About Damn Time

I love almost everything about living in New York. The only bummers are: street noise, rats on subway tracks and the fact that I haven't been able to fit a tall bottle of olive oil in a kitchen cabinet since 1999. Like I said, I love almost everything about living here. 

The thing I like least about New York is its distance from my family.

I've taken two trips to Texas every year for the past 25. Not bad, not great. I've also made successful efforts to lull my parents, niece and aunt to my home in Astoria. My brother has literally never been to New York before. I could live in Yonkers for all he knows.

I saw a video earlier this year that quickly put this into harsh perspective. Please watch if you haven't already. I'll wait. See you in 30 seconds.

My parents are only 73 and in pretty good shape, but they've both had cancer in the past six years. I don't spend excessive time thinking about how many years I have left with them but I also know time's not something to waste, and if I want to do certain things with my parents-- like travel-- we need to get moving. I'm also aware of my own aging. In a few years I'll enter my 50s. Will I still want to hike through Zion? Will I be able to climb the stairs in Dubrovnik without a heart incident? Will a seat in economy immediately send me back to acupuncture?

And that's how I've ended up planning three family trips in a span of six months. Daylight's burnin'! 

In September, Vin and I took my mother to Italy for her birthday. She'd never been to Europe and I really wanted to see her get there. And frankly, in my own anxiety about not wasting time, we did entirely too much. Rented too many cars, covered too many towns, packed in more sights than we could slowly, truly appreciate. This trip taught me some important lessons about acceptance.

Two weeks later, we drove to New Hampshire to meet my father, his wife and her father. Let me explain.

In April, on one of my bi-annual Houston visits, my father's wife Angie told me that seeing fall foliage in New England was on her father's bucket list. I asked how long they'd talked about taking this trip together and when she said TWENTY YEARS my eyes went wide and my body started twitching.

She left to play pickleball, likely forgetting all about our conversation.

By the time she'd returned I'd fleshed out an October itinerary that included New Hampshire and Vermont, complete with scenic train routes and cozy camp-themed restaurants. The idea of time continuing to pass without them biting the bullet and taking this trip together made me sad and uncomfortable, and I wanted to make it easier for them to get started so I projected my anxiety all over them. I also invited myself. Then I coerced them into planning another trip with us next spring.

I'd say I'm about 85% thoughtful, 10% people pleaser and 5% control freak, though I reserve the right to switch these proportions around at any time thank youuuuuuuuu. 

This profound awareness of time passing causes me some stress, but mostly works in my favor. If I set a big goal, I almost always reach it. Once I decide I want to do something, I rarely sit on it. I make stuff happen. It helps me professionally as a therapist too. When someone tells me they have a goal they want to reach you better believe I am invested. 

Please note that this trait only applies to big juicy goals with large pay-offs. It unfortunately disappears in the context of daily grinds and small projects that could be completed in less than 30 minutes, like hanging up art or sweeping the sidewalk so we don't get ticketed. My "owe this person a phone call" list is 20 deep and if you're reading this you're probably on it. It's probably time for me to chill on the big stuff and start tackling the everyday tasks.

Still, I know I'll reach true enlightenment when I accept that I won't get it all done. The more I scratch off my bucket list, the more energy it generates and the longer it grows. Once I complete a load of laundry I need to do it again the minute I take off my socks. My to-do list will never be swiped clean. I am going to leave this life with unfinished business. I won't do everything I dream about doing.

But I'm sure gonna try.

Now... what items on your bucket list have you been sitting on and how can I harass you into getting started?!

40-Something in the City

It's my 25th year in New York. To people who keep track of these things, I'm officially official. 

I moved here an unemployed 22-year-old with no friends, home-bleached hair and a single sweater. I lived here through 9/11 and the early aughts when the Village Voice was on every street corner and people still made calls in phone booths. I loved The Coffee Shop in Union Square and a long-gone Aghani restaurant on 3rd Ave where you could take your shoes off and lean against orange silk pillows. I bought my first leather jacket at Antique Boutique on West Broadway and thought, "Finally! I have an edge!". It was long, stiff and dark purple and I didn't realize it had been spray-painted that way until I wore it on a cloudy November day and off my hemline dripped a faint purple rain. 

Anyway, I've been here a long time. I lived here as a very young woman and I will probably live here as a very old woman too, hopefully in a tasteful three-bedroom co-op overlooking Central Park with striking architectural details and a handsome young doorman.

But for now, I'm a middle-aged woman in New York and sometimes find it to be a bit isolating. The streets of New York City will always flood with ambitious twenty-somethings coming to work in banks or ad agencies or theater houses. It took almost no effort to meet contemporaries in my 20s. Back then, I made friends at the laundromat, my local bars and Godforsaken Craigslist. It's a miracle I never got murdered.

But not everyone who moves here has an intention to stay. I don't know the stats but I'd guess that most don't. New York is a "try it on" kind of place, a transient city. I'm not in touch with any of the friends I met here in my early 20s. They grew up all over the place, worked in NY for five or six years then scattered back all over the country well over 18 years ago. I actually struggle to remember most of their names. I'm not talking about you, K.B.C. North Carolina was lucky to get you. 

#RIP Loehmann's

But people my age seem harder to spot these days. I don't notice a lot of other 40-somethings in Astoria besides the friends I cling to like vinyl. In my neighborhood I notice it's mostly older people who have lived here for 50 years or young adults who'll likely be gone in three. Obviously, the majority of my peers are in the thick of parenthood, and many made the move to New Jersey or Long Island eight to ten years ago. The call for more closet space and dishwashers and backyards was strong and they answered it. I can't say I blame them-- to be almost 50 and still not have an actual kitchen cupboard is a humbling experience.

I remember being 22 walking around in my silly purple jacket feeling like everyone looked cooler than me. Now when I walk around I can't help noticing how many people look so much younger than me. Yesterday on my walk to work a 20-something on a scooter side-swiped me so hard he knocked the sunglasses off my face. I picked them up off the sidewalk and shook them like a cane.

I feel like an auntie out on these streets. 

This is not necessarily a bad thing, just an observation. I actually forget that I'm not in my 20s or 30s until I meet someone in that age range and am served a harsh reminder. Every time I get a new 27-year-old client it takes me 10 minutes to realize there are 20 years between us. They describe their experiences and I can remember the feelings so vividly it takes me right back to that time. Then I make a pop culture reference that embarrasses us both and remember I'm not their contemporary. 

Anyway, I'm gonna wrap this up by doing something Gen Z would describe as cringe and quote the very silly Carrie Bradshaw. The title alone should have told you I might be headed there. There's a scene in the first Sex and the City movie (only slightly less cringy than their second) where Carrie is having cocktails with her young assistant Jennifer Hudson at a bar and says, "Enjoy yourself... that's what your 20s are for. Your 30s are to learn the lessons and your 40s are to pay for the drinks."

I think she got the first half right but don't relate with the last part. Cocktails in Manhattan cost 25 bucks and make me lose two nights' sleep. 

I think my 40s will be for something else. Something I haven't quite worked out yet.

A list of things I've done the last five years, mostly chronologically

*the obvious--lived through my first pandemic. in 2020 I turned 43, my lucky number since age ten. sorry, y'all

*gained and lost somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds a few times 

*stopped writing and posting because I often felt like I was talking to myself

*started actually talking to myself because I was no longer writing

*entered the weird world of perimenopause, who knows when, but my biggest clues were missed periods and brain fog

*experienced five new york city autumns

*lost all color in my lips. no one warned me

*ordained two friends' weddings - one on a New York City stage and the other in a 16th century palace in Dubrovnik

*survived both altitude sickness and day two of my period at Machu Picchu

*ran from a burning stage at a lantern festival in a field outside of Chiang Mai

I wanted to include video footage but blogger is free and takes too long to load. You'd have been able to hear how shrill my voice is when I scream "Oh my gawwwwd!" . You really missed out. This is an old-school blog. I'm not worried about formatting or making it picture perfect. Expect mess! 

*slept in a bedouin tent and heard drummers bang into the night in a star-lit Senegalese desert

*nearly got blown into the sea at the Cliffs of Moher

*watched the sun rise like an electric clementine at Angkor Wat 

*forgot nearly everything that wasn't a big thing because I didn't write it down

*confirmed that my preferred brand of anxiety is existential. I blame Bonnie Raitt and the titular track from her spectacular album "Nick of Time", released in my early pre-teens, prompting me to run at half-speed from an invisible clock my entire life 

*made my brain fog worse by intensifying my relationship with various screens

*struggled with how to reintroduce myself in this space but have settled for now on "hey, I'm Jenn. i used to write about life as a young(er) woman and now I want to write about life as a middle-aged one. how are your periods?"

*decided this round I'm speaking directly to my midlife ladies so stories are likely to include vegetables, sun hats, backaches, reading glasses, acupuncturists, existential angst, new adventures, travel mishaps, future hopes and dreams, changes in breast shape and size, skincare, rom-coms and death. fellas, you're welcome to stick around but you'll notice I've already referred to periods three times and that's not stopping 

ok, I think we're all caught up

is this thing on? 

Get a load of this

 "Did you hear our exciting news?" I asked with a cheeky grin. The question was directed at my mother and father-in-law, who'd just returned from two months away in their native Croatia. 

"Well, our dream finally came true. It's the best thing to ever happen to us. Something I've wanted my whole life." They leaned forward. I didn't check their breath but it was definitely bated.

"We got a washer and dryer!" I exclaimed. I still can't believe how blessed we are.

"Oh," said my mother-in-law. "I thought you were going to say something else."

But really, WHAT ELSE IS THERE? I wanted to scream. In New York, a washer and dryer is a way bigger flex than a baby. Every park and playground is full of those. You can't say the same about these puppies.

my new favorite room in the house

And when I say we got a washer and dryer, I don't mean we got a new washer and dryer. I mean we got our FIRST washer and dryer. For context, I'm 47 years old. If you've ever lived in a big city, you understand the gravity of this life upgrade. If you haven't, you probably don't even realize how good you've had it all these years. You've just been smugly tossing your dirty pants in a home machine for years, not even patting yourself on the back for being such a baller.

Very, very few people have washer and dryer hookups in their NYC apartments and homes. Most New Yorkers use shared laundry rooms in their apartment basements or haul two to three weeks of filth to their nearest laundromat, wherever that may be. In the first month of Covid, when our corner laundromat shut down, I was scrubbing towels and sweatpants with my sad little chapped hands in our kitchen sink and hanging them on the bathroom shower rod to dry. It was... uncivilized.

Every New Yorker can relate to the experience of hoarding certain items in their closet because they want to wear them next week and laundry ain't happening before then. We're all guilty of letting the hamper pile up and spill over, waiting until our laundry bags are hernia-sized before schlepping them across the street. There's not one of us who hasn't made an emergency Prime order of underpants because we couldn't get to the fluff & fold that week.

We bought our house eight years ago, and though we've made many changes to it over the years, this is the one that finally makes me feel like an actual homeowner and bonafide adult. 

So while your family was off picnicking at the beach or barbecuing with neighborhood friends, I spent the slow season reading psychological thrillers and washing every pair of sheets we own. 

It was the best summer ever.

A True Gore-May

I used to work at a Polish-run mental health clinic with a lot of people from the Eastern bloc. They spoke with lovely accents and had last names I often found tricky to say, the kinds with a "c" or "z" on the end of them. My European co-workers brought an air of culture and sophistication to our workplace in a way I never could coming from Texas. One colleague was always impeccably dressed, and wished me “Bon Appetit” whenever she caught me eating lunch alone at my desk. It was a fancy wish for me since I was usually shoveling cold leftovers from plastic Tupperware or slurping down soup from a cracked thermos with a trail of crackers crop-dusting my keyboard.

Another co-worker was a quirky yet dignified man in his mid-seventies. He was originally from Poland but lived many years in France. He owned a weekend home in the Hamptons and trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris for pastry. He eventually quit the clinic to retire in the South of France. I really enjoyed him because he always said things like “Oh! Look at you in zat nice puffy coat! You should not be working here today—you should be skiing up in zee mountains!” or “Here you are again, working late into the night when you should be on zee red carpet!”. 

For whatever reason, he worked under the delusion that I was a lady of sophistication and glamour, mostly because I knew about all the new restaurants and never arrived at work covered in cat hair. He was shocked to learn that I didn't live in Manhattan, as he assumed my husband wore chinos and we owned a three-bedroom co-op in the West ‘80s, when the truth was my husband looked like an Allman brother, and we rented an illegal basement in Queens. 

On breaks, my co-worker often swung by my open office door to talk about food, which happened to be my favorite topic as well. He was long-winded, and could go 20 minutes discussing the art and science of French pastry, how the exterior of a croissant should crackle at first bite before giving way to a soft chewy interior, or instructions for creating marbled icing to top a perfectly flaky, cream-filled mille-feuille. He spoke in a heavy French accent mixed with a bit of his native Polish, so when he mentioned enjoying programs like “Pioneer Woman” and “Farmhouse Rules”, he surprised me. He seemed more a Julia Child or Lidia Bastianich man.

“I vas watching a program on ze food channel ze other day… this woman lives in some barn in the woods, and she made pork ribs for Christmas Eve! Pork ribs! Horrrr-ible! So common! In Europe, we make 12 different dishes and they are all special. Ugh! I could not believe it.” He threw his hands up in disgust.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him my family ate chili that year for Christmas Eve, and that past years’ menus included beef enchiladas, a backyard fish fry or simply a buffet of tortilla chips shaped like Santa hats and warmed dips from plebian ingredients like canned corn and gloppy cream cheese. We were Texan; we didn't do baked camembert with cubes of baguette-- we melted down a hunk of Velveeta and thew a can of Rotel tomatoes in it. Instead of mussels in butter and white wine, we rolled shrimp in flour and cornmeal or dipped perfectly pink boiled ones into spicy cocktail sauce straight from the jar. I ate po-boys and hushpuppies every day of high school underneath a fishing net at a place called Shrimp n’ Stuff. We served drippy tacos and mac n’ cheese in tiny cast-iron skillets at my wedding reception, where we ate in the middle of a field next to a pen of longhorns and goats. I stepped in cow shit moments before the dinner bell rang.

I wasn’t raised on Coq au Vin or Steak Diane; I grew up with my father’s ribs—beef, by the way; rarely pork—and we’d eat them with spongy corn on the cob and grilled potatoes on the back deck overlooking the water.  My mother didn’t make soufflés—she baked casseroles filled with fresh vegetables and topped with buttery breadcrumbs, or chicken pot pie with huge chunks of white potato and tiny green peas and thick sauce that ran all over the crust when you pricked it with your fork. For a treat, my dad and brother mashed cornbread into cold glasses of buttermilk and ate it with long metal spoons. My grandmother never cooked with duck confit. She used lard and butter and Crisco, though these days she reads a lot of Prevention articles and sticks mostly to coconut oil.

This is not to say that the Texas palate is unrefined. My mother and I used to drink tea at four o’clock every afternoon, hot steaming mugs of English Breakfast or Earl Gray. We both sat with one foot on the floor and the other on the table, but still—a 4pm teatime means I come from good stock. Then there was my father, who loved nothing more than a lazy afternoon at an oyster bar. Of course, unlike the fancy places in Brooklyn, they don’t serve Gulf Coast oysters on a silver tray with a squeeze of lemon and a glass of chilled Sancerre; you eat them at a long wooden bar shaped like the front of an old fishing boat with a cold beer and a red plastic basket filled with packets of Saltine crackers, beneath old metal signs littered with phrases like “Ay, yi capitan” or “Show us yer tits”. 

I’ve been to restaurants in Manhattan where the meal arrives in stages and with great fanfare, like distinct acts in a three-hour play. Where soft music plays in the background while tiny white plates are painted with purees made from celery root or organic beets before a single lamb chop is placed delicately on top with a pair of tweezers. In these types of places a full meal is a single scallop served on a wasabi leaf, embellished with pickled olives and a teardrop of pink-peppercorn aioli. People spend a lot of time sniffing wine before drinking it, and the wait staff makes six figures.

I enjoy dining at places like this on occasion (the occasion being that I either just got engaged or turned an age with a zero on the end of it) but I’m always too shell-shocked by the bill to truly enjoy the experience and usually walk out craving a cheeseburger. New York City has every type of cuisine imaginable, but I can’t seem to find a $2 breakfast burrito from a wood-paneled trailer or a jar of my grandmother’s buttermilk ranch dressing anywhere, and that still disappoints me. I have no early memories associated with a Michelin-rated restaurant or a perfect cassoulet, and nothing ever tastes as good as nostalgia feels. You won’t catch me asking anyone to pass the Grey Poupon. 

I will, however, take an extra paper cup of tartar sauce when you get the chance.

United Airlines, Flight 167, Boarding Group 4

 

As we're waiting to board the plane, the flight crew makes an announcement that one of the toilets on board just broke down and they'd rather take off and get us to our destination than fix it. They push departure back 25 minutes to give everyone time for a final trip to the bathroom, like mom and dad nudging the kids to go potty once more before hitting the road for Florida. I'm not trying to be dramatic here, but this is my worst nightmare.

We board the plane and I'm immediately weirded out that it's a domestic aircraft with two aisles instead of three and far fewer amenities than I'd prefer for a seven-hour international flight. Because I do most of my booking through CheapoAir, Vin and I are sitting separately, both in crappy middle seats several aisles apart. Vin heads to the very back row and I take my seat six aisles ahead.

To my left is a patient Portuguese mom and to my right sits just a terribly irritable woman in her late 60s from Chattanooga. She has a nagging smoker's cough so hearty it rocks my chair and some deep inner turbulence that's manifested in an alarmingly low frustration tolerance. Before taking off, a baby started crying and my neighbor yelled out, "Discipline your fucking baby!" and "If that baby doesn't stop crying I'm gonna give it something to cry about!". When the young woman in front of her leaned back in her chair, she shoved it violently like an insolent toddler. I stuck my nose in my book and tried to practice non-judgmental compassion from my cramped middle seat while silently cheerleading my bladder to be a champ and hang in there. 

An hour or two into the flight they announce that the toilet magically isn't malfunctioning anymore so we are welcome to use it "conservatively". The minute they announce the word bathroom I have a Pavlovian need to use it, so I head toward the back row where my husband is loaded on Dramamine and passed out on another woman's shoulder. As I'm waiting to visit this famously fickle toilet, I catch a glimpse of the meal service cart they're about to roll out and am stunned to observe that at some moment in time there was a meeting where supplies were purchased and United officials said, "Sure, sign us up for 200" when CHICKEN TIKKA MASALA was suggested as a dinner course on an international flight with poorly serviced restrooms. I blinked a few times in case I was hallucinating, since not only is Indian food incredibly polarizing, but it's also what's served just before every diarrhea scene ever captured on film.

Before I head back to my seat, I wake up Vin with a tap on the shoulder and warn him not to order the chicken because I am an excellent wife.

Our row is on the tail end of the dinner service route, and the flight staff has already learned they must shroud the menu in secrecy if they're ever going to unload these chicken tikka masalas. 

"Hello, ma'am. Would you like dinner? We have chicken or a vegetarian meal."

My ornery neighbor has a hard time hearing the stewardess, so she leans over my lap and asks for clarification. "What's that? Chicken or what? Oh, vegetarian? Ugh, no way, hahaha, cough cough cough, no thanks. I want chicken."

I knew better of course and waited patiently for my predictably bland but ultimately harmless frozen veggies. I paused to read the label before peeling back the steaming plastic. 

Thai Red Curry! What the fuck is wrong with this airline?

Once dinner is over, I decide to take a little cat nap but am interrupted by my neighbor, who is again pissed off that the girl in front of her has moved the seat from its upright position back down to a more comfortable lean. This time, instead of a few abrupt shoves, she throws her full weight onto the back of the girl's chair and stays there for several minutes, pushing the seat with both of her elbows and when she grows tired, her head. Eventually she gives up and tries to get some sleep. She brings her carry-on to her lap and folds herself over it, occasionally letting out a deep throaty cough followed by a long shallow moan.

Things are uncomfortable but tolerable until another announcement is made a few hours later. Turns out, they were totally wrong about the bathroom being okay, and now not just one, but two (meaning... all) bathrooms in coach are unusable. (Bear in mind here that they never invite the servants in coach to use the toilets in business class). To avoid the potential media circus of what would inevitably make headlines as United's Big Blowout, after they've crossed the Atlantic Ocean they'll need to make an emergency pit-stop in Halifax, Nova Scotia to service the toilets. They assure us it's a real easy fix that will only take about 30 minutes and we should all be able to still catch our connecting flights. 

The plane makes its premature descent and we land in tree-lined Nova Scotia (which, not for nothing, just made its way onto my bucket list). Startled awake, the aformentioned baby starts to cry. My neighbor, who's been pushed to the brink at this point, shakes her head and mutters "Jesus Christ. Not that fucking baby again." I'm starting to lose patience for her perspective on the matter, as the only thing that sounds worse than being stuck on an airplane with no functioning shitters is being an exhausted parent trapped on an airplane with some judgmental cranks and a crying baby in need of a diaper change.

Long story short, the toilet repair does not take 30 minutes, and we are stuck on the ground for almost two hours. At this point, most of us have realized we won't be catching our connecting flights in Washington (me and Vin included). My neighbor, as you can imagine, is showing real signs of distress (**this is what I sound like when I'm being extremely tactful**). I try to help her figure out when she can get to Chattanooga via the United app, but it's not looking good. There's some real significant cursing happening, and it's no longer under her breath. She's still pushing against the girl's seat in front of her and is also complaining about being in pain after sitting so long, which is completely understandable. It's at this point I'm fairly confident she's withdrawing from something, and is feeling pretty terrible after this unanticipated delay. 

I give her some space to breathe and stretch and go visit my husband in the back, even though he's right by the dysfunctional bathrooms. I'm there for about five minutes when I hear a wail from my row. The dam finally broke, my window-seat neighbor is sobbing and has rung the emergency bell for assistance. She spends the rest of the flight in the attendant's booster seat and is eventually taken off the plane in a wheelchair. When she rolls up behind me in customs, she is uncharacteristically chipper, perhaps happy to finally be back on American soil and more than 20 feet from any crying babies. This seems like a fair time to mention that this is the second time I've been seated next to a sobbing woman on an airplane in the last six months, which begs the question... Is it me?

We miss our connecting flight and are bumped to one that leaves five hours later, which is a much better outcome than having to spend the night in Washington while trying to book a new one. Our internal clocks read five hours ahead so we hit the sad airport restaurant and I order the worst Caesar salad of all time while trying not to fall asleep in it. Our flight to La Guardia takes 40 minutes. We could have walked home from Nova Scotia six hours earlier and arrived at the same time.

I'm not exactly sure what the moral is but I'm starting to feel guilty that I went all the way to Portugal and all I brought back for anyone was a bathroom story.

Sorry. Those vintage tiles are heavy.

A Day at the Salon: She Cuts You Down

I had my tri-annual cut and highlights appointment last week. I go to a neighborhood place in Queens rather than a salon in the city, because the price difference is staggering, and the quality is just as good.

I am committed to a stylist I'll call E. She has deeply tanned skin, absolutely enormous breasts, and long skinny legs like two sticks of sugar cane. She speaks in a thick Brazilian accent and alternates between calling people "mi amor" and "you bitch". She is brash and uncensored and seemingly fearless. Basically, she is everything I am not, which always fascinates me.

We kiss cheeks, European style, and she says, "Hey married lady. What's your new name?"
I tell her, and her reply is, "Ugh. Why'd you change it?"

I should have predicted this response.

It reminded me of the time she asked me what I did for a living, and when I told her I was a therapist she said, "Oh god, really? Who would want to talk to crazy people all day?"

It appears she lacks a filter or a fully-functional sensitivity chip, and she's totally comfortable letting it all fly in front of her regular clients. Before exiting the salon, the customer right before me warned: "Don't let her be mean to you." I appreciated the tip, but also understand that E is one of those people who is mean to you because she likes you, and I knew I had hit some kind of new status at the salon when I was one of the people she started calling bitch. As in, "Get up you bitch--it's time to get shampooed." Although most of the time, she just points her finger to show you where she wants you to go, like a puppy being led to its wee-wee pad.

The other stylists, while not quite as brassy as E, are equally gossipy, and spend their time between clients taking smoke breaks, texting and catching up on breaking celebrity news. They wear really tight pants and really tall boots, and spend an inordinate amount of time checking themselves out in the 15 or so mirrors lining the salon's walls. It's like Truvy's shop from Steel Magnolias is still expanding, and this one landed in Queens.

My job can be pretty isolative in comparison, and it always strikes me how much fun all the stylists seem to be having. "You all look like you have so much fun working together," I say, mid-blow-out.

"Oh yeah. We are all friends. We never fight," says E. "You know... we always stick up for each other and the customer's always wrong." Then she throws her head back and cackles like a cartoon villain.

She spins me around in the chair and I take a look at myself. She's so unprofessional, but damn, that girl does good hair. It is sleek and shiny and bouncy, and to confuse me even more, she tells me again and again how pretty she thinks I look. This is definitely an unhealthy relationship.

"You're really great at your job," I say, handing her a 30% tip.

"I know." she replies. And then that cackle.

Just think how she'd talk to me if I tipped the standard 20.

Our Texas Wedding

When you date for nine years before getting engaged, you have ample time to fantasize about what kind of wedding you'd like to have. I knew I wanted to get married in my dad's backyard in Texas years before backyard weddings became the trend, and long before my wonderful groom was ready to take that step with me.

I can tell you now: Our wedding was worth every minute of that wait.

In fact, I think our marriage will be stronger because of it. Not because dating longer is somehow better, or because we already have several years of commitment under our belts, but because that period of struggle--when I was ready, and he was not--taught us how to truly communicate our needs to each other. It forced me to exercise understanding even in my most impatient moments, and it gave him the time he needed to feel comfortable taking that walk with me.

I'll say again what I said to friends who asked whether I thought we would ever get married.

"I would like to be married, but if it's not in the cards, I'll make my peace with that."

The truth is, I would have rather stayed unmarried to him forever than gotten married to anyone else.

It was never just about getting married.

It was never just a desire to have a beautiful wedding.

It was about the two of us finally looking outward in the same direction, and looking forward to a long life with someone I have loved for a long time.

And okay... maybe it was about the thrill of seeing him look at me that way as I walked down the aisle. You can't blame a girl for that.

My father shook his hand. The next-door neighbor gave the blessing. Our siblings did the readings.

We wrote our own vows.

And even planted a tree.

There were moments that made me smile.

And moments, of course, that made me cry. In this one, I'm reacting to my brother, who in a rare moment of sentimentality called his big sister beautiful. That's the funny thing about weddings. Every person who agrees to be there reveals their love for you. Not just the person holding your hand.

Rings were passed onto fingers.

And when he looked in my eyes and called me his wife for the first time, I didn't know if my heart could handle that much unbridled joy.

And just like that, I had a husband.

A long-haired, drum-playing, technology-obsessed, Croatian guy named Vinny from Queens.

He is really nothing like the type of guy I ever pictured myself marrying.

And so much more than I ever hoped my husband would be.

Nearly ten years ago, we sat on this swing in my father's backyard and discussed the idea of dating. Seems like so long ago. But it also kind of feels like it was yesterday.

And And And hough there have been some dips and curves along the way, taking this road with him has been the greatest adventure of my life.

So far, anyway.

All photos by Jason + Anna Photography.

If I'd known I was gonna run into Brad Pitt yesterday I would have washed my hair

A Day in the Life--Movie Premiere Edition

8:45- 4 pm: Work, blah-blah-blah, Unfulfilling lunch, work, Cyber Monday purchase (six new bras!), blah-blah

4:00: Vin reminds me that Brad Pitt's new film premieres at his theater tonight.

4:01: Scan my outfit. Denim slacks, striped shirt, nerd blazer. Wave of regret washes over me.

6:05: Finish up work. Run to grab burrito bowl from Chipotle for dinner. A quarter cup of rice, a pinch of chicken, a dusting of cheese and an ocean of pico de gallo. They should rename this thing the salsa bowl. What a rip. Quickly followed by indigestion.

6:20-6:50: Travel to Vin's job on the west side.

6:51: Arrive at theater. A crowd of people straddle two sides of walkway. Vin and I allowed to pass through metal gates to enter theater, past fans and papparazzi. Not-so-gracefully trip over metal gate. Crowd disappointed I am not Angelina Jolie. Papparazzo shouts, "Hey, that was Ashton Kutcher!" as my husband walks past. Guy was probably kidding. Heart swells with pride regardless.

7:05: Red carpet set up inside. Holy cow. There's Brad Pitt. Homina-homina-homina. Lift jaw off floor.

7:07: Park myself by the entrance to the screening room, right by bins of popcorn. Watch very pretty people with really nice outfits swarm in. Rose Byrne, the snotty one from Bridesmaids, walks in with a friend. I outweigh her by 100 pounds.

7:08: James Gandolfini walks past. Feel skinny again.

7:10: Mr. Big Chris Noth grabs a bag of popcorn and tosses a piece in his mouth. Looks at us, furrows brow and says, "Is this popcorn?".

7:20:  Gaggle of unimaginably beautiful statuesque blondes walk in. Feel slightly frumpy in my therapist work-wear. Get over it. This is the best people-watching I've done in years.

7:30: Lots of famous people walking by me. Some more famous than others. Some hotter in person than on TV. Some not.

7:50: Vin escorts me into area where Brad is hiding out until everyone is seated. Say excuse me to Brad as I pass by him on the stairs. Act cool during. Clutch pearls after.

8-9:40: Watch movie. Pretty good. Very violent. Kind of weird to see everyone I've just passed in the lobby shot in the face.

9:45: Steal "Friend of Pitt" sign off a theater chair. Save for my creeper scrapbook.

10:00: Hit the subway with husband and his co-worker. Compare thoughts on various celebrities. That Angelina's a lucky lady. Then again, so am I.

It's Football Night in America (and I honestly couldn't care less)

As I type, my new husband is watching the Jets game. He is staring at the television with the kind of rapt attention I usually reserve for standardized tests. Strange noises are erupting from his mouth; a combination of shrieking, mock crying, cursing, grunting and even an occasional bark. I thought by marrying an artsy type I could avoid this kind of macho Sunday ritual, but it appears I was mistaken.

I have the same amount of enthusiasm invested in this game as I usually do, which is basically none. I'm not into football. Like, at all. Well, no--I take that back. I'm into football parties, but only for the snacks. Put me near a platter of nachos and I can get into anything.

The irony, of course, is that I'm from Texas, the football capitol of the world, where high school linebackers are local heros and people camp out for days for tickets to the big college games. Because I was on the drill team I attended every single football game--home and away--for the whole four years of high school. I did high kicks at half-time, shook my pom-pons in the bleachers and had absolutely no idea what all those sweaty guys in knee pads were doing in-between.

That's me in the white. Don't let my school spirit fool you; I was only in it for the sequins.

College was a similar story--I was part of an honorary spirit and service organization, which among other things, allowed us access to the field during UT football games. It was made clear to me that this was kind of a big deal, but the gravity of the experience was lost on me. During my wedding reception, our DJ played the Texas fight song and all the UT alums gathered on the dance floor with their horns up. I certainly never requested it, but I guess that's just what they do at Texas weddings? I tried to look really into it, but all I kept thinking was that I would have preferred something by Lady Gaga.

These days, there is nothing forcing me to sit through a football game aside from the very slight twinge of guilt that washes over me when I see Vin on the couch getting so fired up all by himself. Will this be one of those compromises everyone talks about in marriage? Should I at least attempt to understand this game so I can share this weekly experience with my husband?

The answer, of course, is no. But I will make him some freakin' incredible nachos.

Tea breaks, pick-up lines and Asian babies

I have a friend named Kim. You may remember her from this post. We work together, and I don't quite know what I'll do if there's a time when we no longer do. I simply adore her. Did you ever have a co-worker like that?

If I'm having a slow day and clients aren't showing up, I stalk her by calling her phone repeatedly until she is forced to either pick up and tell me to leave her alone or turn down the volume so I can stop disturbing her. On the off chance that both of us are free, she will sometimes join me for tea or coffee, which makes me happier than Honey Boo Boo in a tiara.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to wrangle up Kim for a tea run. Before grabbing our drinks, we headed into a bodega so she could get some cash. Tied up in front of the store was a crazy adorable bulldog wearing a nubby winter sweater. (PS: If I ever get a dog, I am getting a scotty dog, and everyday I will dress him in scotty dog sweaters. )

Anyway, Kim was leaning down to flirt with the dog at the same moment a ginger-headed stranger with a sideways cap rolled up and blurted, "Yo, what you messin' wit my dog for?"

"Uh, sorry," said Kim. My guess is that Kim is probably used to guys speaking a little nicer to her. She's pretty hot.

"Nahhhhh, just kidding. That ain't even my dog." (Oh, the undiscovered comedic talent in this town!). He held the door open for Kim and made a remark about how much he loves Asian girls. When it was my turn to enter, he released the handle and said, "Don't come in."

After getting the cash, we shared a laugh about the ginger. He reminded me of a young Danny Bonaduce with baggy pants and poor social skills. He was like a character in a teen comedy, the dork from the suburbs who tries really hard to gain street cred by spending too much on sneakers and speaking to women in a way that won't let them know he's actually terrified of them.

On the way back from getting our tea, we ran into him again, so he gave it another shot with my pretty friend. I stood back and watched because one of my greatest pleasures in life is watching people hit on each other. It's better than Animal Planet.

"Yo, I'm collecting embryos from Asian women to have babies with, because Asian babies are so much cuter than white babies."

I could have taken this opportunity to finally become offended. What? My white babies won't be cute enough for you, hip-hop Bonadouche? But the truth is, I saw his point. Have you seen the pictures of little Asian babies wearing those big nerdy glasses and bow-ties on Pinterest? My uterus skips a beat every time I see one.

He wasn't finished. "I especially like Filipinos. I keep pictures of Filipino babies all over my walls."

"Well, that's not creepy at all, is it?" I chimed in. I was this guy's worst nightmare.

"Sorry," said Kim. "I'm not Filipino, and my eggs aren't up for grabs right now." We chuckled and walked away. Nothing like a failed pick-up attempt to facilitate female bonding.

"You know, he would be cute if he wasn't so weird," Kim tried.

"No he wouldn't," I countered. I wasn't cutting this tool any slack.

Kim and I parted when we entered the building and returned to our respective offices. I turned on my computer, pulled Kim's profile up on Facebook and started stalking her baby pictures. And as much as I hate to admit this, I had a strange, almost irresistible urge to print them out and tack them on my office walls. Maybe I'd been too hard on the guy. Asian babies really are the cutest.

A Day in the Life: Election Tuesday

7 am: Wake up, ignore smell of last night's bacon in hair and apply shower cap. Shower. Pat dry. Dress.

8 am: Eat breakfast: Last night's grilled chicken with brussels sprouts and bacon. Maple syrup on sprouts make it feel more breakfast-y.

9 am: Leave house to vote. Polling site -- nearby retirement home. A poll worker notices name on a voter's ballot and asks if he is Korean. Man nods yes; worker attempts to bond by sharing that her niece married a Korean and man, do they have some beautiful babies. Korean man unimpressed. Female voter of Asian descent enters; same poll worker asks if she needs a Korean interpreter. Woman responds that she does not need a Korean interpreter because she speaks English and also, because she is Chinese. Look of utter confusion covers poll worker's face.

9:30: Wait in line at post office for stamps. Reminisce about days when stamps cost 22 cents. Feel 100 years old reminiscing about price of stamps.

9:50: Head to subway. Sit on a bench; journal. Feel annoyed when brunette to my right practically sits in my lap while three adjacent seats remain empty. Keep head down, continue journaling. When train arrives, brunette stranger grabs my hand and leads me onto train.

9:53: Realize I'd been sitting next to my husband for three minutes.

9:54-10:30: Train into city and share a giggle with Vin about culturally inappropriate eavesdropping at poll site.

10:30: Get off at Canal Street for dentist appointment further downtown. Train still not running there post-Sandy. Enjoy a refreshing 20 minute walk.

11:00: Six-month check-up and cleaning with greatest dental hygienist in Manhattan. Scraping sounds overshadowed by comforting tunes of Taylor Dayne on '90s Pandora station. Dentist ruins zen; drops bomb about cavity. Bummer.

12 noon: Back on train, headed uptown. Reading David Sedaris; chuckling inwardly. Young guy tries to sell me his self-published book pamphlet for two bucks. Can tell by cover he's no David Sedaris. Let writer down gently. Continue reading.

12:05: Rebuff an accordian player busking for change.

12:06: Remember how much I hate the accordian.

12:45: Exit train in Jamaica, Queens and head for social security office to begin process of changing my name.

1:00-1:45: Social security office. Number finally called; guy at counter jokes about offering a two-for-one name-change special. One for new married name; another when I change back to maiden name after inevitable divorce. Consider advising him to stop projecting onto happy newlyweds; giggle politely instead.

2:00:  Back on train; first signs of intense lunchtime hunger set in. Regret not having made garlic bread to accompany grilled chicken/ brussels sprout breakfast. Consider eating own fist.

2:05: Trapped on train car with screaming toddler and parents, who continue to text while occasionally glaring at offspring and telling him to shut up. Find myself trying very hard not to judge them. Fail miserably.

3:00: Enter home. Run to stove. Boil pasta, saute broccoli rabe with garlic. Eat like an animal. Fist intact. Crisis averted.

3:30: Briefly consider mopping floor.

3:31: Reconsider. Check Facebook instead. Everybody's out voting. Go team!

4:00: Chat with dad on phone. Love that dude.

5:00: Consider going to the gym.

5:01: Talk myself out of going to the gym. This is turning into a losing battle.

6:00: Prepare dinner. Tostadas topped with butternut squash, a white bean, jalapeno & garlic puree, caramelized onions and goat cheese. Consider giving food blogging another shot;  remember how much I hate taking pictures of my food.

8:00: Vin walks in and removes coat. We discover we're both wearing red plaid shirts. Totally simpatico. Take that, bitter social security dude.

8:15--rest of night: Watch election coverage. Marvel at the remarkably sharp difference in FB statuses between my New York and Texas people.

Midnight: Head to bed. Day finished. Election over. Vow to workout, wash hair, mop floors and eat sensible breakfast tomorrow.