Age Old Riddle: Asked & Answered

If a tree falls in

Q: If you work from home and are sipping coffee and don't have ANY important meetings to attend and NO ONE IS AROUND to see it (or the aftermath), will you STILL spill coffee down your shirt?

A: Apparently.

Independent

"Is this for your baby?"

That's what the person behind the desk asked me when I handed her my form. Maybe she saw that it was from a genetic counselor's office and so assumed that genetics testing = baby. I don't know. For a split second I thought about saying "yes," because sort of it is for my baby -- the one I don't yet have -- but mostly I just wanted to slap her in the face.

"Oh, no, for you," she corrected herself before I had a chance to. Glad we got that cleared up.

* * * * *

Maybe it's just me, but nothing makes me feel more alone in this world than going to a doctor's office by myself. I want to be taken there by a concerned parent, or bringing a child I'm caring for. Or at least going with a family member. Or, well, not going at all.

But here we are, me and my independent life. Me and my job as an independent contractor; me and my independent health insurance; me and my independent trip to the genetics department.

The entire visit was one big exercise in self-control. I had to prepare myself to ignore all emotional cues and be brave. Focus. I told myself to listen. Learn. Absorb everything the counselor said so I could understand all the possibilities. Who knows how this will go. No sense in getting upset before you know anything.

* * * * *

I met with the counselor who was very kind and non-condescending. I asked a lot of questions and was given a lot of information. I recounted my family history and the deaths of my parents and difficulties my nephew had that led the specialists to test for Fragile-X so early. I tried to sound matter-of-fact and clinical.

I smiled when I talked about my family, and my parents' respective personalities. Only once did I have to work hard not to cry, when the counselor had to take a phone call and I had nothing to do but sit there and process where I was, and why.

But she came back quickly and I regained control.

In the end, she told me I could get my blood taken that day and that they'd get the results in about two weeks and how did I want to get the news? I didn't like that question one bit, but it wasn't her fault for asking.

I told her the phone would be fine, I just want to know.

Then she asked me if I thought I was a carrier.

I didn't like that question, either. Especially after she told me the likelihood that I was carrying this "defect" was 75%. But I was honest.

I told her no, I didn't actually think I was. But I added that probably everyone says that.

* * * *

I got to the blood-drawing center and had to take a number. The room was overflowing with people who were mostly elderly and frail and sick, and I pushed hard, really hard, to not feel anything. Especially not alone.

I tried to focus on going through the motions. Heh. Take a number. Like I'm buying chicken at Whole Foods.

I tried to read the magazines. I called Ish and discussed with him what I'd learned so far, but also dinner plans. La la la.

And then they called my number and that's when the woman asked if the test was for me or my baby. Which is an innocent enough mistake, except I had spent all morning (and actually, the 8+ weeks I'd waited to get this appointment) working hard to distance myself from the implications. Facts were one thing, and I could speak in percentiles and likelihoods. But the reality, that having a "normal" child would be even more difficult than I already anticipated, is almost too much to bear, and I could hear my answers screaming in my head...

I DON'T HAVE A BABY AND MAYBE I NEVER WILL AND WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT A BABY??? I'M A 31 YEAR OLD DIVORCEE WHO LIVES ALONE WITH CATS AND IS DATING A MARRIED MAN BECAUSE I AM SO INDEPENDENT! SEE? WHY? DO YOU HAVE A BABY? OH? BECAUSE TO BE HONEST WITH YOU, I WAS JUST SITTING AROUND FEELING SO BORED WITH ALL THIS TERRIFIC INDEPENDNCE THAT I THOUGHT TODAY WOULD BE A GREAT DAY TO COME IN AND SEE IF I HAVE A MENTAL RETARDATION GENE HANGING AROUND IN ME. YOU KNOW, JUST IN CASE. MAYBE NEXT WEEK I'LL COME BACK AND WE CAN TEST FOR SYPHILLIS. YEAH? OOH, AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT, WHY NOT THROW IN A HALF A POUND OF GROUND BEEF!?!?

I didn't actually say any of that and mostly just got in another line, waiting to get pricked so I could bleed into a vial and get on with my day.

* * * *

Two weeks later, I hadn't heard anything so I called and left a message.

And when the counselor called back, she was very straightforward about telling me that yes, I am a pre-mutation carrier. We discussed next steps.

I didn't cry.

Good Will Humping

I couldn't very well call the title of this post, "Awww, Shit! Black Mammas #5" but I really, really wanted to.

Anyway.

Part Two of T's Birthday Weekend follows. And in case you missed it, Part One was awesome.

* * * * *

Friday

Friday afternoon meant the arrival of five more friends (El_G, MJ, Serre, Snarky, and someone we call Reaper). And 73 more people's worth of food and drinks.

We all brought TONS of groceries, garbage bags, tupperware, WATER, ice, etc., on the idea that there probably wouldn't be a store very near to the house. And also maybe the house is located in the Sahara.

Thus it is with great pleasure and head-shaking that I now present to you:

Picture of the General Store Approximately 53 Seconds from the House

Well, whatever. It didn't show up on any maps we saw online.

Perhaps while at the general store I got mouthy about Ish's selection of parking spaces.


To the best of my recollection, the rest of Friday was uneventful, in a vacation-y kind of way. There was a lot of kitchen activity, and people who weren't me did things like "hike." I mostly observed said kitchen activities and agreed that they were proceeding well.

So while we're just hanging out and chilling, I figure now is as good a time as any to talk to you about The House.

Overall, The House was rather accommodating, and its super large kitchen with counter space and open dining room/living room worked very well for our needs.

Here's an idea of the kitchen, where behind it is the dining room which leads to the living room:




The master suite was awesome, and totally fit for a birthday boy king.

However, there were a couple issues.

1. The Game Room
One of the reasons we selected the house in the first place was because it boasted of its game room -- which claimed to have pool, ping pong, air hockey, foosball, a poker table with cards and chips, a dart board and a bar. Who wouldn't select this house, right?

Um. Except the game room was actually a converted garage, where by "converted" I mean "added carpet and faux wood paneling." The floors were completely uneven, to the point of lumpy. I can assure you that playing pool is a lot less fun when the balls roll all over the table before you even break.

The ping pong table and equipment was, to the best of our knowledge, updated in 1983. The air hockey table -- which was the same as the ping pong table -- didn't have enough "oomph" to push the puck around. The foosball was smooshed into a corner, so you couldn't really access it unless you moved it (which then made playing ping pong or pool impossible). With great confusion, we eventually realized that the foosball table converted into the aforementioned poker table. No chips or cards were to be found, but that's okay because there were no chairs for the table, either.

There was only one working dart.

The bar was basically a block of wood, used for storing the various remains of game pieces that were no longer working (warped ping pong balls and dart ends, for example).

Also? Garages are freezing.

2. The Hot Tub
Another necessity for ths trip was that the house have an outdoor hot tub. And it did. Except rather than have it set on a plot overlooking...oh, I dunno...the ocean(?), it was set into the back of the house and accessible through the game room. The view was of the back fence and the garage door.

But still, outdoor hot tub, so we really shouldn't complain.

And we wouldn't have. Except I'll tell you -- new fangled hot tubs with electronic keypads that regulate "temperature" are very, very tricky to navigate. And EVEN SOBER, with the help of at least one (1) systems administrator and one (1) contractor WHO BUILDS THINGS LIKE THIS, the hot tub refused to get hot.

Bubbles? Check. Warm? Check. Hot? Please? How 'bout now? Fuckinghellishfuckingthing HOW 'BOUT NOW?

It took a trip to the house from the cleaning lady to reset the whole apparatus the next day.

She had to return on Saturday to get the grill working.

* * * * *

Friday Night

T had planned early on to engage us all in a game of charades. But not just any charades, no. Mortifying, embarrassing charades.

T had spent a few hours online before the trip, looking up the most ridiculous PORN TITLES in existence. And he wrote them down.

And my oh my. Those titles make for one verrrrrry interesting game of charades.

My memory, perhaps addled by libations and hysterics, cannot remember any of the titles right now, save for "Awww, Shit! Black Mammas #5" and "Good Will Humping." Nor did I manage to take any pictures of the event. But as far as awesome party games are concerned, I highly recommend this one.

Later that night, when the group was thoroughly sauced, our final guests arrived. Ben and Emily ("Bemily") joined us just in time to hear many slurred, sordid details of the charades game, punctuated by half-naked people running around the house going to and from the newly functioning hot tub.

Ben sits on the toy rocker after a long day at work, a long commute home, a longer drive out to the house, only to find himself surrounded by loud, already drinking and vacationing people:



Part Three, the finale, is on its way.

Oscars Party!

For years, I have considered the Oscars my version of the Super Bowl (although this year, truth be told, I think I knew more about the...uh...Chicago Cubs than I do the Academy Award contenders).

But no matter!

Because what makes the Oscars SUPER FUN is the amazingly awesome Really Cool Oscars Pool^TM that my darling friends Em and Nick whip up every year. Forget those boring contests based solely on who wins best score blah blah blah. Only the Really Cool Oscars Pool^TM wants to know about who'll be wearing what, seen with whom, and go waaaaaaay over their allotted speech time.

And in case you think you can't predict that, either, let me tell you: my father consistently did VERY WELL in this game and yet was the kind of guy who, at any time, may or may not be able to accurately tell you what color his wife's eyes were.

Interested in joining the fun? Email me and I'll forward it to you. So fun!

Hmm. A Thought for Friday.

I just scratched my nose and realized my new nose stud has fallen out.

See, I got my nose pierced three years ago, and have worn that very basic, sturdy stud since then. Until last week, that is, when Em (who I need a better name for) got a good deal on a twofer plastic nose stud set. So she gave me one and I have been wearing it, though I guess it's not as secure as my first one was.

Um, right. So now that you have THAT fascinating backstory, I get to my thought for the day:

Question: What was the VERY FIRST place I looked when I realized something had fallen off of my face?

Answer: That's right. Between my boobs.

After realizing the stud was not in, on, or around my nose, without a moment's hesitation, I looked down, pulled my v-neck away from my bra and scanned the area. Nothing.

Instinctively, I then shoved my hand DOWN my bra, probing and prodding, in case the nose stud had fallen into the depths of my endless cleavage and I hadn't noticed.

[I would liken this move to someone who is alone and thinks maybe they've gotten some food stuck in their back molars and just needs to poke around their mouth a little with their whole hand to get it loose. You know?]

Anyway, I suddenly realized what I was doing (good thing I am alone) and stopped myself, hand in bra, fingers roaming around somewhere under my left funbag and wondered,

Hey, women with normal-sized breasts? Is your bra the first place YOU look for items missing from your face?

I don't know how often things fall from your face really, but nevertheless -- your answer is probably no, huh? Like, probably you look someplace like...oh, I dunno...your lap? Yeah?

Fascinating.




*And to answer your question, no. I have not located the nose stud yet. But I have been known to take off my bra at home after a night at the movies and have popcorn fall out, so who knows.

A Story From November For No Reason. Hi!

Blah blah blah Valentine's Day. Moving on. Part One.

* * * * *

I am not married and I do not have children. I started down that MUST GET MARRIED path too early and, having realized this (um, a little late), stepped off it. Temporarily.

And I say "temporarily" because I think I could handle being "settled down" now, since everything in my life has shifted in the last few years, including and especially my perspective on what the term "settling down" even means.

But. For now.

I am enjoying the hell out of my current life station. There is something to be said for the urban 20- and 30- and 40-somethings I hang out with who don't have kids but who do have disposable income (however moderate and/or uh, miniscule, you know, it may be).

And so it is with great joy and (my typically ungood) photos I tell you a little* story...

*Wherein "little" means you might wanna get a fresh cup of coffee and make yourself comfortable.

* * * * *

Prologue

Once upon a time, a girl met a Boy. The girl thought the boy was cute. TheBoy? Well, perhaps he thought the girl was cute or perhaps he didn't. We do not know because perhaps TheBoy was impossible to read and that is why it would take a YEAR of their knowing each other before they'd start dating.

And then they did start dating and they were really not a good couple.

Why? Why weren't they a good couple, you ask? (Shush. Pretend you asked. La la la.) They were not a good couple because the girl was not always as clear about the settling down thing and also maybe a LITTLE BIT crazy and thought that "hey, you're cute and funny" should soon thereafter beg the question "wanna live together?" because maybe that's how her only two real grown-up relationships had gone. Maybe. This isn't the point at all.

The point is, she thought he was REALLY GREAT and he thought she was fine but not like, the girl of his dreams or marriage material or anything crazy like that, and -- as happens -- that came to be something of a sticking point in the relationship.

"Can you actually say with certainty that we'll never get married?" she maybe actually asked him. MORE THAN ONCE. (Because not only had she never read "He's Just Not That Into You," she had also never read "WHAT NEVER TO ASK A MAN YOU ARE DATING EVER EVER EVER 101.")

And he would, every time, calmly and matter-of-factly say, "Yes."

As you might well imagine, the relationship devolved sort of rapidly after that.

Well, you know. A girl really has two options once she has basically asked the question, "Where is this relationship going," and TheBoy has basically answered, "nowhere it isn't already": She can shrug her shoulders and have another martini and pretend she's never going to ask the question again (until she does, again, and then again), or she can get out of the relationship.

In this particular girl's case, her getting out of the relationship was greatly facilitated by TheBoy's DUMPING HER CRAZY ASS.

[Are you so happy to be reading this prologue? Awesome!]

This prologue has a happy ending, though.

One thing that this crazy girl offered to do for TheBoy when they were together was plan a big birthday bash for him, because she thought TheBoy had never properly celebrated his birthday in the years she'd known him and really, wouldn't that be fun? Maybe they could like, gather their friends together and rent a house somewhere and have a grand old time!?

He said no.

Years later (phew!), the girl has maybe gained a little bit MORE perspective. And she and TheBoy are friends. And they can both laugh at the crazy. (He still a little more than her, though. Ahem.)

And so when TheBoy thought about turning 35 this year, he decided to take her up on her offer. "I'm thinking about doing that house idea," he said to her. "Wanna plan it?"

And so she did.

* * * * *

Once upon a later time, a dozen 20- and 30- and 40-something urban dwellers organized a long weekend away to celebrate the birth of The King of Inappropriate Humor, aka "TheBoy" i.e., my ex-boyfriend we will forevermore just refer to as T.

With my help and only about 9,392 emails among the group, we found a perfect house: on the ocean, only a couple hours from the city yet with the feel of being faaaaaar away. And T graciously rented and offered it to us for the mere price of our good company, food, and drink.

And oh, was there food and drink.

In fact, had there not been so much of both, I probably would have remembered to take more photos. But here's a rundown of

T's Birthday Weekend!

Thursday

Ish, T and I packed up Ish's car and headed north. We got lost before we even left the city. I am not kidding.

Then halfway through the trip, especially as we had gotten a late start, we decided to stop for dinner.

I noted that next to the restaurant was a giant craft store, so I thought -- hey, it's a long weekend away! This would be a great time to knit something! I should buy some needles and yarn!

Except once I found my way to the yarn, I...I sort of lost my grip. Maybe I was tired or hungry or overcome with excitement at the prospect of a weekend away, but the yarn! There was SO MUCH OF IT! I got totally overwhelmed and had no idea what to do. It was as though the yarn aisleS (because there were like, 3) were mocking me, all Jack Nicholson style.

You want the yarn? You want the YARN? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE YARN!

I almost cried. I had no pattern or needles or clue. So I gave up. And as I was on my way out of the store, I noted a sign that -- in my madness of yarn defeat -- made me double over laughing.

It read:

Aisle 36
birds

That was it. A giant craft store with an entire aisle devoted to...birds? I had to check it out. And so did the guys.

Which is how it came to be that T bought two little fake birds for the purpose of driving everyone crazy all weekend.

[He would place the birds in strange places throughout the house. If you found one, you had to put it someplace new. That was the game. It became something of a strange obsession with all of us, and the birds landed in some pretty interesting spots...]

* * * * *

After dinner and considerably more driving across windy roads with no streetlights, we eventually arrived at The House at the same time as another couple, who I will randomly call Handy and Tinker.

Let me set the scene, if I may.

Five of us arrive at the house, which is up atop a huge cliff we cannot see over, but over which we know there is nothing but ocean. It is very cold. And windy. And weird. And late. And PITCH BLACK.

It is the setting of a horror movie. Well, except for one small detail I'll get to in a moment.

The five of us approach the house using whatever we can find to light our way, and soon learn that "Key will be left behind the planter on the front deck" may SEEM like a straightforward note, but in actuality, it is not. It took the lot of us at LEAST ten full minutes to figure out what the "front deck" meant, with added time for figuring out which planter, and what direction "behind" was.

And it was scary, like I was worried that a guy in a hockey mask with a hook-for-hand or, I dunno, a Confederate-flag bearing pick-up truck would be coming along any minute to do Very Bad Things to us.

Well, sort of I was worried about it. Except for the mooing.

Moooo baaaaahing, actually.

Right.

Unbeknownst to us, the house was surrounded by...erm...I guess the only appropriate term would be livestock(?) I do not know. And also it was SO DARK.

But please imagine five very city-like folks running around a house in the dark searching for a mysterious planter, with only the light of our cell phones and the VERY LOUD mooing and baaaaah-ing of livestock(?) to guide us. Which was also actually scary (though hilariously scary), because we couldn't actually SEE the livestock(?), we could just hear them getting louder and louder. As if to alert us that they were disturbed by our presence! And if we didn't find the "behind the planter" soon, we would be trampled!(?) By sheep!(?) Coming from... somewhere!

We finally found the key, and I will tell you. Five people have never unloaded so much so quickly.

Within 15 minutes (and before we'd even figured out the thermostat), Tinker had made a round of gin and tonics.

Ahhh.

"Hmm. I think I made these too ginny" Tinker proclaimed.

And the rest -- of the evening and of the weekend -- was history...

* * * * *


Ish and T (with b&w red-eye, no less, because I am a camera genius) are impersonating the scene from Ghost. I could not tell you why. Gin.

Handy is being silly here.



The (Birthday) Boy steals my camera:


(if you know him well enough, you know this happy face is the product of gin)

* * * * *

Part Two: "No, no, you go on ahead" coming soon.

Valentine's Mischief

A day in the life of my coolest-ass nephew.



Seems normal and happy enough to me. If, sure, a bit of a handful.

Hey, YOU'RE From Austin, Aren't You?

Dear Invisible Internet Friend Who Is So Beautiful And Smart And Knowledgeable About Austin,

I love you. Did you know that? I do.

And you know how sxsw is coming up?

[Hi. For those of you who are still kind of new around these here technology/blogging parts, there's this ginormous show in Austin every year called South by Southwest, or SxSW if you want to really seem like you know what you're talking about. See?]

And you know how like, everyone who's everyone will be there?

Right.

So that would explain why I will be in San Francisco.

HOWEVER. A lot of BlogHers will be there, in Austin, and dude -- they totally wanna hang out. With YOU.

They said so.

They just....uh....they're kind of wondering....any idea where they you ya'll should go?

In all honesty dear, sweet, brilliant, gorgeous IIF, I have the task of trying to find a fun, casual, dining/bar spot that will accommodate up to 50 BlogHer babes and dudes on the night of Friday, March 9 from 8 p.m. onward. Seems like Austin has a bunch of places like this, except we have two sort of "challenges"...

1. The spot can't be overrun with live music (ya'll will need to hear one another), and

2. The place would ideally be within walking distance of the event.

And um...seeing as I have never been to Austin (I've barely been to Texas) and that all of this is a wild guessing game for me, I'm sort of wondering if perchance you might be willing to help me secure a viable location?

I'll totally buy you a virtual drink. Or like, 82.

Love,
k

kristy@blogher.org

rrrrrrrrRRRRRRRAMP UP!

so.

busy.

so, so, so busy.

* * * * *

BlogHer Business is coming up, and it's really going to be an amazing event. Not because I have anything to do with it (seriously, at this point I might actually be taking away from it), but because the content and the speakers are KIND OF AMAZING.

I'm not just saying that, either. I have been pulling my hair out all week trying to get the Speakers' Page up, and then I did,

GO LOOK AT IT. HOURS, I SPENT. GO NOW.



oooooh, so pretty.

but in the process, you know, I actually read the bios and was like, oh. Um, WOW. In the kind of way that makes me consider my own professional accomplishments and think, Hmmm, maybe I should take up cake decorating.

So seriously. If you are in the NY Metro area and are interested in how social media is going to kick traditional business models and PR in the you-know-what, consider registering.


(And remember, I'm not saying BlogHer is awesome because I work for them; I work for them because I think BlogHer is awesome.)

Same-Sex Marriage Hot Potato

For those of you who think this is insane, please understand the point. Which is that, up to now, the conversation has essentially gone like this:

Why can't two consenting adults of the same gender get married?

Because it's wrong.

Why is it wrong?

Because.

Because why?

It just is. A marriage is a sacred thing between one woman and one man.

According to...?

According to everyone.

You mean everyone who is against gay marriage.

It's in the bible.

Ah. So this is a biblical thing?

Why not? The bible says that marriage is between one woman and one man.

It also says that the purpose of marriage is to procreate.

Right, and gay couples can't do that naturally.

Lots of hetero couples can't do that naturally, either. Do their marriages still count?

Of course.

Why?

Because.

Because why?

Ummmm...just because. Sometimes couples can't have kids.

But if the bible dictates that the purpose for marriage is to procreate, and that reason doesn't come to fruition, then it seems to me -- speaking in strictly biblical terms -- that that marriage should be null and void.

That's just stupid.

Why? Because if the only reason same sex couples can't marry is because the bible says so, but the bible also says that marriage is for the purpose of having kids, you can't logically have it both ways.

I don't like you.



The real issue, of course, is and always has been the separation of church and state when it comes to marriage. The state dances around this all the time, but discriminating against same-sex couples baffles me. It makes no sense to me: not ethically, not logically, not legally.

Of course the case and the above dialogue are hyperbolic, but come on.

Either opponents need to admit that their reasoning for not condoning same-sex marriages is based in religion...

• which means they have to admit that they're asking the state and church to be interdependent
  
  
• which also means that non-procreating hetero couples have no biblical ground to stand on if they are unable or unwilling to conceive, and their state-recognized marriage should be legally void for the same reasons it was legally recognized
  

...or admit that their real reasoning for not wanting same-sex marriage is because it just makes them uncomfortable.

A Long-Ish Entry

I could be wrong, but I think maybe the only thing a man may hate more than having The Dreaded Where Is This Relationship Going Conversation is having the topic dissected online, on his girlfriend's blog.

Like so.


* * * *

When I met Ish, we got along famously (almost) from the start. Which was great except it wasn't, because everything about him screamed NOT GOOD DATING MATERIAL.

Now -- oh-ho -- don't get me wrong: the stats, the "on paper" version of Ish reads like a World's Most Desirable Bachelor dossier. If I do say so myself, he's good looking and in good shape, with a great education and excellent taste; he's well read, well traveled, fun, personable, and polite. And yes, funny. I mean, MBA-cum-stand-up-comedian? Are you kidding me? AND a dog lover? Sign me up.

Huh? What's that? Oh, right.

When we started seeing each other, he was also newly separated. Or, I suppose if you want to get technical, he was married.

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

But what are you going to do? He answered an online ad of mine, we went out the next day. I knew he was separated and had just moved to SF, and so fine. I had low (which is to say "reasonable" given my online dating experiences of that summer) expectations. We went out and we had a nice time.

I don't want to lead you down the primrose path, he said to me on our first date. Those were his actual words. Because he is romantic like that.

I replied, Haha, don't worry.

I didn't elaborate then, but not only were my expectations low, I HAD ACTUALLY LIVED on Primrose Lane (I'm not even kidding) and you know? That didn't work out so well in the real sense OR the metaphorical one.

Steering clear of the primrose seemed like a perfectly fine thing to do. Amen.

But he was married and separated and completely unsure about most things in his life. His job was uninspiring and somewhat temporary. His knowledge of the SF stand-up scene was dusty. His everyday life was the opposite of grounded. He had a tiny, charmless studio apartment with barely any furniture and certainly no personality. As far as I could tell, most of his belongings were back in New York.

You know, awaiting his return.

No. Not good dating material.

* * * * *

The first several months we were together were the greatest test to Me-As-Grown-Up I have ever experienced, relationship-wise. There were so many things I wanted to ask him, and so many things I just wanted settled.

Hi, honey, how was your day? And also, are you planning on staying in San Francisco? Are you moving back to New York? Are you going to try and work it out? Are you going to get divorced? Are you taking our relationship seriously? Am I just an interim friend? What are we doing? What are you doing? WHAT IS GOING ON?

But those things weren't easily settle-able, nor were they settle-able by me. I had to back off and shut up.

For the first time in my life, I had to let it go.

Me?

But...I did. He did his thing while we did ours. Which meant, among other things, that his reality was compartmentalized for a long time. There was his crazy pseudo-life in San Francisco, the one that made no sense and had no real long-term potential, but that was fun and silly and included me; and there was his everything-else life, the one with his wife and cats and dogs and family and in-laws and sense and reason and a decade of memories that I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with. He would be with me when we were together; otherwise, he was somewhere else, working on his "real" issues.

We didn't talk about the future.

"Us" was a fleeting and abstract concept.

We simply enjoyed each other's company together, and worked on figuring out the rest of our lives separately.

* * * * * *

Ish's divorce will be final soon.

This morning, he picked up the keys to his new place.

His new apartment is a simple, airy one-bedroom with a layout almost exactly like mine. Very old-school San Francisco. He will enjoy making it his own.

For the last year-and-a-half, he has lived his compartmentalized life like a nomad. His walls are stacked high with boxes he received but never unpacked, with return labels advertising an address in New York that's still, technically, part his. He sleeps on a futon and eats dinner on a second- or third-hand table he bought for about $4 from some guy on Craigslist.

He has not lived like a man who plans to stick around.

We're both excited for that to change.

* * * * * *

To me, Ish's new apartment marks a new phase in our relationship:
the start.

Because as much as we've grown to know each other, and enjoy each other, and love each other, our whole relationship has been shrouded in uncertainty and skepticism.

(Nothing says "prime for a rebound" like a grown man suddenly scoring gently used Ikean furniture on the cheap.)

And there's been some shame, too, along with justifications galore. Because some of our friends and family? They have Those Questions.

...God, Ish, why did you start seeing her so soon after your separation?

...If he's really trying to work things out with his wife, why is he dating you?

...Don't you think you need time to be on your own?

...Why can't you just be single for a while?

...Why would you ever consider dating a married man, even if he is separated?


And I think it would be great to not have all of that hanging over us, at least not so directly. I want to experience dating Ish as his girlfriend, not his explanation. I want to be able to tell people he is my boyfriend, and not have to launch into that great big caveat.

It'll be nice to finally feel like I'm -- we're -- on solid footing.

So I guess the slate, it's...it's not exactly clean, but we're too old for that anyway. I don't want a clean slate, I want a sturdy one.

One that doesn't come from Ikea.






*Um, I love Ikea and am sure that at least some of the pieces Ish picks out will come from there, as is inevitable when you live in the Bay Area. Don't think I'm hating!

The Nye Mets Are My Favorite Squadron

You know, since I've been dating Ish, I've started paying a little more attention to sports than before.

(Before = Sports? Um...Barry Bonds is in San Francisco, right?)

Most of my life I've sort of just followed along a little, mostly at the time of major tournaments.

(Major tournaments = World Series, Superbowl, um, Olympic figure skating)

But seriously. This year I've actually been watching. And enjoying. And being somewhat knowledgeable! Well, at least waaaay more than ever before.

Like, I watched the Boise State v. Oklahoma bowl game, and even if I just had to ask Ish what teams those were again, it was still pretty amazing to have witnessed it. Just like Stanford's basketball team has been fun to follow lately, too. You know?

Anyway, my point is, I've watching football all season. Seriously. Which is why it's especially embarrassing (mortifying, really) to have just run into my neighbor only to engage in the following exhange:

Neighbor, David: Hey, you guys watching the game today?

Me: Yeah. We're going to a friend's place.

David: Cool, us to. I'm rooting for Indy. How 'bout you guys?

Me: I think I'd like the Cubs to win.

David immediately and dismissively looks to Ish, standing behind me. At the very moment he asks Ish who he'd like to win, I hear Ish mumble, "It's the Bears, Kiki, not the Cubs."

I totally knew that.

To Forgive, Divine

Dear Gavin,

I thought we talked about this.

I mean, maybe I didn't make myself plain enough, I don't know. I just find it hard to believe you don't regularly read this blog.

Anyway, just so we're clear: I'd like to reiterate that having an affair with me would have been a LOT less complicated than sleeping with your married employee. Why go through all that hassle?

Now you're down a campaign manager and all on the news and everything, and it's kind of a mess. Personally, I'd rather be hearing the details about our troop escalation and/or our possible, you know, war with Iran. But you made a bad decision.

If, say, you'd been with me, this never would've gotten out. Not only would I have been way cool about the whole thing, I'm also super discreet! And classy! Sure, I might have blogged the details of our hot, exciting, tawdry, fun, sexy...

...sorry, drooled a little on the keyboard there. What?

Oh right. Blogging about our hotness. Mmm. But you totally wouldn't have had to worry about anything. My invisible internet friends wouldn't have told anyone, I promise. And plus I totally would have given you a pseudonym like BigG, or like, TheHotMayor.

I tell ya, we could have had something, G-Dog.

But now? Now I'm currently involved with someone and I don't think he'd be too keen on our hooking up. You know how men can be. (Still, I'll let you know if anything changes.)

Keep your chin up in the meantime, okay?

xoxoxo,
k

Oopsy! How'd he get in there? Amazing what happens when you let your mind wander.
Oh well! The more the merrier, right? G-Dog, meet BigDog.
Now, G, why don't you take off your shirt while BigD, you come over here and rub my shoulders. That's right...

Lick My Luscious Peach

When my mom discovered the wonders of magnetic poetry, she embraced it. In my house growing up, we always had at least one set of words, often more, just hanging out, begging to be put into some literary order.

The magnetic poetry was taken seriously. In fact, my mom sort of used the fridge poetry as something of a litmus test for Sammis-home newcomers. She said that it was always the smartest, most creative and interesting people who would notice the magnets and play with them.

It became a way to put a small stamp on our house, too. Sometimes we'd keep ridiculous phrases up for months and months, just because we liked who'd put them there. Sometimes we'd keep even more ridiculous phrases up for months and months because we had no idea who'd put them there.

When I moved to my own house, in my first stint as an adult, I received several sets of words -- Shakespearean words in particular -- for my own refrigerator. I was the next generation, and the tradition was to continue.

And over time, as family and friends visited my home, the next generation of silly magnetic poetry decorated my family-friendly fridge.

Now.

I think the second version of my adult life can well be summed up by the current phrases that adorn my fridge, here in San Francisco where no one I know has concerns about being family-friendly.

Or, you know, concerns about any sort of appropriateness at all.

For the record, I kind of like this version of my life and fridge. Though also for the record I would like to note that:

A. I did not author most of these, and

B. I don't know who did. Or when. They have simply appeared on my fridge over time, and I decided yesterday (at Amberance's unwitting suggestion) to photograph them as they are.

Enjoy.

* * * * *

This one was mine. I was probably heading to the freezer to get more ice for a cocktail I was drinking following the break-up with TheBoy.

It's silly, sure, but it made me feel better.


It's possible I also wrote the following:

But I don't remember. It's entirely likely that some other melancholic girl wandered into my kitchen and rearranged my magnets to let the sun know how she felt about it. But given that none of the other phrases are particularly meaningful, I'm gonna have to assume it was me.

Moving on...

As happens.

You know, it's HIGH TIME that the subject of analingus makes it
to my blog, don't you think?

Just try not to get any on the bedspread.

I'll bet. (And you know? Who could blame him?)

I'm not sure that magnetic refigerator poetry is the most appropriate medium for conveying this command, but what do I know. Maybe whoever posted it got lucky.



Whereas I like to watch you manipulate the English language.
In magnet form. In my kitchen.



The only enormous purple apparatus that I can think of is Barney, and that is just sooooo wrong. Also, do you think "sweat" was supposed to be included in this somehow?



Is there any other way?



I like this one a lot because the first part of it was mine.
"Two if by sea," I wrote, thinking at least I was referencing some sort of poem.
Which was great until some man (we can assume it was a guy)
came along and made it about sperm. I love my friends.



At least this one is pornographic in a poetic way.
Except I love how the word "pants" is just hanging out there, as though part of the sentence.
"...languidly when it is over. PANTS!"



If you're curious, this actually says:
the puppy drool is like repulsive rain on his fluffed sausage

I can't wait to see my keyword analysis this week!

So there you have it, folks. A veritable linguistic menagerie worthy of a frat house, brought to you by urban sophisticates.

Or, as they like to call themselves: