John and I are back from a short vacation in Hawaii. We went with our friends J&J, who also accompanied us on our trip to Chicago in February. In six days, we hit the Big Island and Kauai. Many of my coworkers expressed disbelief that a vacation to paradise could be made so short, but frankly, 3 out of 4 of us are Type A, and I have to say, six days on Island Time is plenty.

Let’s start at the beginning: a rocky start indeed. Why? Because on the 5.5-hr flight, there were FIVE kids evenly distributed in our row and the row behind. And they were little kids– the kinds who don’t yet know what it means to behave: noisy, screaming, crying, irritable mother fuckers. Normally, I sleep on planes, and given that we had arisen at the butt-crack of dawn (4:30 a.m.) to catch this flight, I was banking on those precious 5+ hours. But no. No such luck. I said goodbye to my zzz’s as soon as I approached my row and saw the rugrats. Why do people with noisy kids travel in public vehicles? Don’t they have to be confined to a mini-van or something? I have low tolerance for kids, especially noisy, ill-behaved ones. After all, I used to be one, and I know firsthand, there should be no mercy for my kind.

Despite the stressful start to our vacation, we ended up salvaging a pretty good time…

First though, the bad. I’ve really developed an affinity for cities and urban areas, and well, Hawaii was pretty much the opposite of that. Both islands only seemed to have one or two main roads, and the max speed limit was like 45 mph. Everything just felt slow, and I know, I was on vacation, so really there wasn’t a reason to move quickly except that that’s just how I kinda operate. On top of that, our friends themselves are quite the go-getters. I mean, they run marathons and triathlons and the like, so you know their pace is way beyond island time. Fortunately, besides the slow pace, Hawaii was a welcoming destination. The weather, albeit a little inconsistent, was never horrendous, and I quite enjoyed leaving the house in shorts and a tee. Even when it misted, the rain and air were warm. And my goodness, when the sun was out, boy did it pack some heat. I was with the three whitest people on earth (practically!), and in a matter of just minutes, their fair skin turned bright red. Me? I roasted to a toasty brown. Too bad the tan’s not going to stick around, because I love being dark. Makes me feel like I could actually pass for being Native American mix. 🙂

We had a very full six days. One of our early discoveries? The pineapple corer. Don’t let the simple design and plastic material deceive you: that device is fucking genius. We were shucking these spiny, prickly babies in just minutes. And my god. Fresh, ripe pineapple is so delicious. The Chinese insist that it’s a “fire” food that causes your body and skin to inflame, so it should only be eaten in moderation. But whatever, I was on vacation and that shit was divine. I need to get me a corer just so I can continue my fascination with this brilliant invention.

We really enjoyed the food in Hawaii. The fish, and poke in particular, was so fresh. And like the Far East Asians, the Hawaiians love taro. One famed bakery had this doughy, taro sweet bread. We devoured that loaf in no time. We also had these delightful skinny pina coladas + lavender at 22 North in Lihue. Such an enjoyable meal with friends. Then on one of our last days, we consumed a wonderfully moist and light coconut cake. Pretty much, lots of foods with pineapple and coconut. So tropical.

In terms of attractions, we encountered sea turtles on the Black Sand Beaches. We got our feet wet at the Kopoho Tide Pools. We hiked 7 miles in Volcano National Park– not particularly pretty but the geology is certainly unique. Unfortunately, there was no visible lava flowing anywhere on the island. In Hilo, we hit the Mauna Loa macadamia nut factory, where the self-guided tour was totally lame, but that didn’t stop us from buying/consuming a shitload of chocolate-covered macadamia treats. The Pana’ewa Zoo was an unexpected stopover, but it was very nicely done. Then, we also hit the Tropical Botanical Garden, which was massive and very impressive. We spent a fair amount of time in the car shuttling around from one place to the other… consequently, I often felt sleepy. 🙂

In Kauai, the weather was much sunnier. We caught the sunset and sunrise at Poipu Beach; we saw more sea turtles; we attempted snorkeling (apparently as I have aged, I’ve developed acrophobia, claustrophobia, and hydrophobia– not good for snorkeling with a foggy mask during high tide); we went to Waimea Canyon (my favorite), and the list goes on (seriously). Still spent a lot of time in the car driving to dry caves, other beaches, closed bakeries (inside joke), etc. but hey, we did walk four miles one night for groceries, so I got my exercise in.

Btw, I’m convinced that my feet are deformed. I swear I wore comfy shoes, and I still got crazy blisters on my left pinky toe. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Spain, but damnit, I came pretty damn close to amputating that fucking lame appendage. Seriously, I should be able to hike 7 miles one day and walk 4 miles another day without having a big bubble toe. At night, I would pop the bubble with a toothpick, but invariably, by morning that shit would be puffy again. TMI? Tough shit.

I didn’t rest so well on Kauai either. Why? Because there were feral chickens all over the damn island, and they started squawking every morning at about 4-5 a.m. Yup. I’m usually anti-violence, especially with animals, but I swear, had I had a baseball bat, one morning I would have easily clocked a couple of those buggers out. Enough is enough!

Long story short, we had a fun time. Hawaii wasn’t as pretty as I had remembered– still very pretty, but I guess I had insane expectations. Regardless, we had a fun time hanging with our buds and we are happy to be back home with the pups.

Interestingly, Martin welcomed us home that first night by laying a massive double-fisted dollop of turd in the kitchen. Our dogs are fully housebroken– they haven’t done something like this in like 10+ years! But I guess Marty got stopped up. He can be a bit particular about where and when he takes a dump. So, I awoke around 2 a.m. with him pacing around the bed. I opened the kitchen door as he hurried outside, but I guess the damage had already been done. Not cool, Martin Lawrence, not cool.

John recently read a WSJ article claiming that fewer than 3% of all adults can truly get by on just 5-6 hours of sleep every night. For some odd reason, after I learned about this study, I started going to bed a few hours earlier than my usual time. It was a weird thing. Nine-thirty, ten o’clock would roll around, and I would just want to go to bed. Maybe it’s the still erratic weather (one day warm, one day cold, one day wet, one day dry…)? I don’t know. I found myself having INSANE dreams, often about past crushes (??). Then, 7 a.m. would roll around, and I was ready to wake. Nine to ten hours of sleep a night? Exorbitant, isn’t it? Yeah, it feels ridiculous. I won’t make a habit of it, but I suppose it was fun to try for a week. No big changes. In fact, I probably feel more lethargic the more I sleep. Who knows how that biorhythm stuff works.

In other news, things with the hubster are going well. Couples therapy shifted into individual therapy, on the suggestion of the counselor, so we’ll see how that progresses. We’re getting ready to go on a big trip with some friends. Just a short getaway, but I’m very excited to get my heat on. After that, we’re approaching our 8th wedding anniversary, and we’re going to celebrate with a visit to a fav city of ours from about ten years ago.

Btw, people often tell me, “I can’t believe you wrote that in your blog. I hope so-and-so doesn’t read what you wrote about her.” Well, welcome to my world, where I write what I want to write, and I say what I want to say. Hell, I don’t care if my friend reads my post– she already knows what I’ve written in it, because I’ve told her (well except for that ONE incident a couple years ago around my birthday). Yeah, maybe this should just be a private diary. Maybe, but the way I see it, this is MY blog. I set the parameters, and for me, there is no shame in the truth. And if these words make you cringe, you can stop reading.

It HAS been a very difficult last four years for my relationship, but I’m not ashamed of the challenges. John and I are just two people who fell in love a long time ago, and who embarked together on this journey of life. Depression, unhappiness, frustration, annoyance are not feelings that only we experience. As far as I know, these conditions are, unfortunately, more commonplace than people tend to admit. The bottom line is, our relationship ebbs and flows, and I speak openly and honestly without apology.

Every time I travel alone, I get into a funk. I always start off excited and optimistic, anticipating the independence and liberation and freedom of solo travel, but pretty much just minutes into the trip, I start listening to tunes, and my mind wanders off to all sad thoughts.

For months, I’ve been looking forward to this trip. The original purpose was to attend a nonprofit tech conference, which I attend every year in different cities across the country, but since the event this year was in DC, I also made plans to combine a host of other things— visiting my family, hanging with my college buds, and checking in on our townhouse in Virginia. Yes, I thrive on multitasking and keeping a busy schedule— it makes me feel alive.

Earlier John had mentioned possibly joining me for the trip, but I wanted to just do my own thing. I had planned to stay with my Duke roommie, and frankly, this was going to be an opportunity to be nostalgic, reconnect, and just hang. Plus at the time that I had made the plans, I actually wanted a break from the relationship— not a hall pass or anything, but just a respite from having to deal with another person.

This past week was very emotional. The weekend prior, John felt depressed again for no identifiable reason. Then through a series of small incidents, I grew disappointed, frustrated, and also depressed. Sunday was spent mostly in bed. I tried to cheer myself up on Monday night by doing a DIY project. On Tuesday, I made a mental note to celebrate International Women’s Day.

Tuesday morning started off pretty ordinarily. I was running late to work and I asked him to tie my new bracelet. After hemming and hawing over how to tie the knot, I lost patience, said just forget it, and stormed off to work. When I got to work, I started drafting an email apologizing for flipping out about the bracelet. And then I realized this wasn’t about the fucking bracelet. I was tired and exhausted from having to be and do so many things all the time and for so damn long. For years, I had researched resources, trying to find solutions to his depression— searching desperately for ways to make him happy. This was about me realizing that I no longer enjoyed spending time with him. I no longer had a best friend. What had happened to the joy he used to bring? Was this simply the inevitable aging of a relationship? Fatigue, annoyance, frustration?

I thought about the happy days. Were they insincere? Fake? How long ago were they? And then I just lost it. Right there in my cubicle with an outburst of sobbing (the magnitude of which had previously been elicited only by Marcus in About a Boy and Noah and Allie in The Notebook). On hearing the commotion, my coworkers rushed to my cube. Was it Remy? I knew this was a breaking point.

For years, I had tried the “project management” approach to his depression. I had researched resources, read stories, gathered data of other peoples’ experiences, tried individual therapy, couples therapy… nothing helped, and people suggested that I was possibly pushing him too hard. That he needed to reach a place on his own, with his own schedule. So I stepped back. I didn’t ask for a time line, I just waited. And to occupy myself during the wait, I focused on elements that only I could control— hobbies, activities, solo trips to visit friends, work, exercise, my hair, my skin, etc. These focal points brought me happiness, and I enjoyed learning new skills, but I also noticed a growing distance. Slowly, I stopped wanting to spend time with him; I didn’t want to ask him to do things just to hear him express disinterest or ambivalence, so I essentially turned to others to fill the void of losing my best friend.

In response to my meltdown email, John apologized and admitted that he hadn’t realized how much this situation had worn me down. And almost immediately, he started to step up the game, tackling all sorts of things that had languished on the to do list.

Meanwhile this week I scheduled an appointment to resume therapy. I learned a lot of things from my session on Thursday. First, the therapist acknowledged the “tremendous patience” I had demonstrated living with a depressed person for so long (almost 4 years). And then she said that even though I thought I was doing the right thing by doing my own activities and by letting him try to work things out on his own schedule, I had in fact denied/neglected my own needs for the relationship. And without knowing, perhaps I had enabled the depression by giving it more space. Wow. Seriously, how is anyone supposed to know the “right” approach? Fucking A.

Leaving for my DC trip today, I felt pretty good. I was seeing changes in his behavior and attitude. In addition, he had agreed to participate in couples counseling, and I was feeling optimistic that things were going to be fine. And then, as I boarded the plane, John sent me a text message. His best friend from college was dead. WHAT??

Here was a guy who had grown up with privilege. I didn’t hold it against him (after all, who am I?). He was a dreamer/idealist/iconoclast of sorts– even though our personalities clashed in many ways, I could identify with his never-ending search for something (happiness perhaps). He might have been physically lazy, but his mind was always thinking about the next thing— a business venture, a new exercise plan, SOMEthing. And over the years, I came to see that his conversations with John were stimulating in ways different from our own conversations. Eventually, I had forgiven him for past transgressions, bad decisions, and foolish behaviors. Maybe he wasn’t a “bad” person after all.

In the last several years, John told me he had gotten into drugs and alcohol. I couldn’t understand the self-destructive behavior, the squandering of love and opportunity from those around him. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. And now he’s dead. The details are unclear. Maybe I’m drawing conclusions.

Goddamn, mortality is so freaking depressing. I think of people I know who are currently battling advanced stages of cancer. What is it like to feel the finiteness of life? I spend so much time keeping busy, filling my time slots with activities… what’s it like to realize that those calendar slots are limited? How would I fill them differently? Am I living my life as I should? People always say that in the face of death, they realize there are so many things they would have done differently. Is that difference only elicited when faced with the unexpected/untimely end, or is that new style of living supposed to be implemented “as if” life were to end sooner than later? Ugh, it’s all just too much. I feel anxious and unsettled.

What is important in this life? And is their importance constant or variable based on all the other conditions? I don’t honestly know. My guess is that the answer is somewhere in between, in the gray area. I love the color gray, but Jesus, I hate gray areas in life. I really do. My brain just doesn’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to juggle opposing ideas/situations/thoughts. It’s so damn chaotic.

So now I am thinking about his friend again. I used to think he was a bad person, because he asked so much of the people around him. He never seemed to give back. But over time, I saw that he offered something to everyone around him. Maybe it wasn’t a balanced friendship, but he provoked thought, he was unconventional, and in many ways, he was unafraid. I feel so sad. Sad that he was so troubled for so long. I feel sad for his parents who never gave up trying. I feel angry— why couldn’t he find happiness with all the resources he had around him? Why didn’t he convert everyone’s love and good intention into something positive?

Substance abuse. I’ve lived a life very sheltered from such demons; I don’t really see it or hang with people who blatantly abuse. And yet, I know people who have fallen into that rut: I have heard about the feelings of betrayal, of frustration…

Is it fair to blame people for not getting better? Why do I feel a need to place blame somewhere and on someone? How do we protect against abuse? Argh. Some say it’s genetic, chemical, biological. Does that mean we should demonstrate more leniency? More patience? Admit defeat and give up? Can we demand that the person override what may possibly be intrinsic to his/her DNA? Is that just an excuse? I just want people I care about to be happy and safe and healthy. Why does that sometimes feel like asking the impossible?

He died too young. I had been rooting for him too. I thought that one day in the near future, we would hear good news from him. I didn’t want this to be the end, and honestly, even though death is always a possibility, I had never fully considered it a viable outcome. I wonder if his parents will eventually find relief from his death. Is it better to watch helplessly as someone you love self destructs, or is it better to have ongoing pain and frustration end but to suffer grief from loss? People say the human spirit is remarkably resilient. After enduring unspeakable pain, it can still remember and recall hope and promise and love and joy.

My honey turned 35 yesterday. The new age feels subtle and yet provocative. At first, it’s like, “ah yeah, we’re just continuing down our 30-somethings paths,” but reflecting on it more, this midpoint of the decade somehow feels like a milestone… and I’m not even the one who’s 35.

John was away for several days last week– he’d returned home to Maryland to visit with the parentals. He came back with a renewed sense of vigor, prompted in part, by witnessing his parents’ lifestyle. It got me thinking again about change– people who welcome and embrace it and people who are either incapable or are resistant. Life can be so random… no matter how good you get at preparing/predicting/anticipating what’s coming down the line, wacky curves, bumps, and obstacles can still arise, and either you’re nimble, or life slowly beats you down.

I had a long conversation recently with my parents. One of their closest friends– the wife– is extremely ill. Our two families grew up together. They had two kids, we had two kids. We went to Disney together, did family trips and such. Several months ago, doctors thought her facial shift was attributed to Bell’s Palsy. A few weeks ago, her condition was diagnosed as stage 4 lung cancer. My parents saw her two months ago before their trip to Taiwan. When they returned, things had completely changed.

On learning the news, I couldn’t contain my anger and frustration: why hadn’t the doctors detected this? (Growing up with a physician father, I NEVER question the competency/judgement of doctors). But these are our family friends– not some random, unfortunate medical story received through hearsay. Wtf? My father tried to explain that the signs for this disease rarely appear before the late stages…

Since our conversation, I’ve been thinking everyday about our friends, hoping things are getting better. In the meantime, I am reminded to take each day as it comes, to feel grateful for the love and support of my family and my friends. I don’t want to dwell on petty things. I can distract myself with frivolous matters for entertainment and for laughter, but I want to stay grounded. I want to delineate clearly what is important.

Over the last several years, I’ve noticed a quiet change in my father: perhaps an unmentioned realization that maybe life isn’t all about working your ass off, about proving your “rightness” over someone else’s “wrongness.” My father has become much more muted in his comments, in his “advice.” He doesn’t fight or argue anymore. The blood doesn’t boil like it used to. I almost liken it to what my instructor told us at the self-defense class: don’t waste your energy fighting and yelling and screaming. Wait to get into the right position, and then when you finally make the move, don’t hold anything back. I suppose my father no longer sweats the little things. It’s a perspective I also need to adopt and practice.

That’s not to say that his brain ever stops churning: he never ceases observing and evaluating. Even if he is more silent and more subdued than his former self, he’s always thinking about how to optimize. Witnessing the declining health of several friends and colleagues, he now prioritizes his health with renewed motivation. He’s watching his diet, he’s walking, he’s staying mentally active while keeping the negative energy in check. He tells me he wants to live for a long time. I’m comforted and relieved to know that he’ll do everything he can to meet that objective. Life might still present the unexpected, but at least he’s proactive about his aim. My mother, on the other hand, lacks the motivation. She wants the same things, but she doesn’t seem pushed to the same extent. Why is that? I don’t know. It’s a constant mystery to me what motivates people: personal experiences? books? movies? My father says he will keep trying to encourage her.

I’ve learned a lot watching my father. It’s not that there aren’t shortcomings, but his strengths really do inspire me to do better.

Last Friday, John and I did something we hadn’t done in a long, long time: we traveled to a new city. I’ve never really considered us jetsetters or anything, but I used to identify myself as someone who enjoyed traveling. But after we acquired Laura last May, we just stopped. Maybe it was a natural progression—buying a home turned on the nesting juices; maybe I just got burned out with all the home remodeling and lost the energy to travel; maybe I felt like completion of the construction necessitated a period of staying put, as appreciation and recognition for getting the job done. Whatever the reason, I started feeling stagnant—being a homebody wouldn’t have been so bad except there were no game nights, no hosted dinners, no anything.

Thankfully the new year has given me a swift kick in the ass, and now I feel ready to pick up where we’d left off. In early Fall, I’d received news that Les Mis– the musical that had ended its US run a couple years back, was touring again for its 25th anniversary. Yes, that’s what took us this last weekend to Chicago. Since my friend Joe is also a Les Mis fanatic, and Chicago was also on his and Jess’ list of new cities to explore, what better time to visit the Windy City than the dead of winter, right?

Actually, we lucked out. The prior week, Chicago had been pummeled with a massive, record-breaking blizzard. Amazingly, for the two days we were there, the weather was nice and warm and sunny. We couldn’t have asked for anything better. Chicago was such a cool place—we walked everywhere and checked out so many places—the Field Museum, John Hancock Observatory, Millennium Park, Culture Center, etc…

The city was so large—its expanse reminded me of a lot of NYC but fortunately, without the attitude, high maintenance peeps, and dinginess. The only half-downside was the food—super tasty but super unhealthy and fatty. Yup, another few days there and my Tracy Anderson program would have been thrown off the table completely.
Also, this was our first time on a true destination vacation with J & J, and it worked out beautifully. Super chill, no drama, no annoyances. Yay.

My take aways from the trip?

• I can handle cold weather destinations so long as I’m prepared (nearly always the case!).
• My waterproof Timberland boots continue to rock. They take me all kinds of distance in all sorts of environments.
• I’m going to give Les Mis a rest. Yes, I have to say, the original style remains the best, and I was honestly a little bummed by the contemporary tweaks… it’s ok, I still enjoyed the production and I still cried like a sissy but I’m realizing that there are plenty of other musicals to see. Next up? Billy Elliot and Miss Saigon (repeat).

In other news, I have my second singing class tomorrow. I’ve been practicing the exercises (albeit not every day as suggested), but I’m still skeptical how the teacher is going to take this shit voice of mine to the next level… I’ve also been scrolling through my ipod in search of a song to sing for the recital. I probably know Les Mis the best, but a musical of that caliber seems a pretty lofty goal for a newbie like me, so maybe something more modern? Fuck, I don’t know. At this point, nothing seems doable. Any ideas? Sara Bareilles, Fiona Apple, Dido, Ingrid Michaelson, Madonna??? Ugh, maybe teacher will have some thoughts.

I just realized that the title of this post can be read two different ways, with visiting as a verb or as a participle. I know, I’m a dork. The new year’s been a busy one so far. After my mid-January trip to LGB to visit Pamela, I had a weekend to chill and then my friend Nathalie came for a visit. She had never been to the SF Bay area, so the touristy thing was in order. I really kinda hate doing touristy things (she knows this), but I tried to be reasonable to a Bay Area newbie. Playing host just kinda stresses me out– having to plan transportation, scheduling, meals, etc… for like five full days. Even when my parents visit, I get stressed taking them places. Luckily since my parents have been to the area three times already, I already developed a list of ideas. But with Nathalie, we had kind of lost touch on and off over the last two years, so even though we were close friends from way back (middle and high school), I just wasn’t sure what she’d be up for. Ahead of her arrival, I sent her the list, and she narrowed down a few items, but unfortunately, when she arrived, her knee had been hurting (she had a bad fall at work followed by surgery last year), so that kind of limited things to do. But it was good reconnecting and catching up. Still, I was really pooped afterwards (I am a true introvert!). Socializing with others exhausts me, even if I’m having fun. I just don’t take well to constant contact (John’s probably the only person I can hang around for longer than a few days without getting too irritable, and even he can only last a few days beyond that… :)).

Anyway, Nathalie and I did a lot in five days… we walked around Monterey, hit up the Gilroy outlets, rode the Roaring Camp train through the redwoods in Santa Cruz, picnicked at a local winery, caught a movie, sang karaoke (twice!), ate some yummy sushi, Thai, cooked at home, and ventured into the SF to ride the cable cars and eat some clam chowder along Fisherman’s Wharf. The bummer of the visit? While in SF, I got lost and made an illegal u-turn. Yup, sucks, especially now that my clean record (since 2003) is marred. I feel like I just ruined my perfect attendance record at school. Oh well, at least no one was injured.

Since the visit, I’ve been getting back up to speed at work and also getting into my latest OCD activity: I’m trying the Tracy Anderson Method. Yup, why not. I’ve always wanted a dancer’s body, so this time, we’ll see what something like that takes. (Damn you, Black Swan. Natalie Portman made me feel like such a sloth!) The Tracy videos are not easy (lots of pain and burning), but I’ve done 2 days and already I can feel a difference (maybe it’s just wishful thinking).

Today I am crazy sore… I think it’s because I did Tracy Anderson Friday night and then kickboxing Saturday morning and trampolining Saturday night? I dunno, everything just hurts. Hopefully today’s day of rest will suffice and tomorrow I’ll be back and ready. Fingers crossed.

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First month into the new year, and I’m already creating a new version of me. Last time I wrote, I was pissed and angry and well, disgruntled. My weekend getaway in Long Beach turned out to be just the antidote I needed. Hanging with Pamela is like wearing pajamas– it’s just so easy, so comfortable, so great. We hit the ground running the night I flew in. Hit the supermarket on the way from the airport to her home (gotta squeeze in those errands!), hung a bit with her hubby, and then we headed out to a nightclub. Yup, totally anti-me, but what the heck? She wanted me to meet her friends and well, they wanted to go to a gay dance club. Let’s just say, the experience was majorly traumatic. I saw all kinds of crazy bumpin’ and grindin’. This was like ten times worse than watching Jersey Shore. And people wear the skankiest stuff and bust out the trashiest moves! Seriously, do I need to see you doing doggie-style on the dance floor???

I don’t dance, so I just sat at the table observing all this in utter horror. Fortunately, in my old age, I’ve grown more tolerant of uncomfortable environments. Had I gone to a dance club a year or two back, I would have been stressed out about being the one lame person sitting at the table not participating. But now that I’m mid-30s, it doesn’t bother me that much. They can go do their thing, and I’ll just watch (while maintaining composure) and just count down the minutes until the misery is over. In the older version of me, I probably would have gotten upset at Pamela too for subjecting me to this, but you know what? She’s had a rough year, and heck, the girl loves to dance. She should get her 2-3 hours of fun.

Btw, a woman tried to talk to me– she complimented me on my blazer, but then I responded in the most idiotic manner: “Oh thanks, it’s my mom’s.” I know, totally moronic, and if I were interested in someone and she responded with that? Loser! Ah well, it’s no surprise that I’m a dork. Just laugh with me AT me. See, while everyone was partying it up, my phone went off with an alarm for my calendar event: saline nasal rinse. Yup, that’s how fucking cool I am.

The next day, we had breakfast at an awesome little French cafe. I had a waffle Folle– a waffle with fresh fruit + Nutella. I’m telling you, that chocolate hazelnut spread is like my version of crack. It goes on everything, and I crave that shit every damn day. Maybe that’s why the pounds aren’t shedding despite 90 minutes of hot yoga three times a week. Whatever.

So yeah, breakfast was delish. Then we walked in the sunshine (85 degrees!!), got pedicures, walked around some more. Finished the day off with three games of bowling. So much fun. Turns out, her hubster grew up bowling with his dad and grandfather– played on the league and everything. I always love it when people reconnect with their childhood hobbies.

The final day (yes, I was only there two days), we hit Rancho Palos Verdes along the coast. Did a good bit of hiking in my ballet flats, of all things. But god, it was beautiful. Mind you, Pamela and I talked the entire time. Yup, we can talk forever.

After the hike, we went for the hard stuff: Blue Valentine. The movie was well done, but to my surprise, I hardly cried. And I found myself sympathizing with the husband. Argh! I sided with him, and so did Pamela. After I got home, I read a ton more reviews, and all the critics kept saying how you could see BOTH sides, and some even sympathized more with the wife. Wth? I always want to side with the woman, and yet this time… I didn’t see it. Did I not pick up on the subtleties? Ugh. I will have to watch it again. Sometimes I’m so clueless.

Since my return home from Long Beach, things have been better. John is really trying to be pro-active. He’s taking a stress reduction/meditation class, and he practices every day. He registered for a gardening class. He’s been trying all kinds of new recipes (again, thwarting all my hot yoga work), and he’s taking care of other house-related items– repairs, yard work. It’s a pleasant and welcome change.

I am back into my activities. Lots of shopping going on– online and otherwise. The sales are pretty good right now as stores make room for spring items. The usual suspects: BR, Target, Loft.

Tomorrow I have my self-defense class. Mind you, it’s just a one-timer for two hours, but I’ve always wanted to see what that’s about. I think I’ll learn something. Tuesday I’m taking a photography class– again a onesie for two hours. I guess I’m very noncommittal, except with voice lessons. Those start up next month and run for 16 weeks. I got a lot riding on these lessons, that’s for sure! 🙂

My yoga membership expires later this week, and I think I’m going to really try for my dancer’s body dream. Yesterday, I must have watched 15 clips with Tracy Anderson. I want to believe. I feel like yoga bulked up my shoulders/arms again. Maybe I’m paranoid but I dunno: I see what I see. I’m fascinated by Tracy’s lean and cut (yet tiny) body. Her boot camp in NYC is 3 hrs/day for 2 weeks. Sure, it’s THREE hours/day, but 2 weeks is practically no time! Obviously, I’m not doing the boot camp, but I might try some of her exercises and then hope for the best. 🙂 Guess that means I’m not really THAT dedicated. Just happy to change things up.

Version 3.0 is coming soon– maybe in the next quarter of 2011. I know, I’m going to have to curb the Nutella habit. 🙁