• The strangest thing happened at the end of last year. My yoga studio people named me yogi of the year. What the what? It’s a distinction I’m sure I don’t deserve but am nonetheless honored to receive. It means a lot for these favorite folks to think favorably of me. However, because I’m not just a little stitious but superstitious, stuff like this freaks me out some. I worry that if I’m designated yogi of the year my yoga practice will suddenly fall to ruin. So I tried to counteract that by kicking off 2014 with 31 classes in January’s 31 days. Even though it's meant doing eight doubles (which doesn’t sound as many as it feels), I’m gonna end up making it. Cameron's music class tomorrow night will be the perfect way to tie a sweaty bow on this mini challenge.
• I’m often asked about Jim’s practice. Is he still going to yoga? The answer’s yes. With or without me. I don’t want my boyfriend coming to yoga just because I like to be there. I want him to get all the benefits he can, so he’s got to have his own reasons for showing up. Apparently he’s got ‘em, ‘cause the man took advantage of a bargain and bought 50 classes.
• A journal finally said yes. It only took a bazillion rejection letters. Hippocampus Magazine’s gonna publish my essay “Lady Business” in their April issue. So with that sliver of hope, I have decided that today is not the day to throw in the towel.
• Right now I’m up to date on logging my calls on doctors. !!! That’s a major area of opportunity for me. On a daily basis I log the calls where I've had to get a signature for samples, but for the no-sig calls? Well, it hasn’t been uncommon for me to get days and days and maybe weeks behind. Then the calls pile up. And I dread logging them. And I put it off. And therefore more piling up. But I'm on it now. I told my boss that I’m going to turn over a new leaf, and for the last two weeks I haven’t missed logging all my calls on the day I made them. It’s not like logging calls is hard or takes time. Each one takes under 30 seconds, and I log them on my iPad. I don’t know where my defect is with this, but I’m fixing it.
• I did an online grocery order for the first time in a month and a half. Single living has its benefits, and one is that I get to eat stupid, but sometimes I look around my kitchen and have to say, “Megan, you’re 31 years old. It’s time to take a break from living off of applesauce, pretzels, and Nutella.” I tried meal planning. I failed. So now I’m aiming low and just adding string cheese, strawberries, cucumbers, and frozen pizza into the mix.
• I can’t stop using the Oxford comma. I love it too much.
• Last night I went to a basketball game. Yeah, you heard right. Me. College ball. It happened. Jim’s oldest daughter Katelynn and her husband Nathaniel asked us along to the UNR game last night. I got into watching the game and learned some of the rules. UNR won. (I think. I don’t actually remember.) I enjoy Katelynn and Nathaniel. They’re smart-funny. Katelynn’s extra-dry humor tends to scare the hell out of me, but I’m working through it.
• All four of Jim’s kids are pretty rad. (Duh, else I wouldn’t be dating him.) It’s interesting to be involved with a family where the kids’ personalities are developed. I prefer it this way. While kids aren’t my thing to begin with, baby-age kids really aren’t my thing. I don’t know how to interact with them. I start to develop relationships with my nieces and nephews when I can have conversations with them. Before that, I’m at a total loss. Jim’s kids are 7, 12, 19, and 22 (and is Nathaniel 25? I’m not certain there, but he needs to be included on the list, because Jim considers Nathaniel one of his own), so I don’t have to wait around until I can figure out how to interact with them. The 7-year-old is a snuggler and has a flair for art. The 12-year-old's got a knack for humor and when you combine that with her smarts, you get a wit beyond her age that’s seriously engaging. The 19-year-old is his father. He’s a hard worker, funny, frank, inappropriate, ambitious, and liked by everyone. The 22-year-old is sweet and cerebral. Her husband is kind and committed to family. And Jim and I love watching how those two support, tease, and love each other.
• I need a haircut so badly that I think every day about texting Hannah and begging her to fit me in. But my appointment is early next week, so it’s not necessary. My bangs are in my eyes and my ends are split. That hasn’t happened in years. And while I’m liking my longer hair, it way sucks in sweaty, sweaty yoga. I’ve got lots of hair and apparently triple the amount of sweat glands on my head that everyone else has, so I have to ring out my locks a few times during every class.
• Tonight sister Whit texted me to say that she saw the Wayfair commercial with my art in it. What a swell way to end the day.
• Hopefully this little blog purge will lead to sleep. My mind is too active, and it usually doesn't let me sleep well. I wish spinning thoughts burned lots of calories. Then I could eat Swedish Fish all day long.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
BY ANY OTHER NAME
My last name is quite the conversation starter. Everyone has an opinion. Still. I've been divorced for more than a year, and I'm still asked constantly if I'm maintaining Romo as my surname.
On this blog sometime in early 2013, I mentioned in passing that I'd be keeping Romo, but I didn't delve much into it. I didn't think it was a thing. Apparently it is. Most people can't understand why I'd want to keep "Mark's last name" and my retort, "but it's not 'his'; it's mine now" hasn't been good enough.
The one person who understood immediately and without a word of explanation from me was Jim's 19-year-old son Dustin, who, it should be said, isn't one of Mark's fans, seeing as my ex-husband had an affair with his mother that ended up fracturing Dustin's family. In conversation one night when my last name came up yet again, and the question was the usual one, "Why in the world wouldn't you go back to your maiden name?" I didn't have to answer. Dustin jumped in and did it for me, and the gist of his dead-on answer was this:
I've built a career with that name. It's under this name that I've spent all my adult life. I have email addresses and a URL and a graduate diploma with this name. I am this person: Megan Romo.
Sure, I can have all that changed, but my name is mine, and it doesn't offend me. And, as Dustin said, most people who can't understand why I am so attached to my name as it is don't have careers and searchable accomplishments where they are known by a specific name. If you're not sure what I mean, google "Megan Romo."
Then there's this: words and letters arranged into sounds and cadences matter to me. I like the flow of "Megan Romo." I never liked my maiden name, Peterson. None of the girls in my family do. Name-wise, we all believe we married into upgrades (or in Mally's case a lateral shift). Even my mom sees Peterson for the bummer that it is. She liked her maiden name Samson better and is happy it lives on in my sister, Cat's, son, Samson.
All this doesn't mean that we don't appreciate the Peterson name. We love and honor the people on that side of the family. Just because I think Peterson sucks doesn't mean I don't appreciate and love my dad, the man from whom that name came. It's not the name that made the man. And along that same thread, my keeping Romo isn't some tribute to the loser off whom I got it. This name is mine. I adopted it. I'm keeping it.
And that is something special that Carrie and I get to share now. When she married my ex, Mark Romo, she changed her name from that of her children—Elliker—to Romo. So now we have even more in common! For a few months, we shared a man (only one of us was in the know about that though, and it sure wasn't me), and now we share a last and middle name.
I'm Megan Lynn Romo.
She's Carrie Lynn Romo.
It's like we're sister wives!
I'm the bright wife with a job, a graduate degree (though admittedly in liberal arts and therefore pretty worthless), a vocabulary with polysyllabic words, wit, a birthday in the 80s, decency, a right to self-respect, and an honorable man as mine. And she's the dim wife with the downgraded significant other, fake boobs, a penchant for country music, half her children half the time, no hobbies and thus nothing to do during the day, a bad back, no ass, and a truly laughable, trying-too-hard-and-failing-miserably, stylish-perhaps-eight-years-ago, and-firmly-rooted-in-Reno taste in clothes.
On this blog sometime in early 2013, I mentioned in passing that I'd be keeping Romo, but I didn't delve much into it. I didn't think it was a thing. Apparently it is. Most people can't understand why I'd want to keep "Mark's last name" and my retort, "but it's not 'his'; it's mine now" hasn't been good enough.
The one person who understood immediately and without a word of explanation from me was Jim's 19-year-old son Dustin, who, it should be said, isn't one of Mark's fans, seeing as my ex-husband had an affair with his mother that ended up fracturing Dustin's family. In conversation one night when my last name came up yet again, and the question was the usual one, "Why in the world wouldn't you go back to your maiden name?" I didn't have to answer. Dustin jumped in and did it for me, and the gist of his dead-on answer was this:
I've built a career with that name. It's under this name that I've spent all my adult life. I have email addresses and a URL and a graduate diploma with this name. I am this person: Megan Romo.
Sure, I can have all that changed, but my name is mine, and it doesn't offend me. And, as Dustin said, most people who can't understand why I am so attached to my name as it is don't have careers and searchable accomplishments where they are known by a specific name. If you're not sure what I mean, google "Megan Romo."
Then there's this: words and letters arranged into sounds and cadences matter to me. I like the flow of "Megan Romo." I never liked my maiden name, Peterson. None of the girls in my family do. Name-wise, we all believe we married into upgrades (or in Mally's case a lateral shift). Even my mom sees Peterson for the bummer that it is. She liked her maiden name Samson better and is happy it lives on in my sister, Cat's, son, Samson.
All this doesn't mean that we don't appreciate the Peterson name. We love and honor the people on that side of the family. Just because I think Peterson sucks doesn't mean I don't appreciate and love my dad, the man from whom that name came. It's not the name that made the man. And along that same thread, my keeping Romo isn't some tribute to the loser off whom I got it. This name is mine. I adopted it. I'm keeping it.
And that is something special that Carrie and I get to share now. When she married my ex, Mark Romo, she changed her name from that of her children—Elliker—to Romo. So now we have even more in common! For a few months, we shared a man (only one of us was in the know about that though, and it sure wasn't me), and now we share a last and middle name.
I'm Megan Lynn Romo.
She's Carrie Lynn Romo.
It's like we're sister wives!
I'm the bright wife with a job, a graduate degree (though admittedly in liberal arts and therefore pretty worthless), a vocabulary with polysyllabic words, wit, a birthday in the 80s, decency, a right to self-respect, and an honorable man as mine. And she's the dim wife with the downgraded significant other, fake boobs, a penchant for country music, half her children half the time, no hobbies and thus nothing to do during the day, a bad back, no ass, and a truly laughable, trying-too-hard-and-failing-miserably, stylish-perhaps-eight-years-ago, and-firmly-rooted-in-Reno taste in clothes.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
PUTTING THE FUN BACK IN FUNDS
Since Jim will never be rid of me—not that he wants to be—I will never be rid of the loose, selfish woman who banged my husband or that poser to whom I was married for 10 years. Strangely—even though I see them as two of the most disgusting people polluting Planet Earth—that didn't get in my way. Or perhaps it's not strange at all when you consider how good Jim is to me, what a catch he is. The man makes me all girlish and swoony. I've known from our start that dating Jim meant that Carrie, the floozy who had an affair with my spouse, would be a permanent fixture in my life, seeing as she and Jim have kids together, and Carrie is still dependent on him for all the funds to pay for her life.
And since she is the Wasband's meal ticket, there's no getting rid of him either. That is, until he finds a woman better able to provide for him. Which may be sooner than later, Dear Reader, because Carrie just lost nearly half of her monthly income.
See, my ex and my boyfriend's ex—the ones that had an affair with each other, in case you're new 'round here—just got married, thus ending Jim's obligation to pay them $2,500/mo. in alimony.
You just gasped. You may have cheered. And if you're anything like our friends and family, your first fully-formed thought in regard to the nuptials had to do with Jim's wallet. Everyone we know is so happy for my boyfriend, since even though he's the one who got cheated on, he's had to continue providing the livelihood for his ex. When it comes to the alimony part of things, that's over now, and, quite honestly, we wonder how they are going to live on the $3000-some-odd that Jim's still stuck forking over to them each month (child support, etc.). Neither one has a job and there are some very expensive tastes in that relationship.
(On that, curious minds want to know what kind of ring Carrie bought for herself. Well, that's probably not fair; maybe Mark saved up his weekly allowance of Jim's money that Carrie gave him so that he could purchase the ring "himself.")
Now, don't let yourselves believe that their marriage means those two have some kind of commitment to one another that will increase their relationship's longevity. Marital promises certainly didn't get in their way before.
That being said, I'm just so happy for them. Thrilled. Elated. Dizzy with joy on their behalf. Wishing them the buckets of happiness that they certainly merit. So I thought and thought of what could be an appropriate wedding gift for that loafing failure and his elderly tramp. It was my friend Lara though who came up with the best idea: a referral to a divorce attorney! It's only a matter of time before the once-a-cheater-always-a-cheater exes will need that wedding gift.
So any bets on how long the ill-fated and dishonorably-started union will last?
Oh, and Mark and Carrie, you nitwits, although you had the subpoena served to me before class at the yoga studio, today's was a killer practice. I worked hard, sweat buckets, executed one of my better standing bows, and came out feeling powerful. And, bummer again, no one witnessed the very nice man give me the papers. Don't worry though, when I got in the studio, I made sure to loop in my friends.
And since she is the Wasband's meal ticket, there's no getting rid of him either. That is, until he finds a woman better able to provide for him. Which may be sooner than later, Dear Reader, because Carrie just lost nearly half of her monthly income.
See, my ex and my boyfriend's ex—the ones that had an affair with each other, in case you're new 'round here—just got married, thus ending Jim's obligation to pay them $2,500/mo. in alimony.
You just gasped. You may have cheered. And if you're anything like our friends and family, your first fully-formed thought in regard to the nuptials had to do with Jim's wallet. Everyone we know is so happy for my boyfriend, since even though he's the one who got cheated on, he's had to continue providing the livelihood for his ex. When it comes to the alimony part of things, that's over now, and, quite honestly, we wonder how they are going to live on the $3000-some-odd that Jim's still stuck forking over to them each month (child support, etc.). Neither one has a job and there are some very expensive tastes in that relationship.
(On that, curious minds want to know what kind of ring Carrie bought for herself. Well, that's probably not fair; maybe Mark saved up his weekly allowance of Jim's money that Carrie gave him so that he could purchase the ring "himself.")
Now, don't let yourselves believe that their marriage means those two have some kind of commitment to one another that will increase their relationship's longevity. Marital promises certainly didn't get in their way before.
That being said, I'm just so happy for them. Thrilled. Elated. Dizzy with joy on their behalf. Wishing them the buckets of happiness that they certainly merit. So I thought and thought of what could be an appropriate wedding gift for that loafing failure and his elderly tramp. It was my friend Lara though who came up with the best idea: a referral to a divorce attorney! It's only a matter of time before the once-a-cheater-always-a-cheater exes will need that wedding gift.
So any bets on how long the ill-fated and dishonorably-started union will last?
•••
Monday, January 20, 2014
BITS & PIECES OF THIS & THAT
Last Wednesday I got a text from my Whitney-sister that said, “I feel like you dropped off the face of the planet. Where are you?” I’ve been here. And there, I guess. I haven’t been up to anything all that out of my ordinary. I just haven’t been very interested in The Online.
• This is my current Facebook profile picture:
Karla, my kindred soul in the spirit of badassery, said that in this photo she sees my dad in my face. She said I have his jawline and his mouth, and she said that he and I share the same “piecing eye contact that says ‘okay, engage but don't waste my time.’" Caught us both. She made my day with that.
• I do not like truffles. The fungus kind. The chocolate kind I love.
• I do, however, like tater tots. Lots and lots, I like tots.
• I fell. I gave in. I got a Kindle Paperwhite. I resisted ereaders for years because I like physical books. I like the way they smell, and I look forward to breaking their spines. But I wasn’t reading them. I wasn’t remembering to bring books when I leave the house. I wasn’t reading in bed. But my Kindle is so damn convenient. It’s little and light and easy to keep on hand. The battery has lots of life. I can read it in bed with the lamp off, and perhaps best of all, it’s just books. The Kindle doesn’t have the same distractions that an iPad or my phone has, no Internet or texting, only words on a backlit page. With this Kindle thing I’ve got words at my fingertips, and that’s what I’ve wanted.
• I haven’t been designing. I haven’t been writing. I have been doing a lot of yoga. I need to start working harder in class though. I feel like I’ve been slacking off. While my knees feel much better than months ago, they are still quite problematic, but if I’m gentle and aware I can push it harder without injury. With increased dedication, I think I can get more from this body of mine.
• Jim always smells good. The number of times I’ve asked him how the hell he always smells so good are incalculable.
• Divorce is hardest on the kids. Everyone says this, and I think they’re right. It can take a toll pets too. During the affair/divorce stuff, my dog got too skinny and relieved her house-trained self willy nilly all over the downstairs. She’s doing much better now. In fact, my divorce ended up being the best thing in the world for my pet. While she lost one human, she gained so much more. She has a new dog best friend, Labradoodle Gus. They play together, chasing birds in Jim’s backyard. They snuggle up on Gus’ dog bed together. And she got Jim’s kids. Josie cuddles Sophie. Ben plays with her. Even Katelynn, who says she doesn't like dogs, tolerates tiny Soph. (Also, I've told Nathaniel that while my dog is about the same size as the bunnies he grew up raising for food, Sophie isn’t for eating.) And Dustin is my puppy savior. He’s the one who takes my girl when I’m out of town. It’s the ideal situation. She is in a house she knows and thinks she owns, she can go in and out as she pleases, and she gets to snuggle with Dustin at night. My divorce has come to mean that my dog got a serious life-upgrade: more people to adore her, a canine best friend, a dream dog sitter, and not one but two residences over which she believes—and not inaccurately, I think—she has free reign.
• Free the whales. I watched Blackfish. So I say we stop catching and exploiting the slippery beasts and do other things with our time, other things like, say, paint a wall, take a cake decorating class, or walk someone’s dog. Even falling into a reality TV show is a better way to be a human than capturing whales.
• Being Jim’s perma-plus-one is boatloads more entertaining than when I was married to what I now see was a very boring man. A couple weeks ago we went to Jim's networking group’s holiday party at the Nevada Museum of Art. The featured exhibit was Toulouse-Lautrec, so the party was a Moulin Rouge theme. Yes, we had masks to go with our formal wear. I'm down with getting dressed up when it means we've got the museum to ourselves. I enjoy going to art museums with Jim. We stand in front of a group of pieces and try to pick out which one the other is most drawn to. I like to look at a painting while Jim tells me what he sees. Usually it’s a world different from what I see. I like art as a way to get to know your partner better. And after all that sotto voce picture lookin’ it’s fun to go downstairs where there’s a DJ and a bunch of inebriated entrepreneurs gettin’ down. My boyfriend is a good sport.
• I dig pie.
• I had my annual physical on Friday. I love getting my stats. Weight. Height. BP. Pulse, etc. I like being boiled down to a bunch of unique numbers that describe my corporeal self. But I don’t like the homework Doc gives me. She assigned labs and the flu shot that I’ve been avoiding. Therefore Jim, I’m asking you out—Sweetheart, I know you still haven’t gotten your flu shot yet either, so will you be my date to get stabbed with a virus? We can share the experience of watching me turn into a doughy ball of whimpering perspiration. Afterward I’ll buy you a smoothie.
• This is my current Facebook profile picture:
Karla, my kindred soul in the spirit of badassery, said that in this photo she sees my dad in my face. She said I have his jawline and his mouth, and she said that he and I share the same “piecing eye contact that says ‘okay, engage but don't waste my time.’" Caught us both. She made my day with that.
• I do not like truffles. The fungus kind. The chocolate kind I love.
• I do, however, like tater tots. Lots and lots, I like tots.
• I fell. I gave in. I got a Kindle Paperwhite. I resisted ereaders for years because I like physical books. I like the way they smell, and I look forward to breaking their spines. But I wasn’t reading them. I wasn’t remembering to bring books when I leave the house. I wasn’t reading in bed. But my Kindle is so damn convenient. It’s little and light and easy to keep on hand. The battery has lots of life. I can read it in bed with the lamp off, and perhaps best of all, it’s just books. The Kindle doesn’t have the same distractions that an iPad or my phone has, no Internet or texting, only words on a backlit page. With this Kindle thing I’ve got words at my fingertips, and that’s what I’ve wanted.
• I haven’t been designing. I haven’t been writing. I have been doing a lot of yoga. I need to start working harder in class though. I feel like I’ve been slacking off. While my knees feel much better than months ago, they are still quite problematic, but if I’m gentle and aware I can push it harder without injury. With increased dedication, I think I can get more from this body of mine.
• Jim always smells good. The number of times I’ve asked him how the hell he always smells so good are incalculable.
• Divorce is hardest on the kids. Everyone says this, and I think they’re right. It can take a toll pets too. During the affair/divorce stuff, my dog got too skinny and relieved her house-trained self willy nilly all over the downstairs. She’s doing much better now. In fact, my divorce ended up being the best thing in the world for my pet. While she lost one human, she gained so much more. She has a new dog best friend, Labradoodle Gus. They play together, chasing birds in Jim’s backyard. They snuggle up on Gus’ dog bed together. And she got Jim’s kids. Josie cuddles Sophie. Ben plays with her. Even Katelynn, who says she doesn't like dogs, tolerates tiny Soph. (Also, I've told Nathaniel that while my dog is about the same size as the bunnies he grew up raising for food, Sophie isn’t for eating.) And Dustin is my puppy savior. He’s the one who takes my girl when I’m out of town. It’s the ideal situation. She is in a house she knows and thinks she owns, she can go in and out as she pleases, and she gets to snuggle with Dustin at night. My divorce has come to mean that my dog got a serious life-upgrade: more people to adore her, a canine best friend, a dream dog sitter, and not one but two residences over which she believes—and not inaccurately, I think—she has free reign.
• Free the whales. I watched Blackfish. So I say we stop catching and exploiting the slippery beasts and do other things with our time, other things like, say, paint a wall, take a cake decorating class, or walk someone’s dog. Even falling into a reality TV show is a better way to be a human than capturing whales.
• Being Jim’s perma-plus-one is boatloads more entertaining than when I was married to what I now see was a very boring man. A couple weeks ago we went to Jim's networking group’s holiday party at the Nevada Museum of Art. The featured exhibit was Toulouse-Lautrec, so the party was a Moulin Rouge theme. Yes, we had masks to go with our formal wear. I'm down with getting dressed up when it means we've got the museum to ourselves. I enjoy going to art museums with Jim. We stand in front of a group of pieces and try to pick out which one the other is most drawn to. I like to look at a painting while Jim tells me what he sees. Usually it’s a world different from what I see. I like art as a way to get to know your partner better. And after all that sotto voce picture lookin’ it’s fun to go downstairs where there’s a DJ and a bunch of inebriated entrepreneurs gettin’ down. My boyfriend is a good sport.
• I dig pie.
• I had my annual physical on Friday. I love getting my stats. Weight. Height. BP. Pulse, etc. I like being boiled down to a bunch of unique numbers that describe my corporeal self. But I don’t like the homework Doc gives me. She assigned labs and the flu shot that I’ve been avoiding. Therefore Jim, I’m asking you out—Sweetheart, I know you still haven’t gotten your flu shot yet either, so will you be my date to get stabbed with a virus? We can share the experience of watching me turn into a doughy ball of whimpering perspiration. Afterward I’ll buy you a smoothie.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
MY TWO
Since I’m awkward and an introvert and snotty and different and generally just not great with humans, I don't make friends easily. Or kind of at all. With my mom and my five sisters I have besties built into my family. Those six are stuck with me. And then I have Amber, and I have Jessica, the friends I met online. (That is true. Never you mind the details . . . )
These two are the best kind of friends. We don’t have to talk all the time. Sometimes we text every day. They’ve got wits that are quick and minds that are open. They’re educated. They're thoughtful. They’re good moms. They are bright and curious, and, perhaps best of all, they've got depth.
When we get together we don’t do worthless shit like pedicures and shopping. If shopping happens along the way, okay, but we never set out to blow time like that. Instead we sprawl on my couch and talk for hours. We eat in my kitchen. We learn things. We share facts and seek opinions. Sometimes we travel. And we patronize hokey local museums.
It all doesn’t happen often though, because we all don't all live in the same state. Jess is in L.A. and Amber’s in the ‘Tah. We three in one place is a too infrequent thing. Like, only once yearly.
But it’s happening now.
I’ve got ‘em both locked in my house at this very moment. Amber’s nestled in the guest room. Jess is on the bed in my office. Today we did what we do. We went to an old cemetery. We got Amber to make a spaghetti squash bake for dinner. I made hummus. We ate candy. We talked on my couch. And, as ever, my friends froze because I keep my house like an ice box.
These pals are the good part of being a grown up. (Which, as we all know, can really suck.) They’re why it’s so important that I have a comfy place for guests. I need these humans. They’re real and nurturing and reflective and responsible and thinking and pretty and fit and stylish and clever and talented and above-average and exactly everything I could want in people of my own. And right now they are right here.
Contented sigh.
These two are the best kind of friends. We don’t have to talk all the time. Sometimes we text every day. They’ve got wits that are quick and minds that are open. They’re educated. They're thoughtful. They’re good moms. They are bright and curious, and, perhaps best of all, they've got depth.
When we get together we don’t do worthless shit like pedicures and shopping. If shopping happens along the way, okay, but we never set out to blow time like that. Instead we sprawl on my couch and talk for hours. We eat in my kitchen. We learn things. We share facts and seek opinions. Sometimes we travel. And we patronize hokey local museums.
It all doesn’t happen often though, because we all don't all live in the same state. Jess is in L.A. and Amber’s in the ‘Tah. We three in one place is a too infrequent thing. Like, only once yearly.
But it’s happening now.
I’ve got ‘em both locked in my house at this very moment. Amber’s nestled in the guest room. Jess is on the bed in my office. Today we did what we do. We went to an old cemetery. We got Amber to make a spaghetti squash bake for dinner. I made hummus. We ate candy. We talked on my couch. And, as ever, my friends froze because I keep my house like an ice box.
These pals are the good part of being a grown up. (Which, as we all know, can really suck.) They’re why it’s so important that I have a comfy place for guests. I need these humans. They’re real and nurturing and reflective and responsible and thinking and pretty and fit and stylish and clever and talented and above-average and exactly everything I could want in people of my own. And right now they are right here.
Contented sigh.
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