Thank you.

No really... thank you. Your words were amazing and meant more than I can say here.

So pat yourself on the back. Pour yourself another.

Because you rock. Really.

Letterpress via Steel Petal Press

A new day.

Today is a very good day.

It's my three-year wedding anniversary. It's the day my favorite person and I jet off to one of our favorite cities and spend a long weekend being no one but us. It's also the day that I confess a very big thing to you, because it's finally become more tiring keeping it quiet than letting it all hang out.

Here's my baggage, thrown open for the world to see: I've been trying to get pregnant for two years.

Exhale.

Two Junes ago, T and I threw caution to the wind and decided to just see what happens. Of course, nothing did. A long journey began then instead, one much more complicated than we ever expected. All the same, the June of my memories is a month of freewheeling optimism, a month of earnest hope, a month of giddiness. It's almost June again, and so much has changed. Our world is decidedly more measured in its optimism now, our imaginations a little more contained, our hearts a little more tender. But there is hope, always.

There's also been a lot of writing over here, in my quiet moments. Some of it is sad, some of it funny, and some of it just explanatory, captured so I don't forget the details. It's been good for me. When I started writing, the only audience I had in mind was someone besides you guys. The person writing wasn't the me you all know. She's a little more wry, a little more bitter, a little more beaten up. She has something big in common with the me of Freckled Citizen, though: they both hate whining more than anything.

I think it's the fear of coming across as a whiner that's kept me quiet here for so long. With everything I have in my life, who am I to complain about the one thing I'm missing? My mantra that keeps my inner whiner in check is "I am lucky." And I am; I know I am.

I've learned so much about myself in the last two years, so much about my husband, so much about who we are as a couple. I've never been prouder of us. I don't know when we'll overcome infertility, or if we'll overcome infertility, but I know that at the end of the day, I'm still one of the luckiest girls alive. I still wouldn't change a thing.

So if you'll indulge me, I'd like to share some of what I've written here from time to time - The Infertility Diaries, if you will. And whether or not you've ever set foot inside a fertility clinic, I have stories that might interest or amuse you. (The one where I inject myself with hormones at a wedding reception is worth the wait, trust me.) But what I'm offering isn't really entertainment or even for you: it's catharsis, and it's for me. 

I'm spending the next few days in New Orleans, where I'll be in my happy place of food, drink, music, and cheer. One of my favorite things about New Orleans has always been the way it wears itself from the inside out, guts splayed open right alongside its picture-perfect facades. It's the perfect city for me to start this new journey, this one where I unzip my insides and wear them openly. Decorum just isn't working for me anymore.

And so it's May 24, and it's a good day. Three years after the fact, and three years from now, too. No matter what.

Scrambled Brain (not a recipe post)

I turned on my television tonight for the first time in what feels like a century. Lunch today was the first time this week I read the newspaper. I visited Twitter, Facebook, and Reader, too - the real things, not just the mobile versions. Here's a sign of how hectic things are right now: my astrology app (yes, I have this) (even though I have sworn off psychics) (a story I may tell in 2012) told me that December would be my biggest career month of the year. I thought that was sort of impossible, since I'll be on vacation for half of December... but I think the damn app might be on to something. Since job-blogging is for the birds - very, very dimwitted birds - we'll skip over that currently enormous portion of my life and just say that things are swell.

So what are we left with, then? We're left with a still-unplanned trip to Europe. The logic there is that because our goals consist not of Louvre sightings but instead of belly fillage and sensory overload, planning isn't really required. I'd simply like to step off the plane and be swept away in a Paris whirlwind, with my favorite partner in crime there to help me pronounce things. This is me, simplifying.

We're also left with a Christmas tree-less house. You all were right that it would've been worth it to get one. And if I could've cloned myself to get a tree and decorate it that very day, I would have. But a week went by without a chance to breathe, and suddenly we'd only have a week with said tree before leaving it, and oh by the way where is that clone again, because the next three nights were already booked solid, and then we have only a few days with the tree. So yeah. There's been some minimal holiday decorating around la casa, but that's it. And it's the best that I can do this year... I am accepting that reality. This is me, simplifying.

A funny thing about simplifying is that I forget how much better I am at it when I'm really busy than when I'm not. My head does a better job of balancing when it has more things to sort. When I'm not busy enough, too many little items sit in my head in a mess, twisted and tangled and hopeless. Being busy is the great prioritizer of my head space. It's like the mental conditioner that turns my tangles into shiny, manageable thoughts.

It's also possible that I've been working from home a little too much for a little too long, so this change has been good. Meetings and people and reading books on the train and lunches away from my home office desk are good things. Back to Basics at its best. I still love my home office and its perks, but I think I love having the option of multiple workplaces even better. It takes one to appreciate the other.

This might just be me in a past-midnight sort of mood, but I swear this photo I took of eggs from my sister's chickens looks exactly the way I want my mental space to look. Okay, maybe there are still a lot of eggs in there. But it's me... Ms. More Is More, after all. In this picture, mental conditioner is flowing. Do you see how calm those eggs look, how they're full and lively in that pie pan but not too crowded, how there is a quiet yet charmingly irregular semblance of order?

I'm calling it right now: my resolution for 2012 is for my brain to embody this photograph. Or to start some sort of mental clarity hair product line.

"Why are you so far away?" (she said)

I'm reading South of Broad right now, and loving it despite its initial chapters of overwrought, floral prose. I wasn't sure I'd be able to get past the insufferably long, overwritten sentences at the beginning of this book, although they did serve as excellent fodder to entertain T with dramatic readings. (Note to all writers: if a reader has to stop and gasp for air while trying to read one of your sentences aloud, it's probably too long.) Fortunately, Pat Conroy settled down the rhetoric once he introduced additional characters and stopped simply expounding All Things Charleston, and now I'm hooked.

I was thinking last night about the tight group of friends who comprise the heart of the novel, and how so many of my favorite books, movies, and even television shows involve a central group of friends who grew up together over the years. I'm absolutely guilty of romanticizing that sort of camaraderie. We romanticize what we don't have, after all, and my life couldn't be more different than the hometown experience. I'm lucky enough to have friends all over the place, from all sorts of chapters in my life, and many of these friends are as different as could be. I love that about them. If I hadn't gone north for college, I would never have met my fantastic Boston Girls. If I hadn't gone west for graduate school, I would never have met my amazing ABQ crew (or my husband, for that matter). If I hadn't followed T out to Dallas, I would never have met the Champagne Thursday girls. And now that we're in DC, we love the new friends we've made and the new life we're creating. We are constantly evolving.

Despite the knowledge that I wouldn't trade any of what I have for staying in the same town with the same people forever, I still adore wondering what that would feel like. I'll never have kids who'll go to high school with the kids of my high school crew. Most of my high school crew left town like I did anyway. I won't see my college friends at weekend football games or alumni events. Most of us live too far away, and besides, we don't even have a football team anymore. I'm not able to walk over to my graduate school pals' house anymore for breakfast, hashing out the previous night and planning how we'll take over the world tomorrow (oh, how I could use those breakfasts these days!). Heck, my pals don't even live together any more... marriage and babies and all. Time marches on and moves us farther apart geographically. We all visit and stay in touch regularly, but still.

I understand the logic of distance, but my heart can't help but pine for one endless "Big Chill"-style reunion, minus the suicide (although the drama of one person's husband impregnating someone else in the group with his wife's permission would be... exciting?). And while my choices mean I do and always will fly around a lot to see my favorite people and their offspring, how much would I love for them to all be here with me, living in my neighborhood?

Here's a song for today from my friend Ann, who is part of my "Nightswimming" memory, and in comments notes that she feels the same way I do about that song and about that long-ago weekend. Ann left the Triangle like I did and now calls Nashville home. She sent me this clip over the weekend, which immediately  prompted me to tell T to develop some Nashville clients so it'd be easier to get out there regularly. That's exactly how my world keeps getting bigger, by the way. Is it crazy that I sometimes wish it was small?

Thanks, Ann, for knowing this song would make me as happy today as it would have in 1996, sitting in your living room drinking boxed wine. I raise a glass of Franzia White Zin in your honor, and send you a long-lost hug across the airwaves.

What the snow reminded me

And then, finally, there was snow. Not as much as predicted, but full-on snow, at last. In the midst of record white stuff all over the country, DC has had nothing but pretty dustings this year. This is just fine with the city; we got our fill last year, if you remember. Which is exactly what I was doing last night.

My sisters-in-law were visiting, and in the height of the storm the four of us walked back to our apartment from a neighborhood restaurant. We were tromping through the snow, barely able to see, tightening hoods and lowering hats, slipping and laughing at the absurdity of the mess everywhere, and for me anyway, having a full-circle moment.

Our anniversary as DC residents is in 11 days. We've been here just short of a year, just short of all sorts of snowy havoc. We're going through life right now obsessed with our real estate conundrum, feeling a bit lost, a bit untethered to anything resembling a concrete plan. Our "it'll be okay" gut feelings are leading us, but those gray hairs I mentioned are proof that the stress is taking its toll. I was thinking how strange this feeling of not knowing is for us, but then I remembered life fourteen months ago, when we were looking for jobs and a new life and a new city, sure somehow it would work out but not all sure how.

It did work out, beautifully. Here we are, in our first choice city. A city that has four true seasons, just like we wanted, including a winter that brings us snow. A city close enough to our families that we see them regularly, including T's sisters, who I love as if they were my own. In so many ways, we've made it. In the context of how big and full our lives are, whether or not we rent or own this spring is really just a tiny subchapter.

And so with heavy, wet snow pummeling my face, I reminded myself: we've already made it. Life is great. And maybe, just maybe, next week we'll make it even further.

Dreams, deferments, and detours

So we didn't get the Pretty House. We found out on New Year's Eve, in the early evening. It took a while after we got the news for me to put on my party face and ring in the New Year. But I did. And then we celebrated.

Not toasting another year would have been a crime. 2010 has been intense, and we survived it. In the first half of the year, the world was our oyster: we moved to the city we'd been trying to move to for years. We set up a cozy apartment. We hung out in Europe. In the second half, though, we closed our circle in a bit, holding tight to family while saying goodbye to loved ones who left this world too soon. The second half of 2010 changed me. But now that it's 2011, I know that brighter times are ahead.

Which brings us back to the hunt for new digs. Our lease is up in less than two months, so the clock is ticking. Maybe we'll rent again, but we'd like to buy if we can find the right place at the right price in our very short timeline. The funny thing about house-hunting, I've discovered, is that it is exactly like everyone says it is:  highly emotional and completely stressful. I wrote about my concerns regarding the Pretty House here, but with each passing day, I was more and more sure that it was "the one." I had visions of renovations and a family and a life, all in that spot. Brains and hearts can so easily play tricks on us when there's a capital-h Home involved, can't they?

Since New Year's, we're not exactly back to Square One. There are a couple of interesting possibilities out there. One is purple (eek!). One is a renovation project (gulp-yay-dependingonmood). Maybe we'll see a slew of new listings in the coming weeks. Maybe not. Maybe I just want to make a decision so that we can move on with life. Maybe, as long as we're together, it really doesn't matter at all.

May your 2011 be filled with wonder, laughter, and joy.

Gorgeous papercuts and screenprints courtesy of Rob Ryan, my brightest-burning paper love.

Empty boxes (for now)

You might think the fact that we've lived in DC for almost three months would preclude us from being able to just now remove four freshly unpacked large moving boxes from our place. You'd be wrong. Our apartment might be small, but it apparently contains a black hole of forgotten items (also known as the bedroom closet). But finally, they're out of here. And just like that, I own skirts again!

Last night was quite the burst of productivity - in addition to the closet project, we also finally decorated three different walls. But somehow we still have so much to do around here - life keeps getting in the way a bit. We are impatiently waiting for our terrible moving experience payout and a tax refund delayed by fraud, after all. And so the mismatched furniture and bedroom wall covered in paint samples and things that "will be" but aren't yet are going to have to keep waiting. I'm fine with that... usually.

There's also another reason I'm reticent to find the perfect pieces for certain spots: we don't want to live here forever. An infectious case of house fever is sweeping 'round our modern urban rental. On Sunday we walked around our neighborhood for hours, popping into open houses and oohing and aahing at various features... and then staving off heart attacks at the prices. But oh, the details!

After our walking tour, a funny thing happened. We drove over to another neighborhood to stroll around and stumble upon some dinner inspiration, and I felt it: that's where we are supposed to live. I'm not going to write about this magic neighborhood for fear of jinxing myself, but there are so many things that got me: patios bustling with eaters and drinkers, quiet tree-lined streets just off the main drag, families and dogs alongside singles and seniors, markets and crafts and things I love. It all clicked for me. So much so that I was immediately beaming, giddy with excitement about finding our new 'hood, inspiring our waitress to comment on our happy vibe, and basically bouncing out of my shoes. And I didn't take photos. That's how you know it was the real deal for me. With this 'hood, we'd move from "super trendy area experiencing prohibitively expensive housing bubble" to "steadily prohibitively expensive area." In other words, we've gotta save our hearts out - but hopefully get a bit more for our money in the long run if we can make it there.

So a goal neighborhood, then. And a year+ timeline to figure out how to get there. No small deal, right? But somehow, in the weird way my head works, knowing where I want to be but not knowing how we'll make it happen feels better than being in a place that isn't 100% right for the long-term and not knowing where we're going next.

That mismatched chair in the living room with a blanket thrown over it, then? Fine by me. For now.

Philadelphia, again.

The funny thing about Philadelphia is that once upon a time, it was the setting for my first glimpse of adulthood. I was 16 and enrolled in a summer program for fellow media nerds at Penn. We were a group of hyper-motivated, weird kids who found ourselves and each other immensely fascinating. Living in a dorm together for six weeks - attending classes, working on projects, traveling - made for the coolest summer ever. (Yep, "coolest summer" for me involved school - go figure.) So this is what college is like, I thought. So this is what living in a city is like, I thought. I had the bug, and ended up attending college in Boston two years later, a city lover already. Boston was my first urban love, but without Philadelphia, it might never have happened.

Save for a quick weekend in college, I hadn't been back to the city since. This weekend, we hopped onto a quick 2-hour train (I'm giddy at how easy it is to do this now that we live in DC) and went to see the most fantastic play and stay with the most fantastic people. They're old friends of T's family and are responsible for things like this at our wedding:

A truly fantastic couple, H&D, married for over 30 years and still having goodbye makeouts each time one of them leaves to run an errand. Here's just one lovely thing about H&D: they say that T is the reason they ever married at all.

See, T's parents had tried and failed to set them up. They were all living in Philadelphia back then, and my in-laws arranged a meetup at a local bar. Only, the plan backfired - D went home with H's roommate instead of H. Oops.

Some time later, they were all going to a toga party and came to pick up H. She answered the door expecting to see my father-in-law. Instead, it was my father-in-law's pal D, the one who'd gone home with the wrong girl (who of course wasn't The One), and he was carrying a baby in his arms. That was little T decked out in a kiddie-sized toga. H couldn't resist the sight of D with the adorable towheaded baby. They were married six months later.

H & D still live in Philadelphia, in a 150-year-old townhouse on a great street in a neighborhood dotted with local businesses and neighbors who recognize each other. With a skyline right there. And everything walkable.

Upon our arrival, we engaged in Battle Martini: Shaken v. Stirred (I'm a stirred girl myself, it turns out).We explored historic sites, visited the building T lived in as a baby, and enjoyed delicious food. We saw a play honoring one of my heroes, and it was wonderful. We walked home and drank wine and played word games (T and I are out of practice). We woke up early and had breakfast at a little neighborhood cafe run by a French couple who are H&D's vacation buddies. Life is good for these two. Their daughter's almost out of graduate school and is moving to DC (!) in the fall. They're dialing back their workloads. They're ready to enjoy what's in front of them. The decade between 60 and 70, H told me, is what she calls "the sweet spot." They're living it.

And so throughout that weekend, more times than I could count, the Philadelphia thing hit me again. Once more, I got glimpses of what being a grown-up could look like. (Why yes, I'm still searching for that reality sixteen years later, aren't you?) This kind of life - the walking and the history and the knowing your neighbors and the local businesses and the vitality of it all - is very much the kind of life that T and I would like to build. Not to mention the kind of partnership that's at its center. We have a lot of hard work ahead of us to make it happen (DC real estate voyeurism can turn into panic and depression really quickly, it turns out), but it's what we want. Someday. Maybe sooner rather than later. Our Life Plan feels a little less tenuous having seen a model of it in action, even if the steps to get there still feel enormous and slightly mind-boggling.

So progress, then. Baby steps toward the Plan. Found, once more, in Philadelphia. Who knew?

Any "Philadelphia moments" for you all lately? I'd love to bask in everyone's inspiration for a bit. With spring in the air, life feels so hopeful right now.

Waiting

Every morning while I get ready for work, our cat Fanny sits next to a painting of my old dog Jack on the edge of the bathtub and watches me. I love that she does this; I like to think that she and Jack would've been thick as thieves, had they known each other. (Small fuzzy black cat and 140-lb gentle giant as best friends? It's practically a Lifetime movie.) She waits there until I'm ready, then trots out to her food bowl for breakfast. A kitten of patterns, this one.*

Everyone's striking the Fanny pose this week, made to wait patiently (or not so patiently) to hear some news or direction regarding Ye Olde Job Search. I'm not sure that I look as cute as Fanny does while waiting for the next move (and my nervous habits certainly give her the upper hand in elegance), but at least I cause less trouble around our place than she does. (Broken hurricane globe and thrown-up Christmas ribbon and general mishief OMG.)

So before I start leaping over decorative items and smirking as they shatter into a million pieces, let's get some news already, k? (I also notice that Fanny doesn't depend on wine and cheese to soothe her frayed, impatient nerves. Interesting.)

*Meanwhile, our other cat Switters yawns and wonders why we don't just luxuriously lounge around until we hear something. Kind of a good question, actually.

Grateful.

It's the Eve of Christmas Eve, and I'm feeling enormously grateful tonight. 'Tis the perfect season for gratitude, in my mind. Forget endless shopping lists, forget the mall, forget harried travel. Simplicity reigns this year, for us and for our loved ones. And you know what? I kinda love it this way.

Last week our friends had a beautiful baby girl. We forged ahead with Project: Next Big Step. I buried myself in work while T took planes and trains and cabs and subways to make something happen. We think it might have worked.

He came home to me on Sunday night, where I made the first dish I ever made for him, years ago: a sauceless pasta with spicy sausage, spinach, and bread crumbs. It radiates comfort, and it was that kind of night: deep-rooted contentment shot through with the kind of relief that only time apart can produce.  And there's this gem, still, speaking to us from the fridge:

This week we've had so many small blessings on the job front, little signs here and there that it might all be okay. On the family front, my aunt Jill will be able to join us Sunday for a post-Christmas celebration on the family farm. She found out she had cancer right after our wedding, and I haven't been able to see her since. Here we are with Aunt Jill at our Welcome Cookout, where she presented us with a quilt that she made for our wedding gift.

Our names are on the sailboats. Wouldn't it be nice if cancer could float away as swiftly as they can? We'll be celebrating the end of chemo on Sunday, by the way.

 

 

More goodness today, when I was able to reconnect with some of the best women I know. To those girlfriends who brightened my day today with your presence, voices, and words, you know who you are. And tonight: excited calls from the homefront, giddy about our fast-approaching reunion.

So this is me, on the Eve of the Eve. Presents are wrapped and work is done. All that's left is to wait, and to enjoy. I've been so turned off this year by hyped-up commercialism and negativity and petty complaints, but sitting here in the simple pleasures of this space and this moment, I feel only the contentment we've achieved throughout this turbulence, and it makes me proud. Put into the world what you most want out of it, I say.

To health and to happiness and a holiday that couldn't have come any sooner... I love this time of year.

Our Christmas card this year... fabulous letterpress courtesy of Mr. Boddington

Friday I'm in Love

So our $10 Christmas is a fine idea and all, but after shipping? $60. And that's using $15 of coupons, too. Oh well. But in all seriousness, I'm thrilled about how the gifts have turned out and will reveal all after the holidays. I was thinking after handing over my debit card with a sigh, though, that one day I would so love to be able to pack the car full of prettily packaged gifts and simply drive over to Mimi and Jambo's for Christmas. (Mimi and Jambo are the names the first grandchild bestowed on my parents, so they now wear them proudly.) I say this with a huge amount of trepidation and fear of jinxing, but I can't contain it: we got a glimmer of hope yesterday that such a feat might one day be possible! Like, Christmas 2010 possible. A girl can dream, can't she?

In honor of Project: Next Big Step shaping up nicely, I offer a Friday I'm in Love bonanza, a slew of items that amused me this week while waiting for the H-word to get back into town. We're doing an ittybitty Christmas for each other this year, by the way, in honor of what we most want wrapped under the proverbial tree: a big, shiny job. So there's lots of time to play around on the Web and hand-craft "$10" gifts.

Ahhh... one week 'til Christmas Day! Mimi and Jambo and the Nug and Nugget and oh yeah, my crazy-awesome sibs and their SOs, too. It's going to be a good one, folks... Now it's your turn to smile at these gems:

The Best Worst Sandra Lee Recipe Reviews

As you can see from my tweet last night, I had quite a bit of fun with "The Best Worst Sandra Lee Recipe Reviews." Seriously, you must check it out. It contains reviews such as "It was like there was a party in my mouth and everyone was throwing up" and "I must admit I would never have thought of serving fish with allspice and taco seasoning and salsa and cole slaw and peaches. But there’s a good reason for that: this is disgusting." So good! I love the Food Network Humor blog, by the way. If you're a food-tv cynic like me, go check them out. And don't even get me started on Sandra Lee, whom the always-crushworthy Anthony Bourdain terms the "frightening Hell Spawn of Kathie Lee and Betty Crocker." The woman even ruined Andrew Cuomo for me.

Smell of Books spray

So as you either already know or likely suspect, I am hopelessly old-school when it comes to paper. I read a paper newspaper every day. I love stationery and use snail mail. But most of all, I love books. I fear the day someone tries to gift me with a Kindle and my head explodes. At any rate, for you new-fangled folks who embrace technology but miss that smell of paper, even if your cold heartless hands prefer to hold electronics, this spray is for you! From Incredible Things.

City Sage Christmas Card

THIS is how you send out a photo card pre-adorable kids, folks. Blogger crush Anne Sage and her husband's fantastic tacky sweater/cat people parody is etched into my Not Taking Yourself Too Seriously Hall of Fame. Amazing!

Brussels Sprouts Christmas Tree

My favorite vegetable, all decorated for the holidays. Genius!

Kathleen Turner as Molly Ivins

One of my all-time favorite women, the late, great Molly Ivins, is being brought back to us in the form of Kathleen Turner, who's channeling Ivins in a one-woman show in Philadelphia this spring. My love for Molly runs deep and blue, and I'd see this show in a heartbeat. Philadelphia is a town that makes our household smile: T was born there and I spent a summer there as a teenager studying at Penn, meeting lifelong friends and getting into all sorts of trouble. I think a trip is in order in a few months, when all these Next Big Thing details are ironed out. Sending you love, Molly, as always.


One week 'till lounging in pajamas with the fam all day, woo hoo!

Transitioning

T's firm closed its doors yesterday. It's so odd to see that in print. Done. Finished. Fini.

I drove him to the airport before dawn this morning for three days of meetings in New York and Washington. Something amazing is out there for us next, that we know. But what we don't know is what that Next Big Thing will be, or even where it will be. We try our best to have the right attitude: we know our strengths, our hearts are absolutely open, and we're up for an adventure. We also have each other, which is the most important thing of all.

I was thinking on the drive back from the airport this morning about the 2006 holidays. I was still living in Albuquerque, but Trevor's campaign was over and he was trying to figure out what to do next. We were on the phone one night - by that time I was already home in North Carolina shivering on my parents' porch, and he was packing up his apartment in ABQ - and we talked through the pros and cons of an offer he had to work for a new fund in Dallas. He'd already lived in Dallas for five years and had great friends here, and right away we saw the advantage of easy travel between Albuquerque and Dallas. A quick Southwest flight, with a time difference that meant I could delay my return flight every weekend until Monday morning and go straight into work. By the first week of January, he was sleeping in an empty Dallas apartment on a borrowed mattress on the floor. And I was back in Albuquerque trying to figure out my next step. And so it began: a new phase.

In between those two moments, he flew to NC to spend New Year's Eve with me. My family was as welcoming and loud and comfortable as always, and having him at that table in that kitchen was really the first time I understood that we were about to give this thing our best effort, despite not having a plan and despite the fact that neither of us had wanted a relationship when we met, much less a long-distance one. We would give it our best shot, because the way we were together demanded it. And so we did.

Three years later, here we are. An absolute team. And we are entirely unsure of our next steps, once again. But somehow, this uncertainty feels like home to me. I know how to move around when the air feels tenuous. I know how to latch on to small moments and appreciate them for what they are. I know it's better to be excited for the next step than to be afraid, and so I am.

Trevor is celebrating Christmas in Connecticut this weekend without me, because it was just too expensive to fly me up for family festivities. There's a difference between not being scared about the next chapter and being foolishly unprepared for it, after all. And so our belts are tightened accordingly, which means it's me and the kittenz this weekend. But I hate not to be a part of their fun or be at their table. His family is as fantastic as mine, and I never take that for granted.

It's Wednesday at noon right now, and I'm taking a deep breath and looking out over the expanse of this week. What's out there? What will we discover? How much longer until we have some direction?

Smile back at us, world. We've been smiling at you for so long now.

Feeding your indecision and optimism, one slurp at a time

Update: Now including the poem in comments!

I just spent thirty minutes digging through an ancient e-mail account trying to find a poem written for me long ago by my dear friend Allie. The poem was called "You Are My Tomato Soup," and was an ode to the comfort of a long lasting friendship. I think she wrote the poem in early college (or maybe it was late high school, in which case my e-mail searches were always going to be fruitless). Whenever it was brought into the world, I tacked it onto my bedroom wall and it moved with me for years. No doubt it's now in a box of lovely paper things that were also on various bedroom walls over the years. The wall posting is what matters with this poem, not the exactly timing, because the fact is, Allie and I have been friends since elementary school, and with that kind of history, it's okay to lose the specifics a bit.

(I write this knowing full well that if Allie drops by for a visit one day and sees this post, she'll remember exactly when she wrote "You Are My Tomato Soup" and could probably recite it on the spot. The woman's memory knows no bounds.)

I'm thinking about tomato soup this morning because I've fallen for a new recipe, even though it strikes me that new tomato soup recipes are almost besides the point. The dish is one of comfort; it soothes with a steadfast presence. We wouldn't want a new tomato soup recipe to shake our moorings too much; we look to other dishes for that kind of inspiration. But for times when you want the soothing nature of tomato soup and a little spunky conviction running through it (in the form of, say, sriracha sauce), this is your soup. I think it's best eaten in times of indecision, when you're most in need of a jolt of spicy optimism.

Spicy Tomato and Blue Cheese Soup
from "Michael Symon's Live To Cook" by Michael Symon

Serves 4 to 6

 Ingredients:
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium red onion, finely chopped
Kosher salt
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 28-oz can San Marzano tomatoes, with their juice
1 1/2 cups Chicken Stock
3/4 cups heavy cream
2 tablespoons sriracha sauce
1 tablespoon fresh oregano leaves
1/2 cup Roth Kase Buttermilk Blue cheese*

Heat the olive oil in a 4-quart pot or Dutch Oven over medium heat. When the oil is hot, add the onion and a three-fingered pinch of salt and sweat for 2 minutes. Add the garlic and continue to sweat for 2 more minutes. Add the tomatoes, their juice and the stock and bring to a simmer with a small pinch of salt. Add the cream, sriracha sauce, and oregano and simmer for 45 minutes.

Pour the soup into a blender, add the blue cheese, and blend until smooth, working in batches if needed. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean pot, taste, adjust the seasoning if necessary, and reheat to serve. The soup will keep, covered in the refrigerator, for a few days. (My note: Or buy an immersion blender - I have a cheap Kitchenaid that works beautifully - and puree the soup right in the pan, and don't bother with any of the pouring or straining.)

*This cheese is available at Central Market, if you're in Texas. If you can't find it, look for the creamiest blue cheese available (buttermilk is best), or try a creamy gorgonzola if you're my sister and think you hate all blue cheese, even when melted amidst other flavors in soup form. Hmph.

**Credit for finding this soup goes to the Amateur Gourmet

Anticipation

Lots of stomach knots this week about that ever-present looming mystery for us: The Future. Where to live? Where to work? For how long? Then what? Just a few little questions on our minds right now... no big ones or anything. Our potential "next place" map looks a little something like this:

That circle keeps getting bigger, not smaller.

To settle my nerves, I'm heating up a cup of another lady-in-waiting's soup and simply waiting. Head down, deadlines to attend to, books to read, kitchen creations to make, friends and family to enjoy. But  yeah... things are beginning to get interesting in the game of Big Life Questions. My usual nerves-of-steel stomach is most definitely on alert.

But there is this, and that's what matters most:

Freya Art

That about sums it up.

Tip, seesaw, tip

Here's the happy news in the M+T Life Status Report: we are incredibly lucky to have one another, we go home every day to a place that we like and furry friends we love, we have fantastic friends around, and we live in a town that offers more distractions than two people could possibly hope for.

Here's the rest of the Report: Distractions are not enough. And while we are perfectly comfortable here, we go through our days feeling fairly disconnected from what matters most to us, a sentiment that becomes more difficult to stomach as time goes on. Living as far away as we do from our families isn't just an issue of travel or prioritization. It impacts every decision we make, every way we think about our future, and has us in a holding pattern until we can figure out where/when/how to jump start our Real Life. We feel particularly vulnerable after weekends like this one, when we move mountains in order to spend just a couple of precious days with our favorite people, only to know at the end of it that once again, there is just never enough time.

Sometimes I imagine us teetering at the center of a seesaw, waiting for life to tip us in one direction. There is family pressure and a desire to be closer and make life easier on one side. Then on the other side, there's the hope that if we hold out long enough, all the stars might align for us so that a big move will be a bigger professional and financial opportunity than it is a setback. But that seesaw doesn't seem to want to tip either way, and so we remain distracted.

We've reached that precarious point in the year when we admit to ourselves that we will be here for another season. And again, this is not a bad thing, just more teetering in the center. So all the concerts we bookmarked for fall not knowing whether we'd be here or not, we can now buy tickets for. And all the trips we have planned for fall, we can go ahead and book them departing from DFW. Time marches on, whether we're calling it our Real Life or not. But as for when a progression of the calendar will feel like an actual step forward... that remains to be seen.

Scenes from our happy table at The Place this weekend:

Patio gardens and whatever's next

It happened again; we fell in love with another apartment. This one blows that other apartment out of the water on the livability scale. This apartment felt urban, but homey; streamlined, but warm; expansive, but intimate. It was the first highrise apartment I've seen where I knew without a doubt I could buy without looking back, without any angst about not having a yard or our own stoop. If we were actually in the market to buy, instead of being complete fakers on these tours, this place would be a major contender. (It would also be nice if we could even remotely afford it, but that's another reality-based discussion that's not worth having at the moment.)

The patio in this apartment was 700 square feet, an extension of the entire length of the apartment, opening up to the Dallas skyline. Think about that size for a minute: a 700 square foot patio. Ridiculous! Ridiculous views, ridiculous amount of space... ridiculous built-in outdoor fireplace! Sigh... That patio left me daydreaming the rest of the weekend. In the model unit we looked at, the patio was so large it was actually arranged as three separate outdoor "rooms": a cozy nook coming off the master bedroom, a large seating/dining area extending off the living room, and a cooking area extending off the guest bedroom. Here's the patio from another unit in the building, albeit a terribly decorated one:

Boring and uninspiring image of the patio that would become fabulous under my watch

When I saw the patio, though, I had one thought: garden.

See, gardening is something I can't do at all in our current arrangement. We're on the corner of the building on the eleventh floor and the wind whips everything to shreds - even simple plants like herbs. Our patio is great for lounging, but not for growing things. If we were going to be here forever, I'd try building a structure to help protect plants from the wind and too much sun. But it's probably not worth it at this stage in the game, so instead I just grit my teeth every time I buy fresh basil, mint, dill, and cilantro - which is pretty much every trip to the market. Nothing irks me about my lack of a garden like having to purchase fresh herbs when I could grow them instead.

Our current patio. Great space for reading/sipping, but not-so-great space for plants (trust me)

But oh, the possibilities with more and better configured space! I enjoy seeing urban translations on outdoor living, since that may very well be the typology we'll be calling home when we actually are in the market to buy something. And since I already know that I do well in cozy bungalows with real in-the-ground gardening space and a walkable neighborhood, it's reassuring for me to find other scenarios that could feel at home, too - a spectacular building, sure, but one that feels more grown-up than the last apartment we toured, one that's a little less bachelor and a little more family (we saw kids and dogs - always a good sign). Reasserting my versatility in these matters makes me feel like I'm ready for whatever may come. That's important to me, since we're not really sure what's next.

In honor of this weekend's to-die-for patio, I was inspired to seek out images of patio gardens. I'm not including any backyard or rooftop gardens here, which can obviously be stunning and enormous; I'm talking simple, urban, DIY container gardens that could work on any non-wind-tunnel patio.

Even the tiniest spaces can accommodate container gardens, depending on your conditions. Source.

Herbs galore! Source.

There's a lot going on here, but not a lot of food. However, the concept of stacking plants to line a wall is perfect for any small outdoor space. Source.

Container gardening isn't just for herbs. These would be great on a patio (my containers would be obnoxiously colorful, of course). Source and how-to.

Pots, pots, pots. Source.

Replace these decorative plants with herbs and vegetables - gorgeous! Source.

Please excuse me while I go graze on greens for dinner. Source.

Lounging in the greenery. Source.

I saved the best for last. Does it get any cooler than a vertical herb garden for an urban space? I think not!!! Source.

Bonus Link: Tips on starting a patio garden from Epicurious

Stubborn Sundays

There are two kinds of Sundays for me. The first kind is my favorite kind: silly, lazy, stretching out and on. Days where the world gives you a slow smile back, where one little moment unfolds into the next with graceful rhythm. If asked, I'd say that Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I like that it's a day of taking stock but also of sizing up. I was married on a Sunday. My favorite newspaper of the week comes on a Sunday. Brunch was made for Sundays, as are lazy nights in.

But Sundays can be the cruelest day, too. I usually know it's going to be one of those Sundays before I even get out of bed. There's a foreboding sense, even before looking at the time, that I should've gotten up earlier, because sleeping in means the day will just go by faster. As one hour turns into the next, there's a feeling of time running out, and I can all but hear the hourglass sand. Monday morning is sitting there on top of it all, squeezing out the space in my lungs and shadowing over even the smallest pleasures. There's no way of working out of a Sunday funk; you just slog through and wait for Monday to come. Which is depressing.

I'm not sure why I wake up some Sundays to this feeling of airlessness. It doesn't have a thing to do with Saturday night (which was terrific) or necessarily about what I'm facing Monday when I get to the office (more annoyances, but nothing terrible). It might be a combined effect of all the small things that are sitting there undone - that other work project I'm neglecting for the more pressing one, the last of the thank you cards, the dirty laundry taking over everything, the fact that post-wedding I can't seem to keep a regular workout schedule, the five or so organization projects that I can't seem to get around to, either.... Maybe it's about something bigger: the knowledge that I'm not doing what I should be doing with my workdays, the bigger problem that I don't know what I should do instead, the distance from our family and oldest friends, the sum of it all.

It's an odd quandary, to feel this lucky and to be this happy, yet still occasionally wake up to these same stubborn Sundays. I wish I knew how to make them feel a little more productive.

Playing real estate

We are not in the market for real estate for three reasons:

1. We just had a wedding (happine$$!)
2. We just put one of our cars out to pasture and got something new with a warranty (now known as the Best. Word. Ever.)
3. We don't know where we're going to live happily ever yet. Hint: it's probably not here.

So for all these reasons and more, it makes sense to rent. We love our apartment and love our neighborhood even more, and have nothing to complain about. But all that said... it's still really fun to look at our options. A favorite habit is looking at places with a completely different design sensibility than our own and imagining it infused with our character. Yesterday, we were in the mood to play real estate, and promptly fell in love with two places that couldn't be more different from each other. (As you'll soon see, we have a lot of big life questions to figure out before we buy... which part of the country to buy in is only the tip of the iceberg.)


Option A: The High Roller

This brand-new high rise is so stunning inside, it has to be seen to be believed. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer sweeping views of downtown Dallas that put every other showcase view I've ever seen of this city to shame. The entire interior of the building is designed by Philippe Starck - from the biggies down to your bathroom's hand towel hooks. An outrageous owners' room opens up to the pool, outfitted with a full catering kitchen, fireplace, lounge furniture, and more. And oh, the pool! Plus, full-on urbanity right outside the building. And one more time... the views! The patios! The ability to pre-game before hopping across the street to a game or a concert! Just amazing. The following rendering does absolutely nothing to suggest the luxury of this place:



Option B: The Oasis

My favorite kind of house - it looks small and unassuming from the outside and is a world unto its own inside. Currently owned by an adorable gay couple having a major love affair with all things Louis XV, the mind has to strip it down to really see it as it could be, with fewer ostentatious antiques and more of our humor. Perfectly sized rooms, one leading to the next. Completely calming inside, with big windows that fill every room with light. A true cook's kitchen... I would be in heaven in there. A cozy little office. A steam shower. A backyard that would breathe life into even the biggest hermit's capacity for outdoor entertaining. An intimate pool. A small guest house/studio. Space to garden. Still walkable to all the walkable destinations in our current neighborhood, but its own little world. Whereas The High Roller invigorates you when you step inside, The Oasis makes you take a deep breath and slow down. Sigh...


Gotta figure out this life stuff so we play this game for real.