If I could clone him, I would.

06:00 Hello, my name is Monday. Can you find your wallet?

1. Sunday afternoon, run around and do errands, putting wallet in the paper grocery bag for the walk home from the store. (Kick self for not remembering re-usable bags).
2. Unload groceries at home.
3. Use paper bag(s) to sort recycling and garbage.
4. Have Patrick take recycling and garbage to the dumpster in the alley behind the apartment.
5. Watch Dexter.
...
7. Take shower and go to sleep.
8. Wake up, make coffee, get dressed and kiss Patrick as he leaves for work.
9. Brush teeth, gather stuff for Light Control class after work and grab walle...

Did you look on top of the fridge? Under the sofa? On the dresser? In the closet? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

It's in the dumpster. Or in the recycle. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Climb in dumpster and rummage through the bags. Turn the recycling upside down. Call apartment manager and ask if he knows the garbage collection schedule. Listen to a rambling, unorganized train of thought that convinces you he's probably been smoking pot all night.

Call Patrick and sob.

Walk to work and continue to sob, feeling mildly grateful it's raining to hide the tears. Regain composure and walk into work as if nothing is wrong. God forbid if anyone's barista has their own life, with actual things on their mind.

07:10 Remember why you're marrying Patrick.

This man ran home (neither of us drive to work), searched the dumpster again, found my wallet, brought it to me, gave me a hug and went back to work.

Monday, you bitch, you can't get me. I have Patrick on my side.

P.S. The garbage and recycling were collected at 09:00.

Write. Every day.

How people come up with consistently interesting blogposts is a mystery to me.

I'm going to start carrying a notepad and jotting down ideas as they occur to me.

This will not be just a piss-and-moan, complaint department blog.

This will not be a mommy blog (when I actually become a mommy).

This will not be an "I don't know what to write about. So...here's what I had for dinner" blog.

I don't know what this will be.

But I promise to write. A lot. Also, if I told you about this blog, consider yourself among the lucky three. I'm not yet ready to share this with the world. If you're here by sheer accident, keep coming back. Everything will get better.

This is a picture from Todos Santos, where Patrick and I will get married next year.

An example of just how unmotivated I can be

About 15 years ago, I was in a severe car accident in which I was immobilized, pulled from my dad's SUV and laid on the side of the icy freeway. At that very moment, no one knew the extent of my injuries. Later we would learn that I had broken my shoulder blade. Breaking one's shoulder blade probably seems like no big deal in the grand scheme of all things (I could have actually broken my spine), but in the scheme of today and this past weekend, it's a motherfucking nightmare.

As a wholly relevant aside, I will also point out that my parents and my parents' dog were in the SUV too and they were also injured (though not hospitalized like me). If I had the pictures handy, I would post them here. It was an ugly, mangled mess. We all quite obviously were lucky to survive. But we did and now we laugh about how my dad couldn't stop saying "Do you know what happened? What happened? I don't know what happened..."

Now, back to the motherfucking nightmare part:

Whenever the weather decides to embrace the Pacific Northwest chill, I wonder when I should start adding more layers of clothes. Layers are the hallmark of a good Seattle wardrobe for just about everyone--and for me, it is the difference between a massive back spasm and being able to stand upright. If there's a chill in the air during the short walk home from work, if I suddenly grasp whatever I'm wearing a little tighter around me, the muscles in my back will for sure soon twist and turn themselves into an unrecognizable mass of tight things. I won't be able to stop it.

I could actually exercise. Work out. Strength train. Whatever you want to call it. Any of those things make my back and muscles less fragile.

I don't do that. My "exercise" consists of walking to and from work. Patrick bought me a Wii Fit for my birthday a couple of months ago. If there was a hint in that gift, I failed to take it. Sometimes, however, I do think it's hysterical to do the hula hoop workout (with no actual hula hoop) in the evenings, near the window.

The show lasts 6 minutes.

My next post will have pictures of something good. I promise.

Random Word Generator: Impregnation

It is really no secret at all that I want to get pregnant. In fact, every single month I manage to convince myself that I might be pregnant. My coworkers have to hear all about it. Additionally, I am often nauseated in the mornings, just in general, because I don't eat breakfast but I drink coffee. It's gotten to the point where all I do is mention needing to eat something or else I'm going to barf and someone says (before I even finish saying it, actually) "I know, I know. What if you're pregnant...?"

I'm very transparent.

All this is to say that we are not actually trying to get pregnant right now. At least not for a few months. We're not not trying though, either. If you know what I mean. What I mean is we are not using any birth control whatsoever. Except for a general guess at when I might be fertile. And then. Well, so far, it's pretty much worked out.

A couple of months ago, I really did think I was pregnant. Really, really thought I was pregnant. I was actually late. Or I thought I was late. Maybe I wasn't. I was busy and may have counted wrong. At any rate, I let myself get more than a little excited before I took a home pregnancy test. The possibility of being pregnant was sweeter than knowing the truth. I wanted to hold on to that feeling for as long as I could.

Patrick had a little bit of a different thought process. I think he was more worried than he thought he would be. Or. Oh, I don't know. The thought of it being a reality and how our lives would (and will) change. He was probably wondering more than a little at how my already decent back and forth moods would get a big push on the proverbial swingset of hormonal choas.

But then I took one test. Negative. But no period. So I took another. Negative. Still no period. On Monday I made an appointment with my doctor for Friday. And wouldn't you know it, on Tuesday I finally got my period. At work. My coworkers knew first.

Then I sent Patrick a text: "Another egg. Wasted."

And then another: "At least I won't be 8 months pregnant at our wedding!"

Catch up!

It's been a while since I've posted. Actually, I have no idea how long it's been since I've posted. I forgot to check that before I started writing this.

Here's what's new:

1. Patrick and I are getting married next year in April. In Mexico. Most everyone who happens upon this post by accident will not be invited. That includes most of the people I know who might happen upon this post. At this point, no one knows I write this blog.

2. I don't like my job. I work part time as a barista for a very large coffee company based out of Seattle. I'm not going to say the name of the company paying my wages and health insurance. Most everyone will be able to guess it anyway, but just for some sense of decorum, I'll not say it. I am, however, looking for a new job. One that I will be good at and like. Tall order. See what I did there?

3. I applied for a killer job this past week. Put everything I had into the cover letter and rewriting my resume. I got the initial rejection because I don't have experience in one (key) aspect of the job. I could learn that aspect in about 10 seconds if they'd just hear me out. I was told that if the person they're interviewing this week isn't a good match, they'll bring me in to discuss the job with me. I hope that person bombs the interview in the most hellacious, pitiful, embarrassing way. I want that job. It's perfect for me.

4. I gained, like, 10 or 15 pounds in the past couple of years. They just kind of crept up on me. My clothes mostly fit, but they don't fit well. It really sucks because in addition to gaining 10 or 15 pounds, it's more difficult to lose them the older I get. I'm going to turn 40 next year. I don't like that either.

5. I discovered I have food allergies. A bunch of them. Eggs, dairy, gluten. And then I decided to stop consuming soy in almost all its forms. If you read below and see that my most perfect meal is eggs, etc., I don't eat that anymore. I wish I could. I really like eggs. A lot.

6. I threw my back out. Again.

All of this must sound like I'm just a miserable excuse for a human being. I don't think I am. I've got a lot going my way. I'm loved. I'm loved in the most beautiful, crazy, genuine of ways. I'm doing a lot of photography. As much as I want to anyway. I'm good at it. And Im getting better at it.

I need to write more. I'm going to write more.

Engaged!

We were snowed in. Patrick's family wasn't coming for Christmas day, so the usual course of Christmas day business was put on hold. Not in small part because of the kid. A 14 month-old requires naps. In multiples.

Stockings "opened," bacon eaten, coffee drunk...at about 3 pm Christmas gifts still hadn't been distributed or opened. The kid and Patrick's dad were napping (again). So I suggested that we take a nap too.

In retrospect, I now recall the frustration in Patrick's voice and body language.

But suddenly the dad and the kid were awake. So began the gift opening!

I got a coat from Patrick. I gave him a fedora, a wallet and a pair of nice black leather gloves.

Other things were exchanged. I don't really remember what at this point.

The last gift was for me.

I unwrapped, unknowingly, the box Patrick had prepared...

As I opened the lid, a sheet of tissue paper rose and revealed a ring box. I gasped and looked at Patrick. "Read the caaaaarrrrrrdddd fiiiirrrrrssssttttt...!"

As tears welled in my eyes, I restrained myself and calmly opened the envelope. The 14 month-old had become attached to me and was now concerned that I was crying. His parents forcefully restrained him. I would later find out that his mother, Laney, Patrick's sister was heard to have said: What's he doing? Is he doing what I think he's doing? Oh, my god! And her husband, Roland, was heard to have answered: Shhhh...! He's DOING IT!

A plain card with the fortune from that fortune cookie from Buddha Ruksa just three weeks earlier:

"You or a close friend will be happily married."

And then he spoke. "Now that you've met my family, I'm hoping you want to become a part of it. Officially. Tracey, will you marry me?"

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

I nodded, cried, said yes. Or said yes, nodded and cried. Or cried, said yes and nodded.

And so it began.

So Fine, Class of '89

My 20-year high school reunion was last night. I don't really have a whole lot to say about it except that I'm really very glad I never went down the tanning booth path that so many of my classmates did. Like, whoa.

We should all have renewed faith in the power of sunscreen

And diet. And exercise.

Having babies clearly changes the body. I'm scared.

The thing is, people were exactly how I expected them to be. This is not to say that it was a bad experience. Not at all. Except for the fact that I started hyperventilating as I approached the entrance. And that I could hardly take a single step once I got into the room. And that I couldn't make eye contact with anyone for the longest time. And that I could only focus on one person at a time. And that some of my best, most natural conversations of the evening were with the spouses of my former classmates. Some of them made really good choices.

Some people got stupidly drunk. Those people are exactly those I figured would.

No, people were the same, more or less. My class was a tough crowd. Then, and now. I still don't like the people I didn't like then. I still like the people I did. I am as neutral as I always was about the people who then barely hit my radar. If I expected anything different, I would have been sorely mistaken.

There really were no big surprises. Except that the night ended way too quickly.

What's for dinner

This is is my perfect meal. It nourishes, relaxes, comforts. I only eat this by myself. I only want to eat this by myself. This perfect meal is a solitary effort. This works. Every single time.

Potatoes, fried in a cast iron skillet.
Add bell peppers, fry some more.

While that's going on, whisk some eggs with salt and pepper.

Turn the heat down pretty low and get rid of some of the frying oil (most of it, actually) from the skillet.
Add a whopping handful of spinach and watch it wilt.
Add the eggs, scramble and then dump it all out onto a plate.

If they're in season, slice up an avocado.

I would never do this in front of another person. Not ever (again). I've come to understand that this is my "alone activity." One of my favorites.

This endless mess

The last few days, weeks have been an exercise in mess. As in transferring the mess from one location to another, from one city to another, from one apartment to another from one room to another. As in attempting to clean up one mess but making another in the process. As in not understanding where the mess came from in the first place, whose mess it really is and just wanting it to go away.

There's an ebb and flow to messing things up. Things in this room are a mess of details and where all of it is supposed to go. Truth be told, there's not really enough space for all the stuff that I (we) have to put here. Although I already tossed a bunch of clothes I no longer wear, lost the sofa and bench (to very good new homes), boxed up books and CDs to be sold at a garage sale, consolidated the kitchen collection and pared down my lotions and potions, there's still more to clean up.

It's overwhelming, really. Two people in love decide to live together. There are days when I feel like I've dumped everything somewhere else and that someday in the distant or not-to-distant future, I wonder if I'll wonder where I've put it. That pretty barrette that I wore only once since I bought it four years ago, but maybe should've kept because one never knows when one might have need for a pretty barrette. There are also days when I feel like I've implicitly obliged Patrick to dump everything in order to make room for all my stuff. And I wonder if he'll wonder whatever happened to the set of sheets that didn't fit any bed in this place but maybe should've kept because one never knows when one might need to cover a non-existent inflatable bed of a size and shape yet to be determined if and when guests come from out of town.

I keep thinking that if we just close our eyes, toss it all in the dumpster and never look back we won't even know what we've missed. This mess.

I love Patrick. Without any hesitation, I love him. And this is the most right thing I've ever chosen in my entire life.

But moving is a messy bitch.

What went right.

Someday, people may read this particular post and think to themselves, "Wow, I wish I'd chronicled all the things that went right in my life." And when they do, I hope they know that I wish that too. Because I'm quite sure that I will forget to write about so many of the things that are about to go right. Starting now.

Instead, it would be so great if people thought to themselves, "Wow, that girl knew the best thing when she saw it." Because that's the truth.

I did.

And here's how it happened.

One day I logged into Myspace. Yeah. Myspace. Normally I'm a Facebook girl, but I do have an account (which I rarely check) and in late January of this year, I logged in. Don't you just love being greeted with "New Comments!" and "New Event Invitations!" and "New Messages!"? I know I do.

Actually, it was only one new message and it was from Patrick, sent January 18th, with the subject line: Anybody home? I know this because I still have the email. Patrick is the ex-boyfriend of an acquaintance of mine, a Swedish girl I met (also through Myspace) a few years back when I was getting ready to move back to Seattle from Sweden and wanted to keep up my language skills.

A number of pleasantries exchanged, an invitation to a birthday-bowling party, an apology for not attending said birthday-bowling party with a consolation "let's get a drink" offer later, and we somehow found ourselves falling in love. Well, that's jumping ahead a little.

The "let's get a drink" offer resulted in meeting at the Bohemian--a coffee shop--at 4pm where I drank tea (because I was getting over a cold) and where he drank wine. Which led to dinner at Circa (because I worked there at the time and could get us food on the cheap). Which led to late-night happy hour at Mission--where I again drank close to a gallon of tea.

He, probably fairly well buzzed, left around 1am. Yes. 1 am.

And here's the best part of all: He didn't even kiss me!

No. I'm not kidding.

I don't think it was until the next day that either one of us realized that we had just had the motherload of first dates. And that it had gone really, really well.

The next weekend was Valentine's Day. And of all things that could go wrong, having a 2nd date on Valentine's Day catapults those things into a whole new level of awkwardness. So I did what any right-thinking person would do and invited a group of friends to accompany me on my 2nd non-date, which just happened to be an evening of bowling, with Patrick.

Let it be known for all of eternity that while February 2009 was indeed a "dry month" for me, I had allowed myself one day of, ahem, wetness (so to speak) and Valentine's Day was the designated date.

At some point, Patrick asked if he could "crash on my sofa" since it would not be prudent to drive in any sort of intoxicated condition. I agreed, and even went so far as to bring him a pillow and blanket.

But then.

Well, then we started talking. About all sorts of pain and other miserable things. It was Valentine's Day after all.

It started getting late. Very late. And while we were talking, Patrick began playing with my hair. And before I knew it he had caressed my cheek. And then he softly lifted my chin and kissed me in the sweetest, sincerest, most deliberate and loving way.

And that was really, really right.

Even better? I will always remember the date: February 15th, 2009.