Love

In one week I will be marrying the kindest, sweetest person I’ve ever met. He would do anything for me (and anyone, for that matter) and I would do anything for him. It’s a nice feeling to know that there is a person you can lean on when things get rough, as well as someone there to share the good times with.

As my wedding approaches, I can’t help but think of my grandparents, who had what I perceived to be an excellent marriage. I start to tear up when I think that they will not be able to celebrate with me, for they instilled in myself, as well as all of their children and grandchildren, what it means to love.

I have been blessed with a kind, loving, supportive family who would do anything for me, and am delighted to share them with my future husband, whom they have welcomed into the family with open arms. It’s rare when a group of family and friends can spend time together to celebrate joy and happiness, enjoying each other’s company and allowing themselves to shake off the stresses of everyday life and bust a move on the dance floor. These moments need to be valued and cherished.

Despite my tendency to worry about details that really don’t matter in the long run, I feel a sense of peace and calm. I have not drafted a list of “must-haves” for my “special day” because life doesn’t happen in an orderly fashion, and I’d much rather go with the flow than adhere to a rigid schedule. Quite liberating for the likes of me!

The end result is that at the end of the day, I will be married to the person I love, and be able to share that moment with everyone who made the journey to share in our joy. That kind of thing doesn’t happen every day, and I want to savor each minute.

Lovely.

Staycation, all I ever wanted

It’s hot as blazes in California, and to top it off I don’t have air conditioning. Not too many places do, so I am on the prowl for local places to park with coffee (hot, but necessary) and a good book. Starbucks is a safe bet, as is the Whole Foods cafe. I’m considering riding my bike to Barnes and Noble, which is right on the bay, and flip through glossies and catch up on the latest celebrity gossip. 

I read an article this morning about the “Staycation,” and how with the rising cost of fuel, people are planning to stay local and explore their own surroundings, rather than jet (or drive) to exotic locales. Thankfully there is so much I haven’t had the opportunity to see yet, all within a 30 mile radius. 

Tonight Nick and I are going to see Death Cab for Cutie at the Greek Theater in Berkeley. I have enjoyed Death Cab since Seth Cohen “outed” them on the OC and have been curious about the Greek Theater, so this promises to be an enjoyable show.

I can totally deal with staycationing.

All you need is love

I recently returned from a trip to the Midwest, the primary occasion being two wedding showers given in my honor. Now, anyone who knows me is aware that I am not one for being the center of attention. One reason I have always been drawn to writing was that it did not require standing in front of a room full of people staring at me. Granted, my jobs have required various amounts of public speaking (especially teaching) but usually my on-stage presence is a means to an end, the function being to convey a point. 

Not to be “showered” with attention.

I must say, I was not as bothered by this as I thought I would be. Being surrounded by family and friends, many of whom have been a part of my life since the beginning, felt like an honor. My friend Megan (who is very, very pregnant) made a four-hour trek in not-so-nice weather to see me. My sister Maggie, who lives a busy (not to mention cash-strapped) life flew into town for the weekend to help me celebrate my upcoming wedding. It wasn’t about the gifts (though who doesn’t enjoying opening presents?), but rather, it was about love. The people closest to me as a single person were there to wish me well as I enter into a new phase of my life: a lifetime commitment to and partnership with my best friend. 

I tend to get nostalgic over the littlest thing, and was struck by the outpouring of support. Attending a wedding across the country requires planning and, in some cases, sacrifice. The fact that so many people plan on being a part of our special day makes me realize how lucky I have been throughout my life. My parents and siblings have presented an example of what it means to be a true family, and I am fortunate to have a model with which to pattern my own life. Life is not easy no matter how you look at it, but knowing you have people who love you unconditionally, in spite of your flaws and not-so-desirable qualities, is a gift, and one I know I am guilty of not always thanking my lucky stars for.

Sometimes you have to go back to where you came from to realize how far you’ve gone. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my family and friends who have been there in both the good times and the bad, and look forward to continuing on Life’s journey (please forgive the cliche) with their friendship and support.

Cheers!

Another reason to love meatloaf

This commercial cracks me up for a few reasons. One, quite naturally, is Meatloaf whoring out his infamous “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” to promote AT&T’s Go Phone. Two, the guy who plays the son in this video has the best expression on his face as he does a slight neck bob in reaction to Meatloaf’s “parenting”. Watch closely, and you’ll see what I mean.

You Tube is really coming into its own these days; you know you’ve hit it big-time when you make it into a Mariah Carey song.

Desperate Housewives saved me from being robbed

So, this evening N and I were watching the local news, when a story started to run that took place in our neighborhood. The subject was local robberies that have happened lately in Oakland restaurants. They showed footage of a restaurant being robbed. I immediately thought to myself, “Hmm, that looks familiar….” and sure enough, the video took place at the restaurant we ate dinner at with my parents on Sunday evening.

Imagine our surprise when they mentioned this event occurred on Sunday night! After a little internet research, I learned that the restaurant was held up at gunpoint by three men around 9:15 p.m. Because my mother and I wanted to see the new episode of Desperate Housewives at 9:00 p.m., we went to dinner early, and probably left around 8:00. We randomly picked this restaurant to celebrate my birthday at, based on N and I walking past it several times and each time remarking, “This place looks nice. We’ve got to check it out sometime.”

The food was quite tasty and the service friendly, the atmosphere itself on the sleek, urban side. This restaurant is in a good section of town and getting held up was the last thing I would have thought of as I stuck my fork into the tiramasu.

Thank goodness for the women of Wisteria Lane and a writer’s strike that made this episode even more unmissable.

Here’s a link to the actual news story.

Caravans and what not

One observation I’ve made since moving to California is that there are a lot of older cars on the road. For example, I’ve seen several of my old 1987 Toyota Cressida’s zipping around. There is no way in Hades that my car would have even made it past 2003, when I traded it in for a Honda Civic, and one reason I attribute to its unfortunate demise is that it endured about fifteen too many snowstorms. The elements, and all the salt and sand on the road during the winter, eats up cars, no matter how careful you are to take care of them. Since it doesn’t snow where I live, there is no salt to shorten car’s life spans. Hence, the reason I see my parents’ old-school Volkeswagon Vanagon on a daily basis:

I learned to drive on this car, and remember that I was a little embarrassed by it, for the very junior-high reason that it did not look like everyone else’s minivan. I believe we were the only ones at St. Cletus who drove one, and even though it had a ton more room than a Dodge Caravan, it looked so….unlike-everyone-else’s. Of course, in retrospect I really wish my parents still had this van, since it would be perfect for all of the outdoor adventures I currently enjoy (A grizzly is far less likely to attack me in the sweet comfort of a Vanagon, then, say, a flimsy North Face tent). Also do not need to worry about rain, or setting up your tent over a snake pit or beehive, when you can just push back the seats and drift into slumber.

Ah well. What can you do?

Here’s the Dodge Minivan I was talking about, the one that was every other car at the carpool drop off somewhere in the early nineties:

The wood paneling gives this car a rustic, down-home feel, and was perfect for carting bratty kids to and from soccer practice and swim lessons in the early nineties. When I see one of these now (again, much more frequently in California than Illinois) it takes me back to eighth grade, when my friends and I were walking home from school, and some high schoolers were driving by. They slowed down a little bit, laid on the horn, and lo and behold, in the wood-paneled minivan’s wake, was nothing other than a giant, bare ass shining its full moon on us. We started cracking up and began counting the days until graduation, when we were one step closer to high school, one step closer to our driver’s licenses.

Not to be forgotten in this nostalgic ode to all-things-van is the classic child-molester van, equipped with a ladder and if you were really lucky, a suspended mini-television (what does one do on the roof of one’s van?):

Riding in one of these bad-boys was the ultimate in comfort and luxury. Some friends from down the block had one, and when we got rides home from the pool, we always fought over the captain’s seat, that wonderful throne-of-a-chair that had the ability to swivel and be entirely removed from the vehicle, should the need arise to toss in a bunch of bikes or pinatas or anything else too large for a miniature version of the van. I see these quite often as well. Usually the back windows are draped with a blanket or t-shirt, the other windows of course tinted. What I wouldn’t give for a nice spin around town in one of these clubhouses-on-wheels.

Twenties fade-out

One month from today I will cross into the world of (wait for it, wait for it) Thirtysomethings.    Today I reflect on all the milestone birthdays thus far: ten, when I crossed into the world of double-digits; thirteen, when I was annoyingly referred to as a “teen” or “teenager” by adults; sixteen, when society entrusted me, based on the successful passing of a test, with the keys to “freedom”; seventeen, when I was legally allowed to watch “R” rated movies  and buy cigarettes; eighteen, when I was able to exercise my right to vote; twenty-one, when I was able to obtain a six-pack of Natural Light without fear of being written up by the college hall director.   These perhaps are the most noteworthy birthdays, though perhaps the only time I remember feeling truly “old” in the “I’m-not-a-kid-anymore-and-am-responsible-for-myself-and-the-trajectory-of-my-future” sense was when I turned the magical, if not mystical age of twenty-seven.Twenty-seven is the age when several musical geniuses passed away: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. It’s the age my mother was when she was pregnant with me, and perhaps because of that fact alone the reason twenty-seven felt so… pertinent.  In some ways I do feel as though I have been on this earth for nearly thirty years. Take the technology, for instance. The first video game I ever played was Pong, the first time I used e-mail was in college, the first cell phone I bought was in graduate school (and I was one of the few persons in my group of friends to have one). Progress happens fast, and if you don’t stop to savor the moments, they pass you by without a trace.  In spite of a few laugh lines from thirty years of smiling and squinting at the sun, I still look like I’m twenty and get carded when I buy a bottle of wine, the cashier still shakes her head and says “You sure don’t look like you were born in 1978.”  Maybe when I’m thirty I won’t mind this anymore.  

Can it be true

That Hillary won both Ohio and Texas? I’m a little surprised by this, but will refrain from any commentary, as it’s still so very early in the game. Will be sad to see Huckabee fade into the sunset with Chuck Norris, I must admit. Chuck Norris doesn’t sleep. He waits.Watch your back, y’all. 

one thing i do not miss

snow.

big ups to an early spring

Let the rain fall down!

Do you now have that Hillary Duff song in your head? Good. I do too, and it’s almost better than the song it replaced, which was the one you’ve probably heard at least five times in the past three hours if you 1) watch any television at all, and 2) listen to the radio. It goes like this: “I’m not gonna write you a love-song….” Followed by a lot of piano banging and stuff. Don’t get me wrong: I like the song. It just becomes a bit….much after hearing it every time I turn on an electronic object.

No matter. The rains are starting to infiltrate the Bay Area, and if the SFGate’s predictions are accurate, this will be “one whopper of a storm!” Does that mean malt-flavored Whoppers will fall down from the heavens? Unlikely. It does mean that now is as perfect a time as any to hunker down and watch a little Intervention and South Park On Demand, without feeling guilty for not enjoying the typically excellent weather.

South Park has been a favorite of mine since it first aired. I haven’t been as loyal to the show as I used to be (my college had cable and what better way to procrastinate than a little Eric Cartman and pals?) but every time I watch it I am appreciative of what Matt Stone and Trey Parker have done to the assessment of popular culture. No form of media can explain Scientology as succinctly as the infamous Tom Cruise locking himself in the closet episode. And Bigger, Longer and Uncut? Let’s just say, that was the first and last time I’ve ever gotten a cramp from laughing so hard in a movie theater.

Now, I know the show Intervention is morally wrong (how would you like it if camera crews followed you around that one time you got a little crazy at Daytona during spring break?) but somehow it’s entertaining to watch fellow Americans crash and burn. Mostly because, from the comfort of your own home, you don’t have to deal with the aftermath.

Sounds awful, but how do you explain the reality tv phenomenon? Face it: human beings like watching train wrecks, as long as they aren’t involved, and their family and friends aren’t involved. It’s really quite primitive and downright sick, when you think about it.

And yet…It sucks us into the vortex of all- that- is- wrong- with- the- world.

(Afterthought: Upon writing this entry, my Catholic guilt creeped up and instead of watching Intervention I opted for Yo Gabba Gabba, my niece Lucy’s favorite show. I can understand why, as what’s not to love about a cute, portly, pepto-bismal-pink creature named Foofa? Not to mention, every episode includes a psychedelic dance montage that puts Jesus Christ Superstar to shame.)

Hugs are fun! Hugs are fun!