Here I Stand Head In Hand

The furniture and the tamborine playing and the man hole hat and the uncomfortable woman with the out of control eyebrows. And the lyrics. And the row houses. And the winking. And the lyrics. And the furniture.

My my my, how this entire thing just sings to me.

There Is A New House In My Life (maybe. possibly. tentatively.)

THE BATHROOM IS BIGGER THAN THE BLUE BANANA.

I can't believe this is happening. Sometimes I wish I had better timing. We're disappearing from the face of the planet in days which is toootally convenient for things like, you know, contracts. Perfect.

But who cares.

I met a house. That's the point. And he has lazy little sailboats. And a master bedroom larger than Montana. And those art deco doorknobs that make me sob from happiness. And lots of big hardy light. And built in window seats. And old wood floors. And brick. And big, powerful doors. And it's at the end of a street that's so dreamy that I could actually imagine myself staying there. For more than a year or two. Or forever.

So.

I'm not excited. They probably won't take our offer. Or someone will buy it out from under us. Or the fax machine in Barcelona will throw up our paperwork. Or we'll find out that the house has rabies. Or is infested with rats. Rats that have rabies will buy the house out from under us. Because the fax machine in Barcelona will be broken.

But. Still. Eek.

OHMYGOSHohmygoshohmygosh.

We might be moving.

You Say Hydrogenous, I Say Hydrangeas

This afternoon Andrew brought home some flowers, something he's been doing fairly often lately, and without prodding or strip club receipts or a second wife in tow. He usually brings me all different types, because he knows how I feel about commitment, and I find that part of the surprise particularly delightful.

These ones are HYDROGENOUSES!

He said it just. like. that. when he walked through the door as if to declare, "I BRING YOU THE HOLY GRAIL WRAPPED IN THE RAREST SILK AND DUNKED IN CHOCOLATE MILK!"

No boring roses or tulips or daisies, no sireee.

HYDROGENOUSES!

When Where What 054

when: the other day
where: my favorite spot at the end of our street
what: walking to get coffee on a FREEZING sixty degree morning wondering, What. was. I. thinking?!

Thirty Second Bag Of Mail: Workouts + Born Boots + Unsubscribing!

"What's your workout routine?

Andre"

I've been waffling over whether to share this on here for a long time. There are too many of us who beat ourselves up over this kind of stuff (I try very hard not to), and I think that taking care of your body should be a positive, personal thing. So. I'm going to be completely honest here and just hope that it helps or inspires someone, not drives them to assault.

I'm constantly switching up my workouts, but they always involve running. And they're always something I love to do. I never exercise to improve one body part or look a certain way, though I admit that like those results, too. But that's not why I do it. I do it because it gets me high.

Today's workout, for example, is two two mile repeats at seven minutes a mile with four minutes of (light running) rest in between. It's finished with four one hundred meter sprints and a two mile walk. Later, I'll do a P90x plyometrics video.

Tomorrow I might do nothing. It just depends what I feel like.

In general, right now I'm running about thirty miles a week, five to six days, with a lot of medium level speed work and one longer day. I also like to take three mile walks a couple of times a week around my neighborhood, do a (random) P90x video once a week (to toss things up), and hit the gym two or three times a week (whenever Andrew wants to go). At the gym we mostly do free weights, body weight leg exercises, push ups, pull ups and sit ups without rest. We're usually there for about forty five minutes.

I'll probably do this routine for the next three or four months and then completely change the entire thing. I like to keep it fresh.

Some of our other favorite activities that we cycle into the mix are jump roping, basketball, football, biking, elliptical, tennis, and stair workouts. We've done a lot of all of those the last couple of years. I also try to twist Andrew's arm into doing drills and yoga on a semi regular basis but he hates them both. I used to do pilates a lot, but haven't done it in eons.

Anyway, I think that's about it.

Just keep in mind that not every body is the same or will react the same. Do what you enjoy and what feels right for you!



"Hello, I am still trying to locate your Born boots. I left a comment on your blog but didn't see an answer. I cannot find them on the Born website.

Thanks,
Jen"

Sorry, it can be difficult to get back to everyone right away.

I bought the boots at an outlet. They are only marked Born, so I have no idea what the style name is. They are marked with serial number W62173, similar to many of the boots pictured on their website, but it's not coming up in their search.

I suggest contacting customer service and asking if they still carry them anymore. It may be last year's model.



"Unsubscribe.

Anonymous"

You take time out of your day and make an effort to let me know that you are unsubscribing without reason and then you don't even sign your name? I don't know if I should thank you or tell you to do a better job of insulting me. Go hard or go home, you know?

The Good News Is That It's Just A Flesh Wound

So the MRI results came back, and Andrew did not tear his achilles tendon like the doctor had promised. Apparently, he tore a ligament inside of his ankle, one that I keep forgetting how to pronounce, forcing the geekface orthopedist to preface each sentence with, "LIKE I ALREADY SAID," every single time that I asked him a question about the whatchamacallit thingamajiggy that Andrew ripped. That was NOT his achilles.

Anyway.

The upside is that he only plays Robocop for three more weeks instead of eight.



It also means that snowboarding in Vermont is still ON LIKE DONKEY KONG.

On a related note, the Robocop boot cost a hundred and eighty some odd dollars, and when Andrew was being fit for it he asked, "For that kind of money shouldn't we at least get a pair?"

Because you know we're going to need the other one.

And I was like, "Good idea in theory, except there's snowboarding and me and I also have two arms and a back and skull, so probably what we should really be asking for is, like, A PACKAGE DISCOUNT."

A big big big package.

Jenny's Fucking House

I am reposting these photos from Eye Spy's feature of Jenny's house. (How have I never seen these?)

Tip: If you cringe every time that I spew the word eff, you will want to marry her blog.

This Would Not Be So Problematic If He Also Knew How To Walk On His Hands

There Andrew is, rolling right along after tearing his achilles tendon, only dozens of days before we're scheduled to hit Spain and Italy and New York and Vermont. That's right, Vermont. Where there is snowboarding. WAY TO GO ANDREW'S ACHILLES TENDON.

He's being fit for a boot thing in the morning.

And This Means What

Last night I dreamt that I was trying to carve my eyeballs out with a steak knife, which my subconscious apparently thinks is a completely stoic and normal event. I wasn't alarmed or upset over this self mutilation at all, but I do remember passively thinking, I bet this will probably hurt.

Because even in my dreams I'M A GENIUS.

I never actually de-eyeballed myself, I woke up right as I was driving the knife toward my face.



By the way, I did not use the Latisse before bed.

Sparkly

It's been a bright day.




The new glittery bit on my right hand is a half carat diamond surrounded by a few chips and set in a white gold Art Deco band from around 1939. I didn't think I'd ever want to wear another ring after being given my wedding set, which I still find myself staring at and drooling over once or twice or fifteen times each day. You know how something can be so beautiful, so simple, so meaningful that it startles you and makes you wave your hands and look to the sky and yell, "Um, God, thank you, seriously, but are you sure there's not been some kind of mistake? My last name is spelled with a Y, just in case you want to DOUBLE CHECK YOUR RECORDS?"

That's how I felt when Andrew asked me to marry him.

And again when he gave me this ring today.

While In Line At Starbucks I Read About This On The Cover Of Yesterday's Wall Street Journal

Well this could possibly be one of the most effective ways to ensure the continued success of the rental market.

If you know what I mean.

And That Is Why We May Never Leave

So you liked that view yesterday, eh?

Don't get too barfy, it's at the end of our street, four or five houses down, not hanging directly outside of some disgustingly expensive Oscar de la Renta drapes or anything. We love it, but I won't lie, we'll love it even more when we have direct deep water dock front. Soon. Maybe.

And then this blog might get interesting.

By the way, you know what I recently discovered about our neighborhood? Back in the mid 1800s the street where I now live along the Saint John's River was originally farmland. Around 1870, a prominent socialite named Margaret Mitchell and her husband, Wisconsin railroad tycoon Alexander Mitchell, fell in love with the area and built a winter home on nearly two hundred acres. In 1921, Telfair Stockton bought eighty acres of land north of the Mitchell estate to develop a neighborhood and called it San Marco. The business district, where we walk a couple of blocks to get our coffee every morning, was designed after the Piazza di San Marco.

And do you know where the Piazza di San Marco is located?



ITALY. Where we'll be in just a few weeks. Turns out there is totally a place like home.

Florida's coastal San Marco was a huge hit back in the day. Luckily, it's initial success carried it through the Depression, which includes the year that our house was built. And the scenic layout, lack of commercial intrusion, and proximity to downtown continue to make it one of Jacksonville's most desirable communities to live in today.

But, really, we just like the view.

And Roger at the Starbucks in the square who never effs up my drink.

And the view.

Anyway, in a few minutes I'm going outside to help Andrew clean up a few of the six hundred and ninety two leaves in the yard. Gross.

I'll let you know if I still love our house after that.

Just Pretend That You Wouldn't Have Guessed This About Me

How was your weekend?

Ours was lovely, a huge swirl of argue ridden nonstop snot leaking festivities, coupled with low grade fevers and the Colts losing their shot at the Superbowl. Like I said, just. lovely.

The Sudafed is finally starting to kick in, though, and today we treated ourselves to some nice restaurant meals and a couples massage and we're pretty much back to not threatening to bludgeon each others eyes out with slightly dull objects. Almost.

This afternoon I started working out the details of our trip and, again, I CANNOT THANK YOU ALL ENOUGH for your ideas and comments and emails and reminders that lingerie weighs way less than my ski jacket. Very helpful. Especially the person who suggested we pack a super size bottle of Tums and only eat a strict diet of gelato for fourteen days straight.

WHICH IS WHY I COME TO THE INTERNET FOR ALL OF MY ADVICE.

Anyway, when I wasn't blowing my nose or trying not to vomit, I spent the last two days packing and repacking and then repacking again. And barely not beheading my beloved. And trying my very best to recover.

And lusting after all things Italian.



I have a weakness for Fendi. And carrara quarries. And pasta.

SURPRISE.

I also have a tendency to become utterly irrational when heavily medicated and unable to breathe out of my nose and he won't stop snoring.

Anyway. I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to you, Andy, for attempting to stuff your fist in your mouth just before three o'clock in the morning and then trying to hightail it to The Guest Bedroom. And for telling you that your snores smell like poop.

That was completely and totally uncalled for.

Flying With More Than Just Pants (a.k.a. HELP)

We're leaving in less than five weeks for our first getaway of the year, which is Barcelona to Rome to New York to Sugarbush, which Andrew keeps accidentally confusing with Sugarfoot except that I don't even think that a Sugarfoot exists, although wouldn't that make a lot more sense than a ski resort named SugarBUSH?



And, yes, I'll blog throughout so you don't miss the broken bones.

So anyway. The trip.

You helped me with my initial questions about planning so I thought that I might ask you to join your superpower forces one more time and lend your expertise again. Just so you know, telling me, "For God's sake, DO NOT PACK THAT GREEN SWEATSHIRT," is not considered helpful advice, which means, ALLISON, I'M LOOKING AT YOU.

Without further ado, here's what I'd like to know...


1. I eat. Like, all. the. time. What are your most packable snacks?

2. Any money saving tips for us? Andrew is rolling his eyes, but I'll totally listen.

3. I should bother with lingerie, right? (What, Allison?)

4. If you only had time to eat at ONE pizza place in New York, where would you go?

5. How do I say, "While he's in the bathroom, I would like you to spike his soda with vodka," in Spanish? In Italian?

6. Along those lines, I know how to say agua. I can also count to ten in Spanish. This is adequate, correct?

7. What's your favorite restaurant in Rome? In Barcelona? If you steer me toward a place that causes food poisoning I will Fedex you my vomit.

8. This is the first time either of us have ever driven from New York to Vermont. Is there any place that we cannot miss along the way? Or are we just asking to get caught in a cataclysmic blizzard?

9. Andrew swears by those Dr. Scholl's Gel inserts, but I've always been a custom orthodics girl, WELL. I. WAS, that is before they got stolen in a pair of Adidas that I left on the beach to do sprints in the sand. So there's some homeless guy with really small feet walking around Miami with $500 insoles right now, I hope you're enjoying them. Anyway, are those gel thingies really as great as they look on the commercials with the people who are singing in the rain and letting their cabs get ganked?

10. Your best travel story. Hint: Do not tell me, I went to Rome and it SUCKED.

Remember That Faux Fur Porn Star Blanket?

I was a little afraid that it wouldn't be long before it ended up in the pile of dumpster stuff that the dogs dookie or pukie on, not because I thought that they'd ruin it, but because I wasn't certain that it would actually hold together for a respectable amount of time. You probably don't remember, but we picked it up at World Market for less than a hundred bucks. I know. It could've gone either way.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that it's still here, it's still soft, and it's still where we pile on with all four dogs to watch Chelsea Lately.

So it may be harboring a popcorn kernel. Or two. Ahem.




(When I took these photos last night Andy asked, "What is Zoe's middle name?" Which should answer any questions of why we are together.)

nah nah nah nah nah nah, You Say It's Your Birthday

Andrew turned thirty one today.

He marked the momentous occasion by plucking out a freakishly long gray nose hair, and then ran downstairs to show it to me before threatening my life if I blogged about it.

He also flew a vintage airplane from World War II.

I should mention that the latter was my idea, even though he has no actual flying experience, and that at the last minute I realized the complete and total absurdity of my gift and was like, "Look, if you crash that thing and kill yourself, then just know that I. WILL. KILL. YOU."

This is why I'm effective at the negotiating part of what I do.

He turned pale when he slid into the open. air. cockpit. (is that not a bird to head injury waiting to happen???), and started asking the instructor stuff like, "Wait, you mean I steer with this ax handle thingy?" which seemed like no big deal until I remembered that IN TEN MINUTES HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FLYING THE AIRPLANE.

Then I started getting all morosely nostalgic, thinking about how much I've liked having him around the last couple of years, you know, the amazing sex, the long walks on the beach, holidays with the fam, movie nights with the dogs, that whole I swear to love you for all of eternity Billy Idol white wedding thing that went down. The amazing sex. Did I just write that? He can't die. Ever.

So.

On that note, I want to wish my love The Happiest Thirty First Birthday In The History Of Thirty First Birthdays. And no more gray nose hairs.

And thank you for not making me kill you.