Label Me

I have the best husband.

Now, hold on, I'm not getting gushy. I mean, not really. I'll spare you. You're welcome.

Our first Christmas together we were on a pretty slim budget- newly married, he's in school, I'm working two part-time jobs...there just wasn't a lot to spend. I asked for a blanket- a beautifully soft gray woven blanket (with fringe) that I had found at Target. Every time we passed the home furnishing aisle I would reach out and pet it and sigh.

Why must things I want at Target be $35? I feel like this is $20 too many than I want to spend on things.

I spent the rest of Christmas day wrapped up in this blanket- with my generous husband, of course- basking in its comfiness. And when people asked politely what I got for Christmas I don't think they were ready for my response. "Mr. E got me a BLANKET! No, really. I wanted it."

My friends were getting snazzy electronics and designer watches or tickets to that thing they loved and I was happy as a clam wrapped in my blanket. Now I'm not saying these gifts weren't wanted just as much my fuzzy present, and I'll spare you the less is more analogy.

But the real gift was a husband who listens. I probably gave him any number of suggestions or hints for the holidays but his watchful eyes picked up how many times I went out of my way to steer my cart to aisle F17.

This year one of my favorite gifts has been a label maker. Yep. Label. Maker. In my spice cupboard my paprika finally says PAPRIKA, my MESQUITE SEASONING will never be mistaken for BURGER SEASONING again and the ROSEMARY is sitting pretty. Not that that one's hard to mistake...

When Mr. E hopped in the shower I printed a label just for him. A little love note taped to the side of his lamp, right at eye level when he sits down to read with me before bed. All he has to do is turn his head.

AND MY GOODNESS IT TOOK THAT MAN A WEEK TO SEE IT- even with my not-so-subtle hints every night, like, "I have the BEST Husband" (GRINGRINGRIN)

I guess his eyes are just selectively watchful.

This Time.

I have a habit of doing things too hard. I brush my teeth to the point where my toothbrush frays in submission. I've given myself blisters from mopping and sweeping and most recently from creating crumbs from the crust of old bread. I heft boxes at work all day, slamming them (usually by accident) onto metal carts and groaning counter tops. I trudge through errands in my steel-toed boots after work and I drive with my foot heavy on the gas pedal.

I've come to accept these things about myself and very rarely do I give it a second thought until I'm suddenly confronted by my own surprising softness. Softness at the point of the day when I knew I needed to be the hardest I'd been for the last 24 hours.

We've visited the hospital a lot in the last few weeks- mostly for knee-related issues that are routine and very non-scary. But then came the start of last weekend when I opened the door and was met with a husband-turned-stomach-migraine and we hit the floor running. ER, he needs fluids, he needs anti-nausea medicine, yes, we've been here before, yes we know it sounds awful, isn't there a room? oh, a hallway's fine, he doesn't like bags please give us back our bowl, here, let me interpret his sign language for you, more blankets please?

12 long hours in the hallway by the elevator.

4 IV bags of fluids.

An endless cycle.

And I'm hard throughout all of it- I know how this works, I know how this sounds, I know what to ask for and what to demand and when to tell the Dr how he's feeling and what he needs next and so on and so on. But when we hadn't seen a nurse for two hours despite being right next to the nurses' station and the Dr had left us with a vague admission promise and still I know how this works, that these things don't happen immediately because there is a procedure to follow but communication, ladies, to this tired wife who has kept vigil over her husband in case he should need another tissue or a hand to squeeze. Communication to a woman whose plan this weekend was to rest up because this week was long and hard and there's still a dog at home who's only been out twice today but we're weighing evils and he is so much more important but that doesn't make the guilt any easier. And when a nurse begrudgingly drags herself over here to the corner where we've sat patiently and quietly all I can do is cry because I don't want to leave but I haven't slept in 23 hours and I know I need to go home but she's confused as to why I'm such a wreck when he's pretending to sleep peacefully and I just wish she could have seen me four hours ago when I could have looked her in the eye and shamed her for ignoring us.

Soft when I should have been hard.

Blisters from crumbling breadcrumbs but tears when there should have been words.

Curses!

It's been a run-ragged type of week. Habit can quickly turn into monotony if I'm not careful and there's just too much on my plate to make that distinction. Then there's life that throws you a curveball, or many curveballs at once and all I can do is sit and blink in a dazed is-this-really-happening kind of way.

So forgive me, sweet Thai waitress, for tearing up as you try so hard to present me with my receipt, perfectly folded in a mason jar with  a toothy grin and a many bows of thanks. Your customer service was a welcome relief after the day I just had.

Forgive me, mighty nurses's assistant, for doubting the influence you wield with the tiny petty people in your way. Worker's Comp representatives who avoid picking up their phones and pharmacists too busy to notice that customers are human and often in serious need of pain meds. Or antibiotics. Or anti-inflammatories. Or all of the above, thanks.

Forgive me, inadvertent couch potato of a husband, for walking back and forth in front of your TV screen more often than I strictly needed. When the going gets tough I clean or I boil myself in the bath for fire cannot kill a dragon.

Forgive me, giant family group text, for not responding quickly or comedically. I prefer to bask in the 168 unread text messages in the morning and know that I am loved- not because of numbers but because of inclusion.

Forgive me, the least sneaky of all my coworkers, for secretly grinning from ear to ear when the FDA entered the room and singled you out instead of me. You answered their questions perfectly and provided me with a great example of how to deal with audit pressure.

Forgive me, friends and family who are expecting cross-state or cross-country visits. Mr. E made the decision to bow out of this round of the Burbank PD application (though he made it to the top 10 out of 800+ starting applicants!) because they needed physical fitness much too quickly for a bum knee. So we're not sure when we can visit- because we could actually be the cause of the shortage of clean water in the world with all the ice we're making.

And to the pharmacists I've dealt with in the last three weeks? I hope your chip bags are always filled with crumbs. I hope your pens run out whenever you need them most. I hope street parking is always full so you have to pay for the garage. I hope someone spoils the ending to all your favorite shows, that you miss all the good previews in movies and that your cup is always filled with too much ice and not enough drink.

Far From It

He's supposed to wean himself off of crutches, but limping around the apartment is different than the long strides of the Saturday-shopping-minded so when we split ways in the middle of Target you can bet I was a tad worried. He hobbles, this handsome husband of mine. I spied him limping out of the personal hygiene aisle- a bag of mixed citrus and a pair of toothbrushes in one hand, a crutch in the other. His eyes were a little tired and his mohawk is too fuzzy.

We're what The Cowboy would call "takin' 'er easy". Mr. E's on a strict regimen of icing, anti-clotting aspirin and a narcotic that alternates between making him high and making him emotional. So you could say that Valentine's weekend was pretty fun.

He rules from the chaise- as un-tyrannical as the sick can be, though perhaps that's more a testament to my expert "sick-station building" than it is to his demeanor. Ottomans have been converted to a bedside table to hold pills, liquids, electronics and snacks. Crutches are within reach, the ice machine is fed regularly and the Playstation controllers are in constant charging rotation. We've even extended the TV from the wall (thank god for Costco wall-mounts).

I think I was more worried about the surgery than he was but it was over faster than I thought, he has more range of motion than either of us expected and despite the nearby pharmacy's attempt to blackmail us with his meds we're taking fewer pills than expected and feeling only slight discomfort but no pain. Can you play Mama Bear for your husband? Because I did this week.

So when he finally begged to get out of the house we decided to skate through Target for essentials. We're on a "no-spend" month after fantastic success last month, so our normal "buy-the-store approach" is curbed both by financial and physical necessity.

There he was, at the opposite corner of the store, shuffling his way towards where he knew I'd be. There may have been a few old ladies gently nudged out of the way with my cart, but I'll tell you what: I passed up those discounted chocolate covered Peeps like I didn't even see them.

Rampin' Up

Now I don't feel quite so weird complaining about the rug burn on my back (ahem) as I've been moonlighting as Mr. E's deadweight dummy for a month now.

In under two minutes, Mr. E is expected to sprint 200 yards, drag a 160 lb dummy, scale a 6 ft wall, run through a simulated tight corridor without losing his balance or touching the wall, run over un-evenly spaced railroad ties, cross a 4 inch wide balance beam and hop two 2-ft obstacles.

I have never been more proud of that smug face.

We have less than a week to go until the actual test, but things are looking pretty good. A little too good, actually. All of a sudden we're juggling knee surgery and the possibility of police academy! 

When did we get so old? All of a sudden it's surgeries and enrolling for 401(k)s around here. Please tell me it's cooler than it sounds or at least pass over the kool-aid ya'll are sippin'. Oh, is it prune juice flavored?​ We hear that has health benefits or something...​

Magical

​

"Oh, that's so cute, you guys match."

 

We exchanged looks and smiled.

 

Not this again.

 

We look awesome.

There's just something about dressing up that lends a sense of gravity to a situation. Even if that situation is watching old men in tiny rooms perform sleight of hand on tipsy audience members. We scored a visit to the Magic Castle last weekend and it brought back all sorts of memories. Mostly multi-colored spongy memories- Mr. E's favorite trick.

 

Of course, I'm partial to spongy memories too- just before Mr. E proposed with a flash and a bang on the beach he ramped up the excitement with some sponge bunnies.

 

We laughed and danced and ate and drank our way through the crowded corners of the Castle- photography strictly prohibited, unfortunately.

 

We learned some things:

-Whiskey sours are amazing.

-Irma, the playing piano, truly knows all songs.

-Uber is the most amazing service in LA.

-People still comment on the fact that when I put on a dress Mr. E's tie is guaranteed to coordinate.

 

Like that was new or something?

Crossing Things Off

​There's a list of 101 things to do with your significant other that takes up space on my fridge, a constant reminder to enjoy each other's company, to be irreverant and spontaneous and childlike when the mood strikes. We've crossed out a couple lines, things like... 

 -Perfect your guacamole making skills

 -Teach her how to build a fire (or him as the case may be)

 -Build a fort

 -Get lost on purpose

 -Have a spa day at home 

We've added some notes, crossed out others (get tattoos of each other's names?! go sky-diving?!) and I love to really look at it every few months to see how our relationship has changed.

I realized that we're tackling another line, number 25...."Go on a health kick together" 

This has been on my radar for a while and I've implemented it in smaller ways- reducing the amount of bread we buy, adding veggies to most of our meals, reducing the Nestle drumsticks...but we've rarely had the motivation to try anything drastic. Like...working out, for instance.

Well, Dan dug deep and found his motivation and now there's a goal in mind- a 2 minute physical assesment and 6 months of physical training in the Orange County Police Academy! And if there's anything more motivating to work out than the fact that your husband is trying to become a police officer, I'd like to know. Because I could use it.

So now we're really focused on what we're eating, and how often we're walking. Hiking three times a week. Walking at least 2 miles if we're not hiking. He's running on his own and the pull up bar is seeing a lot of use.

My job is sort of inherently mobile and I had the bright idea that I could use some of the 20-30lb boxes as weights if I was getting really desperate. So while everyone was on break and grabbed a box and lifted it over my head, only to hit my forehead as it came tumbling out of my hands. Unevenly distributed weight can do that when lifted abruptly.

I am not a smart woman. Though maybe I'll be a little more toned....

Protein Packed

There was already a line three people deep at the deli counter. And these people meant business- hickory smoked, cajun-style, all-American business. Mr. E, ever the carnivore, was unfazed and stood in line.

This week we're shopping at a new-for-us grocery and we found ourselves...with a lighter bill. And healthier eating habits. Eating better starts with buying better and all the tips and tricks to buying the right foods at Ralphs just didn't stick. I tried to keep to the outside aisles (meat, dairy, produce...and wine) because you get less processed foods there, right? But I was still straying into enemy territory to grab pasta sauce or toilet paper and finding myself face-to-face with cheesy crackers and boxed dinners. I throw them in because ease-over-nutrients, amirite?

Well if Mr. E was intent on eating cleaner in preparation for some upcoming physical changes, then just call me Support System. So we ditched bright lights and brightly colored packaging for the bulk bins and abbreviated aisles. Sprouts is like Trader Joes save the tiny parking lot and inflated egos. Well, maybe some of the egos are inflated...at least one third of the store is wine.

I was perusing their bread selection- rosemary sourdough, anyone?- when Mr. E dumped his packages unceremoniously into the cart.

"Do you want to know how much deli meat I got?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"I didn't know how much to order. So I ordered the same weight as the guy in front of me..." He trails off as the recent thump-sound finally clicks in my brain. I peer into our cart.

There, nestled amidst the tiny bags of veggie chips, squeezing the life out of our poor clementines, is an almost three pound weight of sliced turkey.

I look back at my husband, who shrugs.

"I've never ordered from a deli counter before."

We've eaten sandwiches at least once a day for the last week and a half.

Friends?

How are your neighbors?

Do you know?

Are you friends? Landlord-hating-buddies? Passive-aggressive door-slamming competitors?

Do you...accidentally listen to their middle of the night fights while giggling in the bathroom because their window is open?

During a lull in History Channel's Vikings, (pleasegowatchthis) we heard it....

A theme song we know by heart.

This show was an integral part of our dating years. It was something we could always come back to- laughing at Barney's attempts to pick up chicks, laughing at Ted's inability to understand anything about anybody, laughing at how close Lily and Marshall's relationship was to our own...

But we have so moved past this show.

Only to have it repeated four to five times a night. Every night. On the other side of our couch wall.

Every so often Mr. E will come in as I'm getting ready for bed and shrilly whisper, "They're watching ANOTHER one."

We smile and laugh and wonder how long it will take them to please finish.

We've moved from Vikings to Planet Earth to Friends. And then late one night, we heard it....

No one told you life was gonna be this waaaaaaaaayyyy....

Dan ran into the bedroom with some serious eyebrow game: "They're watching Friends! Those BITERS."

Year's End

We have a cherished New Years Eve tradition of forgetting to count down the last ten seconds of the year. This year we didn't disappoint.

There's something about ringing in the New Year completely by accident- being so caught up in our conversation and our friends and our card game and our drinks that I can't possibly keep an eye on the clock. When I do check the time- usually the microwave or the oven because analog clocks are terrible timekeepers- I'm either ten minutes too early or 30 minutes too late.

So we're sitting at a dining table, sliding playing cards across the holiday tablecloth and trying to remember the rules to a game only one of us has played before. We're two or three drinks in, we've just finished home-cooking one of the best meals we've ever made (carne asada, homemade Ceasar salad, roasted rosemary and thyme potatoes and carrots in case you were wondering) and the heater has made us completely forget that it is currently 26 degrees outside and snow is on the ground. The dogs are blessedly quiet (though that's not an anomaly for Ripley) and the jazz station we've turned on is cranking out the perfect soundtrack for lulling us to sleep through the year change.

One of us chances to look up and all of a sudden we're screaming. It's 11:59 and we are going to miss it. All the carefully prepared champagne (because if not now, when?) and grapes to symbolize our good months and toasting is going to be late and at least two of the four of us are really only awake for this singular reason.

So Mr. E goes to pop the champagne and Oliver is bringing out yet another flight of glassware and I'm hiding under the counter with my back turned because I have a fear of loud noises (or fear of the anticipation of loud noises, whichever sounds cooler) and in the bustle we missed it.

But it doesn't matter.

Because this year is full of anticipation.

Because this year we have goals.

Because this year is the year we enjoy.

And we're off to a pretty good start- snow on the ground, greasy pizza in town, pre-released movies for Oscar-judging and endless card games in a year-end vacation in the mountains of Idyllwild.

My word for this year is enjoy. What's yours?

Thanks

He tiptoed in to our bedroom, and leaned in close.

"Are you happy? I want you to be happy."

My initial reaction, the knee-jerk, from-the-bottom-of-the-gut reaction was "Yes."

And then I thought about all the ways I had shown him I was happy.

Asking to do more dishes.

Endless errand runs on the weekends instead of one-on-one time.

Worrying over handmade Christmas gifts and self-imposed deadlines.

Job training and budgeting.

If this is the season to be thankful, how are we showing others how we feel? How are we communicating gratefulness?

I'm thankful for food- scrumptious, delicious food.

I'm thankful for husbands and mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and in-laws and friends that feel like family, new friendships and old friendships and only-friends-at-work-friendships. I need these people. Everyday.

I'm thankful for dogs who love unconditionally and nephews who love only on the condition that they can play with big Captain America toys at your house.

I'm thankful for health and hearth, a place to rest my steel-toed feeties and the energy to fully enjoy it.

I'm thankful for books. For movies. For Facebook, without which I wouldn't have very interesting conversations.

I'm thankful for job security and the breather of fresh air this gives us.

I pray many times a day, a silent thankyouthankyouthankyou out to the universe for this life and all the wonderful things in it. Personal thankfulness is one thing, but how does my husband know what's in my heart?

These thoughts ran through my head in the split second it took me to snuggle in closer.

"Yes. I'm the happiest."

Brie's Personal Book of Job

It's official- Baxter made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I'm getting hired permanently at Baxter in Los Angeles. This means benefits, paid vacations, but more importantly: no more job searching. I mean, after my three month probation period.

The plant here in Los Angeles works with human plasma to create hemophilic treatments and immuno-therapies, although Baxter focuses on a number of treatments in plants all over the world. So there's a lot of opportunity to further my career and get trained in multiple areas. For the time being I'm working in the Quality Department- making sure everyone else is doing their job correctly.

The one thing I never thought I'd feel about a new job? Judged.

I've worked at quite a few different contract (read: temporary) positions since I graduated from UCSD three years ago. I didn't mind because Mr. E and I didn't know where we were going to end up, so putting down roots into a job didn't seem like the best idea until we moved to where he would need to work. The first job I found out of LA seemed great- good commute, interesting company products, I liked the people... But the work itself was repetitive, slow and the training vague. I didn't feel like I was getting anywhere in that position, in the department or in the company. So when Baxter called I jumped at the chance.

Here was a homogenous mixture (read: equal) of temps and permanent workers. Kids right out of school and employees who had been with the company for 35 years. We rubbed elbows. We relied on each other. There's a lot of communication and teamwork between all three shifts for our 24-hour facility.

And yet, when I was offered my position (yes, Yes, YES!) I was asked repeatedly by the younger crowd, "Are you going to take it?" As if I had something better in mind. As if I was better than this job. As if a decent-paying position with upward mobility, international locations and paid holidays was something I wasn't interested in.

Let's be clear: I'm not going to school anymore. I have no dreams to be a doctor or an anything-ologist. I don't want a Masters or a PhD. The most I was contemplating was phlebotomy but that's more of a certification anyways, to be honest. So why the well-meaning condescension?

Here's another reminder that I'm not in the same place as my peers. There's a generalization that if you majored in science you're going to continue in science education- because a well-paying job means years of study.

There's a generalization that if you married young you're going to have kids ASAP and focus on family first because marriage and families go hand in hand. Or at least that's what the internet tells me in yet another list.

I tread that line between them- where all I want to do is work. And earn money so my husband can make movies (read: finance his short films until someone else can). We'll add kids in there when we're not eating peanut butter for the month to keep our budget down because that's our choice to prioritize our life that way.

So why the judgement? Next time someone tells you they got offered a job, and their voice has suspiciously climbed six octaves, muster up a little excitement for them. There's no need to squash the sprouting dreams of a new hire. There's plenty of time for corporate politics to do just that.

Book Fair

I already had my outfit picked out in my head- black on white stripes, jeans (per usual) and Toms (also per usual) with my book-shaped locket necklace. My hair up and out of my face- perfect for windy outdoor days AND for picture taking. I didn't know who I was going to meet, or what we were going to get into, but if it's LA and it's a fair, they mean business and I would too.

We trekked through the city to USC- Mr. E's almost alma mater. It's a beautiful campus, smack-dab in the middle of one of the worst areas of Los Angeles. But that's the way the city is. You need to brave the crazy and the potentially dangerous to find the gems scattered beneath the grime. Gourmet grilled cheese? A corner of Silverlake. Biggest book fair on the West Coast? USC. And the one thing you must know for all excursions? Even if it says it's free...parking will be astronomical and mandatory. Who wants to brave the side streets and the possibility of getting your car stolen, broken into or lost to avoid paying $15?

It didn't occur to me that a book fair would be geared towards kids. I guess I'm such a kid at heart that I assumed there would be fountains of books - and there were. But we hit the kids section first. Parents and teachers, working together, pouring over slightly used copies of the kindergarten classics. Makeshift shelves with glossy brightly colored covers and pop-up books free from rips and tears. My brief disappointment (this is it?) turned to wonder as I looked up and recognized tents as far as the eye could see- around peeking around building corners and rows upon rows down paved sidewalks.

There were authors.

There were publishers.

There were bookstores and libraries and newspaper peddlers.

But most of all there were readers.

Enthusiasts of the written word. Connoisseurs of phrasing and grammar and prose. There were T-shirts and book-bags and first editions and sales of all kinds.

This was a fair I could get behind. Keep your booz-y summer fairs and your military aircraft shows. Give me a three-for-one deal from Penguin publishers and a tote to boot.

Of course, some circus animal cookies doesn't hurt either...

What My Marriage Has Taught Me

He likes to let me drive in the mornings, which is a good thing considering he's still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Ripley knows the drill after a few months: as soon as my fingers touch my steel-toed work boots she's already halfway out the door, eager for the ride to work.

I try to tell him every morning how much I appreciate that he drives me to work- even if I do the driving. Nightowls aren't meant for 4am wake-up times. He nods, sleepily, and smiles, but I'm not sure it really got through to him. Somehow I'll make it up- hashbrown waffles this weekend or re-watching Ninja Turtles again- there's a constant give and take between us.

Three years of marriage and there was one bit of advice that stuck with us the best. His dad spoke at our wedding- an outside affair that warranted slacks, a button-up, tennis shoes and a fishing hat. There was a lot he wanted to say with almost 40 years of marriage under his belt, but he narrowed it down to this: Give more than you take. If you both do this, your marriage will be blessed with love and happiness.

I didn't realize how flexible I could be until I was married. I didn't realize how fast I could swallow pride and anger, how quickly I could get things done or how much I could handle when I thought I'd had enough. I didn't realize how selfish I had been and how selfless I could be and how much I still had to learn about myself and my relationship with those I care about.

There was an awful article earlier this year that spoke out against getting married young, and while she had some interesting points to make, I couldn't--won't- agree with everything. There's nothing wrong with a built-in security blanket, a permanent best friend to see you through life's ups and downs. Why degrade those who have chosen to make this important decision for their personal life when all you've seen is how it may not work for you?

One of the lectures Mr. E and I attended while he was in film school was a Q and A session between producer Emma Thomas- Christopher Nolan's wife, director Betty Thomas and Alex Rose, a professor at Chapman. They were asked multiple times how to get started in the business, and the answer finally boiled down to this: find your support group. Find that person- or group of people- who will push you to do it again, who will celebrate when it goes right and will hash it out with you when it sucks. In some cases this is your best friend. Or your mom. For a lot of us it's our spouse. You'll need them, time and again, to remind you why you do this everyday.

Mr. E turned his headset to mute, found my hand and leaned across the red plush theatre seats, whispering,"I'm so lucky to have you."

Summer Just Won't Leave Me

Summer isn't as magical as it used to be.

Hot days aren't made for swimming when you're working all day. Even if you work only half the day, who wants to go through the hassle of shaved legs, an epic bus transfer adventure and a public pool full of kids? Plus there's Netflix and not-as-expensive air conditioning at home, so I have that going for me.

Mornings aren't made for sleeping in. But I've been on that train for quite some time now, so we're not too distraught.

Bills still need to be paid and laundry still needs to be done. I still grumble over how many dishes we can accumulate seeing as I eat out of bags and boxes when Mr. E works and when he's not home he's being paid to eat out. The dog may be a tad more lazy with this heat, but she's always been a snuggler.

I think this post said it best when she asks you to get your cuppa out of her face, Starbucks advertising, because realistically the last thing I want to consume is a piping cup of fall as I tether myself to a 5 foot radius of our AC. These are the times that call for Drumsticks in various flavors, and may I suggest the mint no nuts?

We started our summer with Zion and ended it, rather anticlimactically, with an HBO cast party downtown.

My favorite picture? My FAVORITE PICTURE.

Somewhere in my life I traded girlfriend sleepovers for margarita lunch breaks and free comedy shows. I gave up mindless cable re-runs for a never-ending queue of quirky, independent films chosen based on a faceless algorithm. For some reason I'm not as worried about the movies chosen for me as I'm worried about the world content selected based on my viewing patterns. You don't know me, Google. (Sidenote: We're really into TED Talks right now)

There was a delicious carefree-ness to summer, a time to look forward to and bemoan when it was over. But now? Summer isn't a break from anything, really. The world keeps trudging on, regardless of the temperatures that make me avoid walking the dog regularly for fear of heatstroke.

But growing up can mean expanding out and I'm not referring to our ice cream consumption (which is horrendous, stop asking). Here's a time to focus inward. I sewed a quilt. I downsized both closets AND the storage space. Mr. E finished writing/transcribing his first feature film script. We got a new car (though unplanned and really a very miniscule silver lining to a sucky situation).

So maybe sometimes summer isn't delicious pool days and backyard BBQs and movie nights. It's not determined by school years or months on the calendar anymore. I had to make my own summer, and I will continue to do so, dammit, until I'm shivering in my shorts and flip flops.

Ren Faire

My only regret is that we missed the "Wines and Wenches Weekend", as I can only imagine the kind of cleavaged debacuhery that would occur.

Not that we didn't already witness our fair share. (Get it?)

Yes, it's true, the renaissance faire in Irwindale is one of the biggest on the West Coast. And yes, it's true, it's also a fantastic excuse for women to dress in corsets and little-to-no shirt product. But it's also a rockin' good time.

You can't fully enjoy the faire if you are not properly attired, as their many costumed booths could attest to, but as I don't have the guts (or the boobs) for a corset, eclectic gypsy-esque it was going to be!

Mr. E and I went a little early to fully enjoy the $26/pp experience, and later met up with some friends of mine from work. Accents and feathered hats, oh my!

Forgive their expressions- they really are excited to be hanging out with me.

There were booths selling all sorts of things, from woodworking to incense, pewter goblets to glass ornaments, hair twirling, baton twirling, skirt twirling, gypsy skirts, palm-reading, jousting, and the food...Turkey legs were almost mandatory. And corn on the cob.

One of the things I love the most is how supportive everyone is. There are all kinds at the faire, and some of them take their roles or their characters so seriously I'm pretty sure that's just how they are, but they are all so sweet to one another. They laugh and call out across stalls, compliment you on your skirt or your bag or your mustache, offer their services or stop you in the middle of the thoroughfare, stomp their feet and bow "M'lady..." before whisking away, cape in hand.

Who doesn't want to get treated like a princess for a day? A princess with all her boobs in her shirt, no less...

Hie Thee to Zion

Zion is apparently an international hotspot.

Is it the stunning views? The trails for hikers of all levels? Perhaps it's the absolute silence and the stunning cascade of heavenly bodies that surround you once the sun sets behind the cliffs. I haven't quite figured out how to take pictures of stars with my iPhone, but if it looked like this during the day...imagine what that looked like by the light of a waxing moon.

For four days there's actually quite a lot to do in Zion. That is, if you are surrounded by nieces and nephews, catching up with sisters-in-law, tending to injuries, cooking any and all meals and/or trying to find a free bathroom for a quick second. Just me?

We biked from the park entrance to the Lodge almost 5 miles away (uphill, both directions, in the snow...).

We hiked a mile along the Virgin River until we dead-ended at the river itself....then we took up walking sticks, double-bagged our valuables and trudged in. Much like the California surf, the water was cold but soon numbed your feet.

We also hiked to see the canyon view- through a tunnel and out the other side, there's a (perilous) staircase, some natural, some not, that deposits you at a cliff edge with a stunning vista of the park. Granted, it was no Angel's Landing (same idea, but a four hour trek and one of the highest points in the park- not suggested for kids. Me. People with a fear of heights.)

We swam for most of the day- hiking was strictly a morning sport as the heat of the day quickly baked everything in the canyon.

My favorite part of the trip? Catching a wide-eyed Mr. E as he spouted geological tidbits, trying to cram every rock and crevice into his memory bank like a kid at a museum. We vowed to hike more often- and actually get out and camp once in a while!