where I'm calling from

Last night I drank exactly a half a glass too much pinot noir when I was out with Maggie.

Maggie and I spun our bar conversation in many circles for two hours, touching on death, children, desires, loneliness and hope.

As we stepped outside into the raging cold wind coming off the Sound, I scanned the passing cars on First Avenue. I squinted, trying to flag down Derreck for a ride home. I wanted to get back to my novel, into a hot bath, and away from my work day. My brain was heavy.

I was reading "The Help" by Kathyrn Stockett. Most of you will know the story from the movie, but I read books first. I haven't seen the movie. We got home late and I slipped straight into the bath, paging through the novel as quickly as I could. I climbed out, into my PJs and straight into bed with the book. Derreck asked if I would come downstairs and be social with him, but I knew I had to get up very early and that I only had an hour to read. I needed to finish.

Ninety minutes later and the book was done. I lay there, thinking about it and how I felt. I felt like I had placed a small BB into my mouth, was clicking it against my teeth. Worrying it in my mouth. And then I swallowed it.

I swallowed the thoughts, emotions, stories from the book. I sent Derreck a text, told him I felt sad from the story, so he came up and lay next to me, draped an arm around me. After awhile he went back to watching Sports Center and I lay in the dark, on my back. I felt the house tremble in the high, heavy gusts, watching the tall evergreen shrubs next door sway with the force. My body burned hot, like I had a fever no one could feel. The BB in my stomach grew slowly into a cannonball and I knew that sleep would be a long time away.

As I watched the evergreens moving in the dark, I thought about the change that swept through the south in the 1960s and how it must have felt to be alive at that time. The idea of value, human value, was like a hot current running through my body. That some people are considered less or more valuable, less or more perfect, less or more desired.

I finally fell asleep sometime after midnight. And in my subconscious mind, I decided to go touch or hug all those people I can't any more.

I fell asleep sad, and dreamed of my Grandmother Iris, who Derreck will never meet. She passed away in 2006. I introduced them in my mind, watched them shake hands. She looked so sick with an afghan across her lap. Later, in the same dream, Uncle Gene, dead since 2001, picked me up in his car. My  mind wanted to see them again. To show them they are valuable. To feel it again. And to tell them again.

Life has been very interesting lately. But not necessarily in a blog-worthy way. Derreck is working long hours on a project and I am playing the ever-popular game of "Hurry Up & Wait" before CES 2012 in Las Vegas. In an effort to not be totally silent, I thought I might throw together a short series of blogs called "Five Semi-Interesting Things." These might be things about me. They might be things I've learned. They might just be things. Here's installment one.

1. The day that my parents moved into our small cabin-esque house in Twain Harte, CA, I was four years old. I cowered beneath the window sill in the front bedroom on the second floor. This would later become my sisters' room, but then it was empty, covered in a horrible Ronald McDonald red-orange shag carpet. Outside were trees -- sugar pines, cedars, manzanitas. A whole forest, it seemed to me! I was crying as I crouched there, terrorized to look outside. You see, we'd just moved from the Bay Area and I was convinced, absolutely certain, that if I looked outside there would be packs of wolves surrounding the house. The move was a disastrous choice! We'll all be eaten alive! We should never have moved to the mountains!

2. You don't need to refrigerate your eggs. Or your butter. Or much of the food we put in our refrigerators, especially tomatoes. By refrigerating tomatoes, you irreversibly damage their flavor and texture. I won't eat a cold tomato. For what it's worth, I don't put peanut butter, 90% of all vegetables and fruit, or most condiments in the fridge. However, there are three things that DO benefit from cooling or refrigeration that are almost always overlooked: raw nuts (fridge), bay leaves (freezer) and wine (45-60 degrees, if you please). Drink red wine at room temperature? Think about it: Room temp in 1500 a.d. was about 60 degrees. Try it and you'll see that I am right.

3. I dream at night, every night, and I remember my dreams. I dream in color and I manipulate my dreams when I can. Last night I dreamed about taking a shaky elevator deep into a cruise ship where we visited a windowless cabin for a Caribbean Cruise. The elevator was white steel, with rust stains on the rivets. What did YOU dream? Do you remember this level of detail?

4. I know how to fish for trout. I used to go trout fishing all the time when I was a child. The fresh-water rivers in the Stanislaus National Forest are filled with rainbow trout. I'd hike in to dam afterbays with my dad, my uncles, my aunts, and we'd fish all day. We kept what we caught and at eight years old, I could gut a trout. Back then, kids didn't need a fishing license, just a pole. I had a little yellow pole that I kept tucked up in the garage rafters through the winters until I could fish in the summer with my family. I even liked fishing and I love smoked trout.

5. Derreck proposed to me with a sapphire engagement ring and this is an important selection for me. For one, it harkens back to a time when sapphires were the traditional engagement stones used in the Western world. Engagement rings have been used in the Roman tradition since 1215 a.d. Even though rubies, emeralds and diamonds were also used, sapphires were preferred as they symbolized romantic love, truth and commitment. Cheap, plentiful diamonds from Africa and Brazil flooded the marketplace in the 19th and 20th centuries, giving rise to the popularity of the diamond engagement ring. But if you look back just 100 years, sapphires reigned supreme for many, many centuries. I like them better.

My friend, Mrs. Day, gave me a book to read right now called The Conscious Bride: Women Unveil Their True Feelings about Getting Hitched. It's incredibly appropriate for this odd time, and while I am only half-way through, I wonder if I am experiencing some of the issues in the book organically, or because I am reading about them.

Here's the book's premise:
"While family and future in-laws squabble over the menu and the table decorations, brides are supposed to sit, smile, and bask in the prospect of their happiness, even though that prospect is guaranteed to include the post-wedding depression that hits some 90 percent of women during their first year of marriage. This is a must-have book for any woman who has found the partner she wants to be with for the rest of her life and has made up her mind to celebrate that commitment."

To be honest, I don't lump myself in with the typical Bride on most things. The in-laws aren't fighting, my mom isn't being pushy, the future mother-in-law isn't digging claws into her son, and the whole thing seems to be moving rather smoothly.

Yet, the day I tried on the dress I knew I wanted to be married in, I came home shaking. It's hard to understand the power of these emotions. I wanted validation on my dress choice and a stiff goddamned drink. I emailed furiously for two hours, sharing the dress with some of my friends and family, and then I curled up in a naked ball in my bathtub and sobbed as the hot shower poured over me.

Why?

I'm not exactly sure. I think it was part relief. I think also part disbelief. I felt like an impostor, trying on these cupcake ruffle taffeta dresses. Like I didn't deserve to be a part of this ritual and that by buying a dress, I might actually be endangering my own happiness. By making the event more real, I might be putting it, and my feelings, at risk. After all, you can't ever get divorced or abandoned if you never get married in the first place.

What brides understand is that these thoughts, while deeply rooted in our insecurities and fears, do not mean we are having second thoughts about getting married. But they are a very real part of the wedding ritual, and should be acknowledged. We are going through a massive transition.

Derreck and I have a relatively long engagement, and while I am ready to be married to him, this extended period will afford me time to feel and process all the emotions involved with becoming a wife. I have always known I would never get divorced, so marrying later in life is a smart choice for me. Having a few extra months to settle into the idea of being married is, for me, exceptionally wise. But it is not without challenges.

I've gotten to the Weird Dream Stage now. Every night, I am saying goodbye to pieces of my past. I dream about being a radio DJ and how I'd like to do it again, but my days at KZSC are over. I dream about living in The Matterhorn, the lovely Victorian house in Santa Cruz, with some of the dearest people I've ever known. In my dreams I am there again, and I don't know why, but I tell my friends I have to leave, that my life is in Seattle now. I dream about my first love and I am saying goodbye to him. I am saying goodbye to California, to barking sea lions at night, to riding roller coasters in the summer evenings, to dancing all night at dinky old clubs.

I am not depressed, but I am wading through a complicated set of sentiments. I think it's natural and normal. I'd love to hear from other Brides about how they felt. I look forward to the nights where my dreams are not filled with Goodbyes, but rather, Hellos.

Also, they reveal their true identities.

And they eat great steaks.

Only two short weeks ago Jim and I packed up our adventure bags to face the red mud, torrential rains, guava-littered trails and pounding surf of Kaua'i. Our first trip together where we were not meeting with anyone -- just us, all of it for us.

After checking into the wonderful facilities at Kiahuna Plantation in Kaua'i, down on the south shore, we poured tall POG + vodka drinks and threw on our suits. We scoped out the resort beach, just south of Poipu Park. The water was warm, the surf rough, so we balanced our glasses in the sand and went in.

Almost immediately I was rocked by a wave, thrown under. I came up, eyes burning from the salt, not knowing which way was up, and could not stop laughing! The beach hut attendant told us to eat at Roy's across the street, so we did, ordering steaks and big, chewy glasses of red wine.

I was stuffed when we got back to the room, but the sun had set and the tiki torches lit the pathways back down to the high, rough surf. I suggested we go back down near the water and sit on the beach to enjoy the spot and the night. The Kaua'i birds were cooing in the tree tops making for a serene end to the evening.

We sat along the sandy edge of the path, and Jim kept looking around. While the beach was nearly ours alone, people did pass, but at one point, it was only us. He softly said, "Let's make this official," and in the darkness got down on one knee in the cool sand in front of me.

That's when I lost it. I started crying, and as he opened the ring box in front of me, he said the sweetest things about being madly in love, wanting to be with me forever, knowing it was right. I cried and hugged and kissed him over and over again.

"I am somewhat of a traditionalist, and since you haven't answered me, I am going to ask you again, " Jim said. "Will you marry me?"

In my emotional state, I hadn't even given an answer. "Yes!" I said. "Yes, the answer  is yes, has always been yes, will always be yes." And he slipped the most beautiful sapphire ring on my finger.

And so, on a small beach in southern Kaua'i after a fresh rain storm and an amazing filet mignon, with salty tears and red wine kisses, Jim and Pam got engaged. Or should I say, Derreck and Amy?

And there was much rejoicing. Hooray!

On Sunday, September 11th, Jim rose early and sneaked downstairs. He turned on the TV and planted himself in front of Football Sunday. It was a warm, clear day -- warm enough to go swimming at Madrona Beach or to picnic nearby. Regardless of the hot sun, the enticing Indian summer breezes and the gorgeous summer finale occurring just outside our door, Jim watched football from 7:30 am until 9 pm.

That's nearly 14 hours of football.

I watched the dismal Seahawks loss to the 49ers and after spending the better part of that stunning afternoon sweltering in the presence of Jim's super-hot 46" TV, I felt my brain turn stinky. I could not get Jim to go on a walk, not even to the park a block away. Hell, I couldn't even get him to put on clothes. He sat around in his boxer briefs all day, eyes glued to the TV.

Jim likens Football to reading, ergo I like to read so I read; he likes football so he watches football. My argument stood that while I do like to read, I don't walk into a library and grab just any book and start reading. I read selected materials. I don't read simply because I like the feel of my eyes scanning a page, the words forming images in my mind as I comprehend the symbols. I am not stopped in my tracks for every sign, label, instruction plaque or sticker.

Jim, however, is literally stopped in his tracks, and often mid-sentence, for every play in football, regardless of who is playing. A satellite could crash to earth next to him and he would be gone behind a first-down stare so far removed that he'd let his pant cuffs catch fire before knowing there was even a problem.

The recurring sentence of the day when it's Football Sunday is this: "What's that, Baby?"

This translates to, "I know you were talking somewhere in my vicinity and since it's just the two of us, you're probably talking to me, but I was watching football and you are therefore invisible."

This last Sunday was a Special Football Sunday because Jim has season tickets to The Seattle Seahawks. This is the first year he's lived in the city, just a few miles from the stadium. He carefully selected his appropriate Hawks Wear, judging the variable weather patterns and layering his vintage Seahawks t-shirt under his light Seahawks pull over. At 9 am Jim walked into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of Michter's Rye down from the liquor shelf, and poured himself a shot.

"Go Seahawks!" he saluted (the kitchen sink? the cactus on the sill?) and threw back the ounce of malted grain. And grimaced.

Shortly thereafter I dropped Jim off down near the tracks on 4th Ave. I didn't even put on a bra or get out of my PJs. It was way too early on a Sunday for that. He smooched me goodbye, slipped his flask in his pocket, and ran off to join the boys for four hours of standing around before watching the game at CenturyLink Field. I wouldn't see him again until 5 pm, only after a long day's work of screaming obscenities and pounding back firewater with the guys.

I've endured three Football Sundays now and I have learned there will be some growing pains in this new season of All Things Pigskin. Fall Sundays for me were once a time of making all-day curry dishes while listening to old-timey records on NPR. I'd read on the little red couch, noshing on sunflower seeds, cuddling with the Figgy and working my way through a pot of tea.

Instead, I now find myself with my feet draped across Jim on our couch, watching the Giants and the Eagles go head to head at 10 am. I'm learning the differences between a Neutral Zone Infraction vs. Offsides vs. a False Start. I know all about the On-Side Kick. I understand that 2:00 minutes on the clock is still enough to make a difference in the game. I ask a lot of questions, vesting myself in the answers to make this ritual both more interesting and make more sense.

But of course, I have learned this valuable lesson as well: I only ask questions between plays or during commercials.