her.
She knew most of those who walked past her on the patio, but paid little attention.
She knew coffee shop owners and restaurant chefs, she often felt as though she knew everyone.
She used to wonder what the person she would eventually fall in love with was doing at that exact same moment as she was sitting on a wicker chair on the sunny side of a patio.
She wanted love so badly, but knew not where to look for it.
Though, she felt like she knew exactly what she was looking for.

There were other girls; girls all dancing on the tips of the same waveless ocean, all living within a skipping distance of one another, all doing the same to some degree or another.
Wanting love, finding love, fighting love.
With carefully applied mascara, and high high heels, they all lived out their terrarium lives as satellites to one another, summer after summer.
Summer girls.
Patio girls.
Girls with Flowers in Their Hair Girls. 
Walking the same streets, knowing the same people, drinking the same wines.

The Girl, the First Girl, when she finally left the patios, when she finally found the love she was looking for, she found herself in a new world, a very different world.
No more skipping distance, no more ocean.
Though, her world was always a world of Flowers and of Books, it now included of Loved and of Home too.
No longer did it include tinny songs playing out of a tiny radio, or half hungover days off two dollar wine.
No more No Bathtub. No more No Couch. No more, I've Got To Get Out Of Here while fearing she never would.

No more, What is he doing though I don't know him yets.
Now there are far fewer patios, & none that well worn or particularly familiar. Her closet is still filled with beautiful dresses, though now she has far fewer places to wear them. Overdressed is a rarity now, but occasions to do so are usually filled with more meaning than just 'Saturday'.
A new world where she was still at the center, but with far fewer satellites.

The other girls left that Tiny Town too; some physically moved away, some just simply moved on.
One got married. One moved to the mountains. Two moved to another beach town up the way, to an ocean with waves. One dove headfirst into a job that took her off the patios and off to Chicago on a whim.

So, no longer did they all dance with their toes dipped into the same foam of their waveless ocean, no longer did they orbit the Girl; all pulled together by the gravity of a small town with one sunny main street.

Because you see, all the girls, they all grew up.

Rule No. 1.

Forever in Pacific Standard Time.

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of 'Forever'.
Like... Forever.
Not 'a couple years from now', not 'after the summer'.
Of until-you-or-I-die-Forever.

And how long that seems, for something that is not, in fact guaranteed to be any length of time at all.
My brain has trouble even conceiving what Forever is; like when I look out onto a sky, so blue, and just imagine infinite space.
Space going on out to forever.

Forever - Good, Bad, Always. 

I have a lot of fears about change, while maintaining an openness to the fluidity of life - Its weird, I know things change, good things and bad things, and usually I adapt as they come, but still, I fear change.
I fear fear Fear a day where Jim and I no longer see eye to eye, or things we used to finding endearing - like my singing voice - are just shrill irritants.

I have no model for Forever, I don't have a personal grasp of what that looks like.
The only maps I have is what falling Out of Love looks like.
Memories of my parents fighting outside the car window, of the realization that they no longer Love each other. Memories of two parallel lives being lived between the Ex and I, like a brother and sister who roll their eyes at one another and love each other only because they don't see any other alternative, until one day they just can't even do that anymore.
Of couples breaking up and hating each other afterward, of 'What was I thinkings!?'

I fear forever, because I have no idea what to expect from forever; and I can't even say with certainty that I believe it exists.
I can't imagine not being with Jim forever. 

And not just the days of 'We're both wearing Prada while hitting up the Farmer's Market and drinking locally sourced beer and eating artisinal waffles' of this new-ish partnership. While I like the 'How Perfect on The Outside' everything is right now, what I want is the Forever of him sleeping next to me while I read, of him waking me up before he goes to work, of just loving being next to one another; of the moments in between the aforementioned Prada Parade*, when we are at home or in the car and we simply just Like one another.

Oh my God, that's it: I want us to Like each other Forever.

I said that to him last night, at dinner. We were capping off a really nice do-nothing but do-quite-a-bit weekend - of nice lunches and crossiants and lazy afternoons and wandering through bookstores, and we were at dinner at this kind of bougie gastropub, and I said exactly that to him, 'I like you.' And he responded with, 'I love you, too'.* .

'That's not what I said. I said, I Like you. I like being with you. Just being.'

To which he agreed, and he understood.

*How many more times can I insert We Were Both In Prada? 

I know, I know. 

Though, honestly, there are shirts at Target that 

cost more than what I paid for my Praaaada, but still. 

We Were Both In Prada.

Forever is a long time, and the commitment of Loving someone, through good and bad and everything else that can possibly span that spectrum, I think I can scavenge up some have maps for that.
I've known what the commitment of loving someone no matter what, no matter how many eye rolls I hold in (or don't hold in) looks like.
But I want to Like one another as well. 
And you know, sometimes I have a hard enough time liking myself enough, that I guess what I'm afraid of is not being Forever Likable. Of my singing voice turning irksome, of my disdain for cleaning the kitty litter (as in: I do not do it) becoming 'An Issue.' Of the same happening to him in my eyes.

All I know is that I want Like, Happily Ever After.

And the Owl Said, 'Who?'

Time is a funny thing. Enemy or friend, time passing never ceases to shock  me.
I cam across an old picture of myself, and it saddened me.
Its only about four years old, but still, the girl in it - she's not Me.
She has a whole other set of Hopes and a different view of Happiness.
She sees things in her future that I now do not. For better or for worse, she had no idea what was coming. It was taken a year to the day that my relationship with the Ex ended, on the Fourth of July in 2009 and I don't even recognize her.
That Dori hasn't existed  for many many years. And for many reasons, and in some ways it makes me sad.
Not because I miss him, but sometimes I miss the naivete of that life.

In that moment I was so happy.

Update: I hopped in the shower right after I wrote this, and remembered something very important. Yes, in.that.moment I was so happy, but that girl - that girl right there - had her own set of doubts and unhappiness too. It was just a different set. A lot of it having to do with being unsure about her choice in partner (though, never his family) and a general feeling of stagnation in her own right. So, no, I may not look like her anymore, or celebrate the same ways, or stress about the same things, and yes, I do envy her naivete; and yes, time is a funny thing, but it is time passing that is an even funnier shaped cloud.

I imagine Kate Moss thinks the same when she sees such photographs. 
Though hers are much more glamorous.

Retrospect Ain't Just 20/20.

A new year. Twenty Thirteen.

Jeez.

Going into a new year feels good, to be leaving Twenty Twelve. 

Now that was a year of change. I remember last New Years, after having a shit night with the F, and not looking forward to closing the doors on that little shop by overlooking the ocean. Moving rapidly towards a a time of uncertainty, stagnation and unhappiness. 

In Twenty Twelve, for the better part of the beginning of the year, I was sad. Oh so sad.

Unhappy in my home, with friends who didn't quite understand, and who were already distant as a result.

Making decisions that didn't help the situation..

In Twenty Twelve, I got that kind of job I'd been wanting for a long time; the one with room to grow, with paid time off (which I still have yet to use, but whatever). In Twenty Twelve, I stopped being Token Single Girl, a title which fit neatly into my little beachside package of a life. I stopped being my Ex's crazy Ex. I stopped being a permanent fixture on patio's and porches in that Tiny Town I loved so much, but knew I had outgrown.

In Twenty Twelve, I lost friends. I still mourn the loss of those girls I love so much from my life, but change begets more change I guess, and when you no longer fit the title your friends think you deserve, whether it be 'Drinking Buddy' or 'Best Friend' or 'Charity Case', friendships are bound to be effected by it. I miss those friends, every day, and have them hidden from my newsfeed for the most part, so I don't look and feel left out, or figure out when they've lied about being 'out of town' even though we both knew that lying about being 'out of town' was what both of us wanted.

So, that's been a big change. A sad change.

But this year has also forced me to take a good look at what friends I have kept, no matter how far away or how close they live.
The ones who truly celebrate the victories and are support in the defeats. Whose pace of life allows for fluidity and change. 

And, in Twenty Twelve, I met Jim. 

Enough said.

Well, these were a hit.

In Twenty Twelve, I felt more connected to my family than I have in many many years.
My family as a whole. I feel less like the Forgotten Oldest Sister and more a part of the unit as a whole.
And, perhaps that comes from a better all around sense of 'wholeness' in myself. 

And so to end Twenty Twelve , we - Jim & I - had our party; and it was lovely. And, those who trekked all the way out to the inland suburbs of Orange County, those are my friends. Our friends. Come to the end of Twenty Twelve.

Bijou, who rarely has time to escape the back & forth from her house to her PR House, was one of the first ones through to door, with her sandy haired boyfriend in tow. In her perfect cornflower blue knee length coat, and bright red lips, she toured my new house. She, who was the first in the door way back when I moved into my Tiny Room with a Kitchen Attached in Twenty Ten, was touring my couch and my bathtub and my life with the boy, and I was happy. 
And I expect that she and I will be friends well past Twenty Twenty.

She also had the coolest handbag, of course.
A true Carpenter's Bag, structured and perfect. 

And I had all the fixings for our fete; because I decided long ago that when throwing a party, or doing anything really, if I'm going to stress, it's going to be the things I can control: the table's spread, the handmade swizzle sticks. I can control the cupcakes but I cannot make people eat them. I can try to give people something talk about a la kicky conversation cards by Chuck Klosterman laying casually on the coffee table, or holographic glasses strewn about the house courtesy of Kate Spade, or by even labeling the cheeses with their name and what type of cheese it is - Moo! Baaa! - but I cannot control whether or not people actually converse. You can bring a horse to water and all that jazz.

So that's what I focused on - on food, music, ambiance, conversation starters. 

And I think it was a success. I had fun.

So much change fit into one year. But I guess that's been every year since the big break up of Twenty Ten. 

After five years of complacency, it was bound to be a couple of years of ups and of downs.

At the start of Twenty Twelve, I had no where to go but up.

Now, come Twenty Thirteen, I'm on top of the world.

I'm going to turn Thirty One in Twenty Thirteen. Coincidence? 

I think not. Just math. 

But still. 

And I'm glad Jim's turning 31 a little before me, it'll make it easier when my birthday rolls around.

Happy New Year, everyone. 
Happy Twenty Thirteen.

Real. Sweet. Reads.

He made me a notebook for Christmas.
Like, mademade me a book, by hand.
A handbound leather notebook.
Because he is supportive of me writing.

Of course, I burst into tears.
Oh yeah, and shoes.

Yesterday.

Said Wednesday.

Wake up next to Jim.
It's a perfect sunny December day. 
Watch Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Tidy up.
Walk to Crossroad's.
Find a white fisherman's sweater for $10. Actually, $9.50.
I have been looking for a good fisherman's sweater.

Buy a bouquet of yellow roses and a bottle of champagne.
Catch up a bit with my Malibu Bad Ass by way of Denver.
Take my hair out of the nasty little bun it was in, spray some dry shampoo in it, blow dry it, and viola, I all of the sudden have the hairstyle I've been wanting - the curls from the day before are still there, but messy and full and perfect. 

Check mail. So many Christmas cards.
Sit on the porch like a fidgety child, waiting for my Best Friend from San Francisco to arrive.
She arrives. 
Sit and talk and laugh and cry and trade clothes and get a lunch of ahi tuna poke, tater tots & spinach dip.
She meets Jim. She approves.
Jim gets me a delicious burrito.
Jim is happy that I am happy.
My Malibu Bad Ass writes a wonderful little post about our friendship.
Bijou finally caves and starts her own blog.
Watch Scrooged while cuddled up on the couch in a knit blanket fort of sorts.
Fall asleep, next to Jim.

Yesterday was the Best Day Ever. 
I kid you not.
I am so in love with everything.

Three, Letter, Words.

Bijou Bijou.    <--that there's a link, y'all.

Bijou finally made her writings public. 

Just one more thing to make my Best Day Ever even Better.

ALL CAPS CAPITAL BEST DAY EVER.