On the Way to Cape May

Well over a week ago we went to the beach. Cape May to be exact. I am just getting around to posting about it because that is the kind of blogger I am these days.I am doing it though. So there ya go.

Cute little streets in Cape May.

Husband has been working nights lately, and staying over in New Jersey, leaving me terribly lonely after work. For a few days it was magical alone time that used to paint my toenails and watch girly movies and not make dinner but now it just sucks to go to bed by myself. The cat does not kiss me good night, the little bastard.

Sunbathing movie stars.

As with all things there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s almost over, he says. I will ignore that he has said this for the past three weeks. Am I going to be a work widow? And so young…

Instead of wallowing in it I have been working on this thing called the Happy Project. I haven’t gotten very far in the book, really. I stopped somewhere around chapter fivish when she started yapping about her children but I do intend to finish the it. Regardless I have taken some good things from it, mainly that negative emotions are an indication that our thoughts are becoming dysfunctional and disrupting us from our natural state of happiness. Or maybe that was another book.

NOT my ass.

I got my Twelve Commandments from the Happy Project, that’s right.

But I have been focusing on starting my day pleasantly because I realized that there are going to be enough shitty, negative things that happen throughout the day that if I start low I will only go lower. So I come into work with a smile on my face, a chipper attitude and a song. Literally, singing picks me up and I do it all the time. No one really complains (not to my face anyway).

We got upgraded to a suite! 

Little known fact: Singing – as well as humming and whistling – trip endorphins in your brain that make you happy. (These are the same endorphins that are tripped by marijuana, chocolate and kissing.) Naturally people who sing or whistle tend to be happier people, but it works in reverse too. Singing can get literally turn that frown upside down.

I totally manifested this drive-in theatre. I was thinking about how much Husband needed to go to one and then, like magic, the billboard for it came out of nowhere. It turned out to be just a few minutes from our hotel!

For the most part it seems to be working, and I have had to put it to the test. Aside from Husband being gone so much I have been face with a couple of meanies at work and it has taken a lot of energy to just not care. I realize that caring about what they whisper to each other about me is giving into their unnecessary drama but the little girl in me just wants everyone to like me.

When I was in the first grade two girls at the lunch table started whispering about me. Right in front of me, they did the whole whisper and side glance thing. I demanded that they stop talking about me “or else”.

“I’ll put this peanut butter sandwich in your hair,” I said.

They did not stop talking about me. I put peanut butter in her hair. That was one of only two times I ever went to the principal’s office.

Let's go out to the kitchen...

Another time, around third grade, a group of boys that I surely wanted the attention of gave it to me in the form of hawking loogies on me. On me. That particular day I was wearing a new sweatshirt that I liked very much. I think it had kittens on it. The presence of loogies on my lovely new clothes was quite traumatizing to me.

From the best seats in the house. The car seats.

Obviously because twenty some odd years later knowing that there are girls whispering about me still makes me want to cry. But I’ve been doing very well, I think. I have not enrolled in their mean game. Instead I sing. (I do not, however, smoke the marijuana weed or kiss at work. I can think of more than a few people who would be upset with that.) Their petty games shall remain their petty games.

And there you go. A post about Cape May. 

A Lady Bits Update

I just did the math. It has been eight months since I started seeing the Dr. of Vaginas. I have several other blogs in the queue at the moment but I have decided that my VVS readers need an update. Sooo, heads up Uncle and Auntie. You may want to stop reading.

I have had excessive vaginal pain for two years now. TWO. WHOLE. YEARS. That is very nearly the entirety of Husband and I’s relationship. I know a woman who knows a woman who is forty and has never had sex in her life. Ever. I guess that puts my vulvar pain in perspective, but it really doesn’t make it suck and less. Sex is, and always has been, incredibly important to me. I love it and I need it. Without it – with this pain – I feel like a part of my person as a whole is broken. Regaining it, little by little, has been like rediscovering my sexuality.

I don’t know how to do it anymore. I don’t know what pleases me and I don’t know how to please without hurting. I feel like a child. A very uncomfortable child.

Over the last eight months the Doctor of Vaginas and I have seen each other four times. Her first course of therapy didn’t work. The cream and the valium suppository only somewhat eased the pain. Somewhat is not enough. I was having pain sitting and tight pants were too much to bear. As soon as I can I switched onto Cymbalta.

It’s a magical drug, Cymbalta. In addition to working really well on my depression, my vagina almost immediately felt better. Like, eighty percent better. Like, I can have sex again better. Just to test it, I stopped taking the cream and suppository to see if it the drug alone was working or if it was a combination thing.

I thought my doctor would be pissed but at the next visit she was actually happy to hear that I was proactively testing the waters. Doing this had narrowed things down. Cymbalta worked miracles for the vestibulitis but did nothing for my pelvic floor. We had found the soft spot, so to speak, and that was a big step.

Our next course of action would be physical therapy. The pelvic floor muscles, apparently, are attached to all the other muscles in your lower body. Should any of the surrounding muscles suffer trauma that pain can be deflected into the pelvic floor. This is logical, if you really think about it but I had never given it one thought in my whole life. Things in the body are connected? Crazy!

After several months of trying to find a physical therapist who performs pelvic floor elongation and is also covered by my insurance I finally had my first appointment yesterday. Despite knowing that pelvic floor elongation is essentially being massaged from the inside – and HOW AWKWARD IS THAT? – I was not nervous. At this point in my life I am not shy about my lady parts. They are doctors, they have seen worse and really, I can’t afford to be shy if I want to get better. This isn’t a secret in my life. I write about it here, after all.

Oddly enough it was the relatively-new-to-this-treatment-therapist who turned out to be shy, quickly covering me with the white sheet when I lifted my legs for her to begin. I think she may have blushed and naturally I felt embarrassed that I flashed my vag at someone who didn’t want to see it but she was about to get very intimate with me so we all just moved on. The process wasn’t nearly as weird as I thought it would be. She worked from the inside but also located points in my inner thigh that connect and are tender – places I would never have considered needed work.

I will go back every week for awhile. I am also using a vaginal dilator (which is a fancy word for a medical dildo – comes in all sizes!) four times a week to help make me “strong and long” as the Doctor of Vaginas put it, along with continuing the valium suppositories as needed. I have no idea how long it will take to make this thing finally go away.

I realize how lucky I am, on so many levels. Some people never get relief. Some people don’t have insurance and some people who do have insurance are not covered to go to the fancy Doctor of Vaginas (who runs a pretty penny per visit, not to mention ridiculously expensive testing). Some people don’t have incredibly patient boyfriends or husbands standing by just wishing they could have normal sex but never saying one word of criticism. I am infinitely lucky and I do not take it for granted.

I am also brave, though, and relentless. I am not afraid of trying anything and everything and I refuse to give up. Not on this.

I remember one time Husband shared with me that he was worried that I would give up if it got too hard. “You have given up on a lot of other things, what if that happens with this?” To which I replied that would never happen.Not with this. It was too important for us – for me. I don’t give up on things I really care about, I chase after them in a dead run until I get them in my grasp. It gives me hope. And if we don’t have hope we have nothing at all.

Alien Invasion

I have gotten to the age where many of the people I know are having babies. I am not having a baby – other people are. A lot are getting married as well, but most are past that, moving on to the kicking, crying, screaming, covered in poo phase of their lives. I don’t (yet) envy them.

Once, when I was commenting on how all the people I knew were getting married and having kids, my mother said “Well, when you get to my age they all start getting sick and dying.” So, there’s that.

I don’t mind other people having babies. I think it’s really exciting. I love touching bellies (but I always ask permission first) and I am fascinated thinking about how there is a real live human being in there, curled up like a ball and covered in slime. Weird. I even like holding babies. At the last picnic I attended I was given permission to hold an 18 month old boy who giggled every single time I booped his nose. It was beyond precious. Then he cried and I gave him back to his father.

But there is a problem with all this getting married and having babies stuff that is going on, and it is the gifts. OH, THE GIFTS. Wedding gifts are somehow easy, assuming you know the couple. And if you don’t money is always welcome. But just what the hell do you get for a couple who is about to have their life turned upside down? Should you get something for the parents themselves (because god knows they’re about to deserve it) or do you shop for the baby – an unborn creature with a yet to be known personality and sometimes without a sex? Do you shop for immediacy and function, or do you shop for aesthetic and originality because everyone else is shopping for those other boring things. “You can never have too many onesies and burp clothes.”

In the five months I have five births coming up – two in my office, two in my circle of friends and one that will be my new nephew. I want to get them all something. I have perused registries and etsy and pinterest and I have come up with a few ideas. One person had this on their registry

Which I almost bought strictly due to the name. (They got one already, anyhow.)

And of course there is the ever popular and often hideous diaper cake.

Yes, they can be cute, but MEH.

For my sister’s last baby I bought her a thermal bottle holder/tote bag but she found only part of it useful. I can’t remember which part.

In browsing all this SHIT I realize that I would much rather make something. I would like to make a decoration for the baby’s room, or perhaps something it could wear or something their mom could use. I came across this site and found lots of drool worthy ideas. I am particularly fond of lighting and mobiles. What I’d like to do is something that can transition over ages groups. Oh god, am I getting too complicated here? Am I overestimating my own talent?

Once I painted a princess for my niece Abby’s room and apparently it scared her so much that she made her mom take it down. The last time I attempted making a mobile I got as far as cutting the paper I intended to stitch together and the abandoned it because I couldn’t figure out how to get it to balance.

So I leave the question to you, dear internet. Help me out here because I am pretty sure I am over thinking this already, and undoubtedly in over my head.

Another One About My Cat

When I moved into Husband's apartment in Paris there was a kind of "upset" between us. Husband, though he knew very well that I had a cat, did not actually think that Boo would be moving with me into his apartment. Terrified of the hair shedding possibilities (not to mention the litter box) we had many long discussions about where the cat was allowed to go (not on the bed, coffee table, bathroom, or anywhere that could knock over the TV) and how many times a week week we would vacuum (every day?!).

After several months of living together, Husband fell in love with Boo Radley, boldly renaming him Petit Chat and generally forgetting all the strict rules that he had laid down at the start. Cats will be cats, after all. These days he is fiercely jealous of Boo and I's mother/cat relationship and says hello to the cat before me when he comes home from work (I don't mind).

All that to say, this cat is unbearably cute. No one can resist his adorable ways.


One of Boo's favorite games is fetch. He loves Q-tips and get's one every morning when I am getting ready for work. I find them stashed in the living room in his favorite chair in multiples, like a little Q-tip graveyard. But it starts like this.

The innocent victim awaits

Did you throw it mama?

Then we must vigorously attack the evil accomplice, Small Blue Rug

Is the Q-tip under here?

You cannot escape!

And then we dash under the evil Small Blue Carpet, because one must hide from mama, obviously.

If Small Blue Carpet does not yield Q-tip, we must attack Big Blue Carpet.

And hide under anything we can. Because NO ONE CAN SEE US HERE.

We do this every morning. He never tires of it, and frankly neither do I. Impossibly cute, I tell you.

Here he is, in action.



If you follow that link to youtube, it turns out Boo Radley Petit Chat (His official full name) is not all that original. But whatever. My baby is the cutest.

Our First (le) Creuset

The french word creuset literally means 'a place to mix things or a melting pot'. More commonly we recognize the word from the french brand of cookery le Creuset which makes phenomenal, forever lasting cast iron-enamel pots for the stove and oven (among other things). Anyone who really cooks either has one or wants one. Last weekend, Husband I add one to our kitchen.

Brown, cause it was on sale.

Well, we bought it with a specific use in mind. We had invited over a couple of new friends (A Frenchman and his American girlfriend [which is the general classification of the people we know at the moment]) with the intention of making them a boeuf bourguignon, a dish that neither Husband and I had ever even attempted to make. The only thing we knew is that we would need a good casserole.


At the last minute our friends had to cancel but as I had already purchased four pounds of chuck roast that we would have to do something with, we decided to cook it. Together.

Husband and I have been having a bit of difficulty adjusting to married life, but lately there has been a cosmic shift or something because cooking together? Not something we would have been able to accomplish a month ago. And yet we did, with nary a tear shed. Maybe le Creuset brought us together.

Husband doesn't generally care for cooking. He is perfectly capable of it, he just doesn't like to and so I usually do it. For this dish, however, we decided we wanted to cook it as a couple. I am happy to report that not only did we succeed, we made an awesome boeuf bourguignon.

Oh, beautiful beef.

The food chopping station (plus cheaters pearl onions - already peeled!

After we'd put everything in Mr. Creuset to stew, I went downstairs to chat with the neighbor, have a glass of wine and admire the garden she has been laboring over all spring.

Baby tomatoes!

Boo looked on jealously.

Only cook with wine you would drink.

Stolen hydrangeas from the neighbor's yard.

Around hour three I decided that we could not possibly eat this meal without bread. What would we sop up the sauce with?? So I drove down the street to the nearest bakery and waltzed in, demanding a baguette (nicely). As I had suspected, they were closed and I was met by one of the Mexican bakers in the process of making tomorrows baked goods. All I could think was 'Oh my god fresh bread.'


"I sorry, we're closed," he said.

"Oh but can I please just get one baguette?" I begged.

"I sorry we're closed," he repeated.

"I know, I'm sorry but I just want one baguette, I can pay."

"The register closed," he gestured to the register, indeed closed.

"I know but you can just take the money for tomorrow maybe!" I smiled, charmingly.

He turned to his coworker and asked him to pull a baguette off the line.

"Here, is fine." He handed over a damn near perfect baguette.

"Here I can give you money."

"No, is okay."

"Yes, it's okay, here."

"No, no, no, is okay."

"Here I'll leave it right here," I laughed, left three dollars on the cash register and ran out. "Gracias! Buenos noches!!"

Before the night manager could run after me I hurried back to my car with a crunchy-on-the-outside-but-soft-on-the-inside-perfect baguette. As I passed the bakery on the way home,  the manager was looking up and down the street for a girl with a stolen baguette.

Shortly after dinner was done. Because we'd heard that the secret to this dish is to reheat it we decided to let it cool for awhile before doing just that. Alas, an hour later, the waiting was over. Dinner was served.

The meat was so tender is didn't need a knife and the sauce was perfect. We had succeeded on our first try with flying colors. It was a shame that our friends couldn't join us, but that was lamented only for a moment. Few words were spoken while we licked our plates clean.

Before this Husband had firmly stated that the best food he'd had was made by my bosses wife at our company Christmas party - this very dish. He was not shy about at admitting it. Yesterday night, though, he gave the best compliment I could have ever received - ours was better than hers. The best meal he's eaten since he's been in the U.S.. I couldn't have been happier.

And holy hell, do we ever have leftovers.

Memories and Reflections

In the past few weeks I have been considering giving up blogging. I don’t feel like I have anything to say anymore, and then there is the time element. In the time I have free to write a blog, shouldn’t I be doing more productive things with my time? Like cooking dinner or spending time with my husband or working on other creative writing projects that are being sorely neglected? What’s the point anymore?

I guess the blog never really had a purpose. It was self serving - a form of journaling. Also, I am pretty sure that I thought that the blog would make me famous some day, at least in the world of bloggers. Alas, I don’t have a gimmick, which is what you need to be a famous blogger. I don’t have a “thing”. For awhile I was an expat and now I am just a married chick living in Philly. No “thing” there.

Regardless, I know that there are a certain number of people (approximately 23) who come here every day looking for a post. Oh how this strokes my narcissistic ego! So I should continue to write. There are people who are curious as to what I am up to, all over the world. Strangers. People I’m close to that I don’t email enough. So I’ll try, for them. For y’all! (Aren’t I gracious!)

This one has been in the queue for awhile but I didn’t want to post something sad right after a pretty depressing post. And then I just gave up. Now I’m just gonna say “Fuck it!” Onward and forward we go. Back into the world of blogging, however self serving it may be!

****

This is the house I grew up in:

Sometimes when I’m feeling nostalgic I go there via google street view and I cringe at the new landscaping. There used to be trees in the front yard. Some shade. My mother had rose bushes which they seemed to have replaced with concrete. Where there are weeds now, near the sidewalk, there were once lively and often dangerous yucca plants that flowered biannually.

When I look at that image I always replace it with the way that I remember it. I am glad that I cannot see the inside.

The other day I got curious – thought briefly about writing the new tenants a letter to say hello and “I hope you’re taking good care of my house”. I would not mention their poor landscaping choices.

With a few clicks of my mouse I had the names (and phone numbers!) of the two people who lived there. A couple? I dug a little deeper and had the age of the woman, the wife. And then I searched the man – a father, husband and son – survived by a long list of people. I had stumbled on his obituary. Killed in a motorcycle accident.

That google image was taken the year he died. Suddenly I felt like I knew too much. I had pried in on the habitants of that house and found out their tragedy – just like that. But I felt connected somehow too. I knew those walls and the way tears sound echoed off of them.

If you look closely at the photo you see the curtains are pulled back, watching the google car go by. You can’t quite make out the figure in the window. I imagine it is me as a child, tucked low so that you can only see the top of my head and a little of my eyes. I think I am hiding.

That house has known so much sadness.

When my mom and step dad bought the house, my sister asked them why it was being sold.

“Maybe it’s haunted!” She said, teasing me, knowing I am afraid of ghosts.

But maybe the family before us had sadness too. Perhaps it’s the fate of this house of brick and wood - in the middle of the street but the end of another like the top of a T – to hold tears. Maybe it's cursed.

Or maybe life just carries as much pain as it does joy.

****

I am going to be thirty soon. Husband thinks that thirty is old but I think thirty is the new black. I am glad to be out of the uncomfortable growing pains that comprise “the twenties”. Every year I passed I thought I knew so much and every year I would find out I know nothing at all. What I know now is that every year of life will be like this. I will never know enough. Just knowing that, though, makes me feel good about turning thirty.

Husband is planning something special for me. It’s a surprise and not quite a surprise. I know that he has something planned but I do not know what. I believe it involves my friends. I hope it involves a cocktail with a little umbrella. Or skydiving. Either way, I am feeling very special.

For his birthday  (in February) we are going to the Alps to ski with his friends. He already knows that’s what he wants to do. No surprises for him. I am not sure if I love that or hate it. How do I reciprocate a special birthday surprise if we already know what we’re doing? 

Oh, isn’t life just full of little puzzles to solve.