I Heart Crazy Women.

In a kind effort to break me out of my shell a bit and thrust me into something "of my own" in unfamiliar Pittsburgh, my husband signed me up for a semester of voice lessons with a former opera singer.

I was pleased initially, but this morning hid under the covers as I watched the dreaded hour-of-singing approach. I tried explaining my new reluctance to Brett. "I just...don't know where the campus is." I moaned.

"Yes you do." He returned.

"Do you think I am a bad singer? What if I am a really, really bad singer?"

He shot me a look of warning. "You know you can sing."

I nodded somberly. "I'm awfully good at drunk karaoke. But, you always tip the D.J's a lot of money, so that makes me question my abilities."

"If you don't want to go, you don't need to go." He reasoned. "But, I think you should. Like any musician you should practice, and I actually think you need to get out of the house for a little while."

I knew he was right. I was dangerously close to stretching my little pity party into a week long blow out. Kegs and all. This pity party was threatening to soon be off the hook, man. 

So. I went.

I dragged my feet the entire walk to campus, and soon found myself in a very cold, white room with nothing in it except a gloriously romantic-looking baby grand piano. I didn't know what to expect. I tried imagining my instructor. I was pretty close to getting up and pretending to play the piano when She walked in.

There was something about her. I don't even know how to describe it. She was a flurry of cowboy boots, a colorful, swirly fabric of a dress that danced around her bare, tan legs- clutching a huge colorful cookie between her teeth, her colorful self just colorfully bouncing off the color-less walls.

So, she was pretty colorful.

I immediately felt that mixture of complete ease and horrified unease. My posture was calm, but my palms were sweating. My face broke out into an automatic smile at her entrance, but my foot tapped nervously and I adjusted my glasses too many times.

She stooped short when she saw me.

"How old are you?" She demanded.

"29."

"You look 22." She said, cocking her head to the side, biting into her cookie. "So. You moved here for a man?"

"Well. No. My husband goes to school here, so I...uh. I moved here..."

"Is your husband a man, sweetheart?"

"He is. A man." I mumbled.

She smiled then. Quick and beautiful and I found myself giggling.

"Holy shit. I moved for a man!" I laughed. "That sounds bad. It's not like that."

"It's only bad if you don't do something for yourself too. You work?"

"I do not work at this moment, no."

"You need to. I can see it all over you. You know what I thought about you when I first walked in this door?" She asked, dumping her bag of piano music on the bench and brushing crumbs of cookie off of her jacket. "I thought: this girl. Her glasses. I get her. She needs to be doing something spectacular, and she is going to fade in this city if she doesn't get on it soon."

"My...glasses?"

She looked at me impatiently. "Have you seen your glasses? Have you looked around this town? You know what your glasses tell me? You don't give a shi- uh- crap about being cookie cutter 'perfect.'. Sure- a million hipsters have those glasses. You're no hipster, don't get me wrong- but you are an artist. You are a non-working artist. I can see it all over your body. And, the worst part is I think you have given up on yourself a little bit, but you are not beyond saving."

I sat there, opening and closing my mouth and trying not to stress-sweat. Who was this woman? Where had she been my whole life?

"We're not going to sing today." She said, closing the piano. "You need to talk. I need to listen. We'll do that today. I'll unlock your inner artist. But, for today, I want to talk to you. So- where were you born?"

"Concord, New Hampshire." I whispered. And we were off.

...................

One time Brett and I were laughing over a story I was elaborately acting out about my day, and he stopped me, his eyes glittering. "The craziest stuff happens to you." He said. "I've never known anyone where stuff...just happens to them, falls in their lap, all of the time. It's amazing."

I brushed it off then, but I am sitting down now at our table and thinking about it. Last night I cried into my dinner about how my life wasn't making sense. How I moved here and felt like my drive and my dreams were all dropping away and it was my fault. Brett's loving answer to my pathetic little pity party was the gift of voice lessons.

He was trying to give me back my voice. (Not that I ever truly lost it. I mean, let's be real here. Expressing myself is not usually a...problem. To a fault.) But, here I was in this cold little room with a woman I trusted implicitly who seemed to love learning every inch of the miles that brought me here. This stranger believed in me, and saw something that I had stopped looking for in myself. What a crazy thing to happen.

She walked me out after my "singing" time was through, and we lingered in the doorway like new lovers. "I'm giving you 4 days to get a job."

"4?!" I returned, laughing. "Listen. You obviously don't know me as much as I thought you did. Maybe we need another "voice" lesson."

She smiled. "There you go! I like it! Ok. A week. That's it, New Hampshire. You got this."

"Ok. A week. And I'll see YOU next week. Same time?"

"Same time." She answered, and then stopped me as I walked out the door. "I don't want you to find a job because I think you are lazy. I want you to really start in the arts- your passion- because I know your very soul depends on it. I don't want you to look back on your life in 15 years and be unhappy. I don't want you to give up. I think you are about to, and I cannot let that happen. Got me?"

"I've got you."

"And New Hampshire? Next week we sing. We sing the shit out of something. You're ready."

Dating While Married: 101

The other day, as I sat in the kitchen excitedly telling Brett about a party I was planning once our house was settled and not a war zone, I started reciting the guest list before I stopped mid-count, crestfallen.

"Oh no." I said.

"Oh no what?" He dryly responded without looking up from his paper. "Oh no this is going to be expensive?"

"Oh no- we have no friends." I shot back.

"We have friends, Melissa."

"Ok. List them."

Brett leaned back and started rattling off 3 couples we knew in Pittsburgh. And then he faltered.

"See? 3 couples. Which is great. I love them a lot. But, we basically know 6 people in Pittsburgh. 6."

"If you include us, it will be a party of 8." He wisely returned. "And everyone knows that parties of 8 are the best kind of parties. And besides? Why are you so concerned with numbers? Is this a popularity contest?"

"Well, if it is, we're losing." I grumbled.

"Oh my God."

"No, it's not that. Its- ok. Think about how exhausting I can be, right? And we have 3 sets of friends- which means they will be in heavy rotation. And will have to deal with us, ok, me- 1/3 of the time. Which could be pretty frequent once the holiday season ramps up. And we want to keep these friends, right? So- wouldn't we be a much more desirable social option for them if they only had us in small shifts? Or our presence was diluted with the addition of a lot of other people around us? At our upcoming party?"

"Again. Oh. My. God."

"It's basic mathematics. And science. And"-

"Craziness." He cut in.

"Maybe."

.......................

When we lived together in California, we had a vibrant and colorful social circle of very dear friends. We all attended endless dinner parties, concerts, birthday celebrations, work celebrations, and one or two 3am dance parties in our living room together. A lot of these friends were couples- which can be a great thing to have as you all traverse the sometimes confusing and unfamiliar terrain of marriage. One by one these couples moved away- and we were left behind. When we moved too, we had to start all over again. And it was like dating. Couple dating.

We'd dress for these "dates" and frantically adjust one another's clothing with frantic assessments. "That dress is a little low for a first dinner, no?" Brett would ask.

"Oh God. I didn't think of that. You're right. I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression. Glasses or no glasses?"

"Definitely glasses. Do you like this shirt?"

"It's purple."

"I know. You're right-too much. Blue?"

"Better. But, unbutton the top. You don't want to appear uptight."

"Ok. So, let's go easy on the wine tonight. I'll drive, but we don't want to seem sloppy."

"Ok. But, I LOVED that one couple that got super drunk. It was hilarious."

"We're thinking long term, though. Let's be ourselves- but the best part of ourselves."

"Like, the fancy part?"

"Exactly."

While this conversation isn't word-for-word accurate- it is pretty damn close. And we'll navigate through the date much like you would a first romantic date. We'll ask questions about family, education, background, hobbies. I'll always throw in questions about kids after my second glass of wine, and we'll gossip in the car after on the way home- trading notes.

Sometimes the husbands will hit it off while the wife will eye me warily through the entire dinner. Which only makes me drink more and try harder, and that never ends well. Sometimes I will become best friends 4-EVA with the wife and the husbands will awkwardly talk about sports with little enthusiasm. And sometimes- sometimes- we hit it off so well with BOTH parties, we cannot contain our excitement.

And then the nervous oh-my-God-how-can-we-make-them-like-us-forever panic sets in. At least for me. Brett is decidedly more chill about these social arrangements.

There was a time recently where we hit the couple jackpot. During our summer in Ohio, we met this amazing couple: Natalie and Scott. Natalie and I HIT IT OFF and I fell in love with her instantly. We were at an orientation for the company our husbands worked for, and as we chatted happily over dinner, I noticed Brett and Scott hitting it off as well. I was beyond excited and later that night bounced on our hotel bed as I recited everything I really like about the two of them.

"She's pretty and funny and smart and Scott is funny and smart and Natalie laughed at all my jokes and didn't look at me weird when I ordered a second drink-"

"They are great, Melissa. But you didn't exactly let Natalie talk all that much."

"But, she did! She was laughing! A lot! That is very much like talking."

"She was laughing because you launched into your nervous stand up comedian routine."

"You're no fun. I only told a few jokes."

"You told every joke you know- but they are funny. Let's email them tomorrow. Too soon?"

"I already got her number and have texted her 3 times, so..."

"Oh God."
...........

I have no doubt that Brett and I will "date" successfully in Pittsburgh. After all, we have met 3 couples that seem to like us both, and we'll do everything to continue to make those commitments work. Maybe I'll go out and buy them all flowers. Maybe I'll send a "I'm thinking of youuuuu!" text.

Maybe that is entirely weird.

While the only person I really need is my husband- sometimes it is nice to sit with another couple, Linger and laugh over dinner, trading stories and dreams and hopes for the future.

And have a 3am dance party in your living room. You know, to keep things spicy.

How To Be A Wife: Anniversary Edition.

I'm a gal who loves a good party, but for some reason prefer anniversaries to be pretty low-key affairs. I think this boggles the mind of my dear husband, since I insist on celebrating every holiday from Saint Patricks Day to Hanukkah...and I'm not Jewish. We also celebrate made-up holidays- or "anything-I-feel-like-celebrating-if-I-need-to-spice-things-up-or-am-particularly-bored-days." It is normal for Brett to come thorough the door to find our walls covered in random decorations, cheap champagne chilling, and a chocolate in the shape of a fish. Or a note from me telling him to meet me out for Thai food for "Thai Day"where I gift him with a few awesome children's books. There is no rhyme or reason to these celebrations, which makes it even more fun.

So, today is our 2 year Anniversary. And we will cook dinner at home, drink a good bottle of wine, and exchange simple gifts. And then probably assemble some furniture we bought at Ikea yesterday. You know, if we are feeling particularly crazy.

This sounds perfect to me, especially because I informed him that we are celebrating the holiday of "Anniversary-Dessert-Edition" in a week where we exchange the "cotton" 2 year gift and eat cake. Mainly because it is too hot to eat cake tonight, and I need to eat cake on a holiday. Obviously.

It says a lot about Brett that he didn't even bat an eye at my request. Or, demand.

Anyway, this year has been the hardest one we have had in our 6 year run together. We're basically newlyweds at this point- learning to live with each other and accept one another. We sometimes get shy, we sometimes get ridiculously angry, but we always laugh and he is my best friend. I know that phrase in married relationships is often overused, but NO REALLY GUYS, HE IS. He is seriously the only person that has put up with me on a semi-consistant basis for 6. Years. He takes a lot of crap, he sticks up for me when I'm blatantly wrong, and he conjures up a healthy interest in my celebrity obsession, my rants about the very common abuse of the arts, and my disdain for scrambled eggs. When people tipsily grip his arm at cocktail parties and say " OH MY GOD...your wife is so funnnnnnny!!!!!" He just nods politely, sips his drink and probably thinks, "Cool. Glad you think that. Spend a weekend listening to her tell that same story 949874 times and then we'll talk. Ok buddy?"

No. He wouldn't really think that. Brett has never used the word "buddy."

He's a trooper. And he's very good at the board game Battleship. This should be said.
...............

When I was ten years old, our teacher asked us what super power we would want to have if we could choose. My answer was immediate. "I'd wish that God could tell me who I was going to marry."

I attended a private christian school, so it wasn't a shock I mixed God into the "super-power" territory, but my teacher was confused nonetheless.

"Well, that is not exactly a super power, right?" She ventured. "I mean, you could just pray that God would direct you to the man that was intended for you."

"Oh no." I wisely returned. "I'd want a specific answer right away, so I was hoping the super power part would be that I had this hologram tablet-thing that let me know everything I needed to know. Right away. And maybe give me a picture of him and his favorite foods and stuff." (sorry techie-internet-people- I'm pretty sure this is me inventing the ipad and the internet all in one go, so you know...sorry I beat you to it. And anyone that corrects me and says "the internet was actually around during this time." IT WASN'T REALLY BECAUSE WE STILL USED ENCYCLOPEDIAS TO WRITE ESSAYS AND COMPUTERS WERE THE SIZE OF MINI COOPERS. SO BACK OFF.)

The real reason behind my desire for this power-that-isn't-really-a-power was the fact that I DESPERATELY wanted to marry Joey Lawrence, and I was interested to see what God on my hologram tablet had to say about that. I didn't want the mystery of adult dating-(which I still thought was sharing ice cream cones, (ew.) Followed by a swift and chaste proposal. And hopefully sparkling apple juice because that was the bomb and made me feel ridiculously fancy.) I just wanted answers. I wanted them right then and there and at my fingertips AND with a wax stamp of approval from the All Mighty.

Wouldn't life be great if it worked like that?

Well, I didn't marry Joey Lawrence. He was heartbroken, but I was all: "Dude, chill. You will have a full life of mediocre sitcoms and a stint on 'Dancing With The Stars' and still be, you know, handsome. And bald. Oh yeah. Sorry. You'll be bald. BUT YOU'LL HAVE ABS!"

And thankfully he moved on...because I found Brett.

Brett who loves to dance with me and sings the lyrics of the song in my ear. Brett who cuts fruit for me in the morning and cooks elaborate dinners for me at night. Brett who listens to me talk about scrambled eggs for 3 hours, patiently and with interest, and then will tell his own story about duck hunting for 3 hours.

And I'll listen patiently too. And not think of Joey Lawrence AT ALL.

Because I married the real star.

I'm Awesome And I Know It, (well, not right now...but soon. I promise. Maybe. I just have to change my pants.)

womentalksports.com

"Want to go for a run?" Brett asked me early this morning.

"No. Maybe. In a half hour." I mumbled from under his pillow. (His pillow is much more appealing in the morning, and I always reach for it at dawn leaving him pillowless and baffled. But he never reaches for it back, which baffles me.)

EXACTLY a half hour later, Brett jumped up to fling on the lights and started yanking socks on my feet as I kicked away frantically. "You're already wearing running pants AND a sports bra" he surveyed, tossing me my sneakers as I burrowed deeply into the bed. "So, that's convenient. And weird. Let's go."

I looked down and realized I was, in fact wearing work-out clothes. From yesterday. That I didn't work out in. "Oh my God." I whispered to Brett. "Am I letting myself go?"

Brett's eyes widened as he realized he was probably stepping into a minefield at 8 am and was not exactly prepared for it. He pulled me to my feet and said grandly: "You're really pretty."

And we were off.

"I had a dream last night that I was stuck on an island of talking soldier monkeys. The island was haunted, and at night we had to huddle in this circle that protected us from the ghosts. I was a prisoner of the monkey soldiers, obviously, but I started helping them concoct a blessing when you RUDELY WOKE ME UP." I said as we jogged along.

Brett looked over at me and shook his head. "You NEED to be a writer. Or do something creative. Please don't ever get a desk job- your brain is just too...special."

"I'm thinking you mean special in a good way." I retorted as I bent to tie a wayward shoelace that wasn't wayward at all, but saved me from gasping for air in a very unattractive way. (I tie my shoelaces a lot when I run.)

"Of course." He said." I don't even dream at all. And monkey soldiers?! "

As amazingly supportive over my brain as Brett was being, his comments struck a chord in me. I have been looking for jobs. Real people jobs that come after college when you start wanting things like cars without dents and houses and nice bottles of wine. And I was looking for jobs during a time I could not believe in myself less.

I write paragraphs and erase them. I wear workout clothes around the house while not actually...working out. The only thing I accomplished yesterday was a successful nail appointment and a dinner of unburned steak. Brett has been picking up on my subtle cues of depression, (like crying in front of the refrigerator the other day while I ate 6 month old truffles,) and he has handled it gracefully. He peppers the odd compliment into our conversations. (Like last night, he grinned at me and said: "Have I ever told you that you ARE SO GOOD at caramelizing onions?!" I kind of feel like if he had a gold medal in the shape of an onion he would have placed it around my neck in his rapture over said wilted onions.) He has been- in a word- supportive. Supportive over his moody-and-treading-water-half-assedly-wife.

It is not his job to do so, but I appreciate it all the same. And our run this morning reminded me that I could you know...try a little. Like, dress for bed like an adult. Agree that I should have a creative job and GO FOR IT instead of feeling like I'm not good enough, pretty enough, capable, or actually very good at caramelizing onions.

I'll admit I am scared at this new phase in life. I kind of feel out of my element, a hippie Berkeley fish out of water, unsure of the next step or the appropriate outfit required to meet that step. I mean, running pants are awesome- but RUN IN THEM FOR GOD SAKE. Don't sit at the kitchen table in them, working on your resume by adding stupid things to it to amuse yourself. No one cares you know how to make homemade spaghetti sauce. Or can speak Klingon. (And if Brett knew I added weird things like that for about- oh, 3 hours a day, he might not be terribly enthused.) Just- Do It. Live by the Nike slogan. Hitch your wagon to a star. Put it in your pocket. (Same song? No?) Have the eye of the tiger. Get the moves like Jagger.

Just do SOMETHING MELISSA FOR GOD SAKE.

Anyway.

I'm wearing jeans today, so there's that. I will dress these jeans up for dinner tonight with girlfriends, and tomorrow I will submit a spaghetti-sauce-queen-free resume to the local theaters and prepare myself for change.

And I will meet that change with my Capable Smart Girl pants on. And not my running pants.

Although they are terribly comfortable.

And make me look like I work out, like, ALL the time.

Sometimes Marriage Is Not Super Fun-All-The-Time-Awesome-Unicorns-And-Sparkles. And that is ok.

You know what is interesting?

Having a blog. Over a year. And being able  to look back over that year and see how you have grown/not grown/gotten fatter/ even though you became 98% vegetarian.

Case in point: A year ago I wrote this blog- http://thewifeexperiment.blogspot.com/2011/08/no-homeless-people-attacked-me-today-so.html

This was written ONE YEAR AGO FROM TODAY.

What was today in 2012 like?

Today I woke up next to my husband. I went out for coffee, leaving my new home. I looked for a nail salon. I could not find one close by. I tripped over a bump in the side-walk and was mortified for over an hour. I came home and set out champagne and love notes and chocolate...because 6 years ago on this day Brett asked me to OFFICIALLY be his girlfriend. We don't normally celebrate this day, but we needed some celebrating.

Let me tell you something about marriage: it. is. hard. And sometimes messy. And sticky. And cranky. And low in blood sugar. BUT, ALWAYS WORTH IT. And, when you can celebrate something- anything...celebrate the shit out of it.

Brett and I just got back from a week long road trip from San Francisco to Pittsburgh. We stopped in amazing cities, we drank wine, we ate Tex-Mex, we laughed, we got bites from bed bugs, we met a celebrity, we made out like teen-agers on cheap motel beds, we petted horses on the side of the road, we sang, we giggled, and we listened to the entire unabridged version of "Little Women" on cassette tape. It was basically the stuff dreams are made of. However, anyone that actively knows us is probably perplexed by this. We could NOT be more different. We could NOT argue more than we do. But, stick us in a 90's tin can of a car, slap some literature from the 1800's on us, and suddenly we are having the time of our lives?

Uh. Yes.

As soon as our feet touched hallowed Pittsburgh ground we were at each other. We argued about air conditioners, diet, decor, hard alcohol, friends, t.v. shows, family, makeup, and any other little thing we could conjur up in our foamy craziness. We went out for drinks with friends, only to bicker bitterly the entire walk home over non-existant problems. We got to the point where we could not stand one another and we were in the same one bedroom apartment.

It was refreshing, actually.

Let me tell you why.

We're all drawn to the friends that have the perfect marriages with the perfectly dressed children and the perfectly decorated house a'la Pottery Barn. We pine over details like designer lounge chairs and in-home movie theaters and pool decks and in-law cottages we pray the in laws will never use. It is a life constructed out of perfection that is fed to us- by who?

I admit I fail in this way- in this wanting. One day, in between Texas and somewhere not Texas, Brett looked over at me and said: "Bear?" (his pet name for me. OKAY, NOW YOU ALL KNOW IT.) "Where would you be? If life was just how you wanted it? And money was not an issue?"

I immediately gave him my robotic answer. "House, yard, kids, dog, good career, no wrinkles, lots of traveling." He didn't say anything, but smiled sadly and squeezed my hand.

And it only took until the day I decided to blog to see how stupid I was.

Life is not about that, is it? I mean, YES, IT WOULD BE NICE TO HAVE A HOUSE...but I would rather have a husband to argue with over why Amy March is such a bitch but really is so good for Laurie. (read Little Woman. Right Now.) I would rather have my husband get so mad at me he melodramatically tries to sleep on our all-white-sofa, but knowing it is all white lays a sheet down before begrudgingly returning to our bed, hoping I don't notice out of pride. I'd rather have a life that consits of happy errors, loving mistakes, and stupid fights.

This blog is deeper than usual, but I felt like I had a message to say. GUESS WHAT FRIENDS AND LOVED ONES ABOUT TO GET MARRIED OR NEWLY MARRIED? Sometimes it all sucks. It all sucks ass. But, there are flickers of moments in those sucky ass moments that make you realize the most important thing:

Someone loves you enough to stand beside you. And sleep on your white couch. And roll their eyes at you. And make you coffee in the morning and say: "Hey- you suck sometimes. But I really love you. And I will love you forever. No matter how sucky you can be."

And hopefully they will follow this statement with a pat on the ass.

Because...that is THE BEST part of marriage.

Always.

I'm Glad You Were Born. most of the time.

"It's that time of year again." Brett said to me hesitantly over dinner the over night. "Your birthday is coming up. What would you like to do?"

I describe him as asking this question hesitantly, because he totally was. And as he asked it he sort of flinched and leaned back in his chair a bit. And maybe held his breath. I could be imagining all of these things, but I'm pretty sure I am 100% right that that was what was happening.

I pushed my food back and shrugged. "I don't know. Dinner? And I need a new hair straightener since my last one blew up at that haunted chateau in Normandy."

Brett opened his mouth to argue that the chateau was not haunted. (It was. He slept through the haunting. And, even if I imagined it we were staying in a mansion that was approximately 7 billion years old, sleeping on a canopy bed that had portraits of dead children hanging over our heads along with snippets of their powdery hair. AND, OH THE LIGHTS KEPT TURNING OFF AND ON AND THE COUNT RUNNING THE ESTATE WAS LIKE, "OH NO WORRIES. THAT IS JUST MY DEAD MOTHER.") Anyway, before he started his argument he seemed to actually hear what my preferences were for my birthday, and he stopped.

"No cake? Balloons? Surprise parties you ask for? No special champagne? No drawn out birthday week?!" 


"No. And you make me sound very high maintenance. Which makes me want to go out and BUY STUFF. But no... well, maybe some cake."


"I'm worried." He said, practically wringing his hands. "I'm just going to come out and say that I am really worried. Is this a trap? A test? I mean- I know my wife. This is totally a test, right? So you want a big party?" As Brett started trailing off and muttering about how he knew he would be dead meat if he simply handed me a hair straightener over dinner on my birthday, I stopped him.

"Brett- I just...don't feel like celebrating this year. I'm going to be 29. The 20's are almost over. I was just getting good at them, and now they are gone."

"Yeah, I don't think you have to worry about that. I think you'll be a little bit too good at your 30's too."

(He's always incredibly helpful.)

This conversation made me realize two things. One: My poor husband acts like a scared and cornered animal whenever he mentions my birthday, and I may be slightly to blame for it. I'm not a monster (is the thing all monsters say...) But I'm not. Honest. My husband is an only child, and got so much attention as it was, birthdays just...weren't a big deal. In fact, until I came into the picture, I don't think he had celebrated one since he was about 7. And then it took me 6 years of over-the-top celebrations of him to realize he actually isn't a fan of birthdays at all. (Not that it stops me. It slows me a bit, sure. Like- I won't rent the clown for him or anything, but there may still be a jumpy house.) And I come from a massive family. There are too many of us kids to have constant attention. I once RAN AWAY and my mom didn't even notice. Granted, I was sitting in a tree across the road, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching my house angrily, sure someone was going to run out screaming my name. But no one did. You know why? Because there were nine thousand of us. I don't even think I know all of my sibling's names.


But on your birthday- things were different. I was born at 3:40 am, and for the longest time my mom would creep into my room to kiss me at that exact moment. She would whisper a happy birthday in my ear, and we both relished the thought that she always said the first happy birthday of the day. I was always awake for this private moment, squirming in my bed, knowing any second I would see her silhouette illuminated from the golden light of my nightlight. That stopped eventually, maybe when I became a surly preteen and OHMYGOD MOM THAT IS SO EMBARRASSING. But, I miss it. I want that moment back. I'm sure Brett wouldn't be weirded out at all by my mom joining us at 3:40 am every August 5th.

After the private celebration came the day o'treats. Breakfast in bed, a big, splashy birthday party, dinner picked by the birthday girl, and an entire day where I didn't have to share any toys-at-all-no-way. Even during the lean years, my mom somehow made the entire thing special. We didn't have much, but we had the celebration. It was magic.

And then the next day I went back to being a face among the masses, but not without the lingering glow from the day before.

So, you see the tough act Brett has to follow, but he has taken on the challenge beautifully- year after year blessing me with thoughtful notes and planned trips, and sometimes very quiet and lovely nights at home. It was just about recognizing the fact that I was here, and nudging me on the shoulder over a glass of wine and saying: "Hey. I'm really glad you were born."

So, that brings me to the Second thing I realized about our conversation.

What didn't I want to celebrate, exactly?

Yes, I'm going to be 29. Yes, 30 is looming and I am scared of 30. I feel like I haven't finished my 20's yet. I feel like I'm playing this board game I have only NOW started to get the hang of, and we're switching to yahtzee or something like that. And yahtzee is ridiculously boring. But, you know what is more boring? BEING BORING. Being that person that gripes about being old, being tired, only wanting a hair straightener because what's the point. I don't have to be that person. I can exist outside of numbers- it's really only up to me.

And then I remembered I asked for the hair straightener in a way that wasn't boring at all. How many people fight with their husbands over an evening's events in a HAUNTED CHATEAU IN FRANCE? How many people can say they watched a hair straightener BLOW UP? LITERALLY. BLOW. UP.

And I can.

So, I'll be 29 on Sunday, but that doesn't mean a thing. What matters most is how I spend that day. And the 365 days after. And the 365 days after that.

I'm hoping it involves a lot of explosions. A lot of funny stories. And definitely numerous glasses of wine with the people I love in this life. Where I can look over at them and say:

"Hey. I'm really glad you were born."

How A Duvet Cover Changed My Life And Made Me Plan A Trip To Italy.

Oh you know, just going to make breakfast...

Last night Brett "caught" me with a duvet cover, and things got really embarrassing.

We were making the bed, and when he left the room I surreptitiously snuck over to our linen dresser. (Yes, we have one of those. Yes, it's obnoxious.) As I quickly checked over my shoulder to make sure he hadn't returned, I pulled out a gorgeous, stark white, brand new, luxurious duvet cover. Lined in warm chocolate piping with our monogram in the center- it was a wedding present that I kept hidden away. It was...perfect. Apparently when I registered for it I never expected that Brett and I would have kids or pets, or be human in any way. I never actually expected someone would buy it for us when I put it on the registry. It was just so over-the-top expensive and frivolous, but someone out there probably knew I just HAD to have it hanging out in my linen drawer.

Where it has been since we received it. 2 years ago.

"What's that?"

I whirled around, shoving it behind my back as Brett stepped closer. "Nothing!" I shouted, which only made Brett smile and reach around me.

"What is this?" He asked as he incredulously unrolled it.

"Um. A duvet cover?"

"We have a duvet?"

"Well, yes. We got a really nice one for the wedding. It's in a box somewhere."

He looked confused as he smoothed out the white perfection of the cover, and watching him touch it made my pulse quicken.

"Don't...um. Don't touch that. Is it weird I am really anxious that you are touching that? Please stop." I babbled as I backed against the linen drawer. He saw me back towards it and a wicked smile slowly spread over his face.

"There is more in there, isn't there?"

"No."

He moved me aside and found THE STASH. A set of sheets to match the duvet cover, pillowcases, other pretty bed things still in plastic and gleaming with their purity.

"God, it's like you are a Pottery Barn hoarder." He murmured as he started pulling everything out.

"BRETT! Those sheets are NOT to be slept on!" I yelled out as he started putting a perfect pillow case on his pillow. As soon as the words left my lips, I clapped my hand over my mouth, eyes bugging out.

And then I couldn't stop laughing.

I consider myself a relatively normal person with a few lovable (I hope,) quirks. However, as I watched Brett ransack this private drawer, I was alarmed at how stressed out it was making me. I also couldn't stop my maniacal laughter. What was I thinking?

Brett wanted to know the same thing. "So, what are the sheets and the duvet cover for?" he asked.

"Um. I think for show. In the future."

"Oh, ok. So, when we have people over in the future we have these on the bed, but when they leave.."

"Yeah. We change it. I think it makes total sense. Like throw pillows."

"There is nothing about a throw pillow that make sense."

"It's just- it's like guest towels!" I offered, my voice getting a little desperate. "You have them out when people come over...for them to use!"

"So, guests can use our duvet cover and fancy sheets?"

"God. No...but they can look at them."

At this point Brett was climbing into bed, a huge smile on his face as he tested out the sainted sheets he had just put on. He stretched and sighed, a huge smile on his face as he rolled around the bed like a pig in PERFECT, VERY EXPENSIVE SHIT. I watched slightly horrified from the doorway.

"Come to bed." He smiled.

"No." I whispered. "I am so annoyed with you right now."

"Okayyy!" he sang, jumping up. "Your loss. I'm going to go brush my teeth. I will be leaving the room in case you want to pull some towels made out of gold and angel hair out of the linen dresser to just look at and then put away."

As he left the room, I dressed for bed keeping my eyes on the sheets that had now practically been defiled. Inching towards them, I slipped in...

and smiled.

They were really nice. They were really, really white. They felt amazing against my bare legs and I tried not to think that I should shower several times before touching these to keep them pristine. I buried my face into Brett's pillow and finally let go. I don't need to keep things hidden away, afraid the living of life will taint their perfection. Nothing in life is perfect. These were...just sheets. It was just a duvet. We wouldn't have them in 10 years, I wouldn't be thinking about them on my death bed. They were not anything to really set on the altar of the linen drawer and worship privately. I guess I was just...waiting for the right time to use them.

..............

I once read a story about an old women who, after she died, her daughter found an entire chest full of beautiful nightgowns that she never remembered her mother wearing. When she asked her father about the nightgowns- their silk perfection still nestled in tissue paper- her father just shrugged sadly and said: "She thought they were too nice. Maybe she felt undeserving. She was waiting for the right time to put them on."

That time never came, and if Brett hadn't forcibly made our bed with these sheets, my time to use them might have never come either. The thought made me incredibly sad because these sheets were seriously soft and scented with ground up unicorn or something magical like that. What "right time" was I waiting for? When would I wake up and feel like the world was incredibly perfect, everything was perfect, and that perfection deserved new bedding?

When Brett joined me in bed we sat up talking about how weird I am. I rolled over on my side and met his eyes. "We have boxes and boxes of perfect china, you know. Unused. Waiting for "the right time."

"Let's make the right time now," he offered. "Let's make occasions fit for china and awesome sheets- instead of waiting for them to come to us."

He was right. And I was tired of putting things in boxes waiting for the "right" time to pull them out. That book I'm always talking about writing? What better time than now? That gorgeous guitar I own but am afraid to touch? Let's break a few strings learning how to play that baby. That trip to Venice I keep talking about? Well- it's literally sinking, so I better go now.

And maybe my daughter, long after I'm gone will tell people her mother wore silky nightgowns and feather boas to breakfast. And invited her to tea parties with stuffed animals using her wedding china. And lived every single second of her life- a life that was truly and beautifully, unpacked.