Everything's Bigger in Texas.

JC, what am I doing with this nouveau blog design? I feel like I am in blog limbo. Blimbo, if you will indulge me. And in this blimbo, I must find my bloggy path, or perish trying.

Very dramatic, this blogging. Obvi.

So, we're back in Iladelph. Only it feels bizarre; this house isn't really ours anymore. Our new home really isn't ours yet. So we wait. I am trying to suck the joy out of every moment here in Manayunk. The last weeks of single parenthood before Hank and I become full-time Texans. Real life is also a little blimbo-y, but I feel remarkably calm about it all.

(Also? Mouse turds. I mean, like, three. And they could have been old. But still. If I was feeling sentimental about leaving, I just need to remember the horror of this day. Peace out, Yunk. Keep your damned raccoons/squirrels/mice and any other hybrid creature you might throw at me and let me be on my way to Big D.)

(Where, at our new home inspection, the exterminator told J that field mice were "HUGE" in Texas. Did you just picture rodents of unusual size? I did. But what he meant was "RAMPANT." Fuck me, I can't win this battle. I am waving the white flag, you cheeky little rodents. I might as well invite you to tea, you bastards.)

(See, everything is BIGGER in Texas.)

What else can I tell you? I used the spa gift card I received for Christmas today at this spa in Chestnut Hill. I adore a good Swedish massage. Consider the things we demand of our skin and bones; a professional rub-down is a necessary luxury in my book.

I indulge mostly on vacation, and perhaps once or twice a year at home. Through our travels, I've visited spas all over the world, as well as one very questionable backroom in Chiang Mai, Thailand that J and I still recall with abject terror. Laying on the table today, I felt grateful for each of those trips, and for my dimpled thighs. I wondered why I've been so hung up on my mangled-by-baby frame, because the things my body can do? Nothing short of miraculous! And to have my health... Well, it's downright disrespectful to worry about a few extra L-Bs and some cellulite.

(Of course, I did fit into my skinny jeans today. I managed to lose 6.5 pounds in the last 2.5 months through a very specific regime of Nutella on whole wheat mini-bagels and caramel macchiatos.)

And that's alls I got, kids. I'm off to snuggle up with a glass of vino and some HGTV, and to ponder the important existential questions in life, like what should my next blogging adventure entail?

Birthday Boy

Last week, J and I had the opportunity to get away together, just for a day.

On the road, I challenged him to name all of the states. I did the same. We each forgot two (he counted D.C.); we both missed Wisconsin. Obviously, we're a match made in heaven.

Then, I challenged J to name the state capitals. We played that lightning round together. We got 38, and made up a whole bunch.

We're stoopid.

But here is this man, y'all. This guy who humors my love for a good brain exercise now and again.

This man who drives his car at five miles per hour beside me as I run through the rough neighborhoods.

This man who surprises me with trips to Southeast Asia.

This man who squeezes my hand during turbulence.

This man who does the dishes.

This man who tries to use acronyms in Scrabble. (He also put down "Nam" during a recent match, claiming it was an important war, babe.)

This man who is one half this tiny boy we both adore, with the blonde hair and the blue eyes and the pitch-perfect J expressions.

This man who is the most self-possessed person I have ever met. I don't think he knows a thing about insecurities. (But I do think, this evening, he will ask me what "self-possessed" means. He has no qualms about asking for help with the unfamiliar.)

This man who told me recently: figure out what you want to be; then go be it.

I don't know what I did to deserve this profound happiness. I do know that we work at it, every day, and that at the end of every day, we will both here.

Working at it.

Happy birthday to my husband, the best decision I ever made.

Jack Talk Thai, Part I

The days before our trip were as fast and furious as Britney's breakdown. I was traveling, unfortunately, to Providence RI, and Worcester, MA. I found myself putting in 12 hour work days, with nary a moment to blog.

The morning of the 21st, I arose at 5 AM in Worcester; drove to Providence; hopped a plane for Philly; took a cab to Manayunk; worked and packed all day; until Future Sis-In-Law whisked J and me to 30th Street Station, from which we high-tailed it to New York. Lovely ex-roommate Vanessa let us crash at her Hudson Street apartment for the evening, and at 8 AM, Feb. 22nd, we were finally JFK-bound.

Nerve Tonic in hand, we boarded our 17-hour flight to Bangkok. (Sweet, sweet Nerve Tonic. In lieu of valium, I opted for a homeopathic stress reliever, which I found earlier in the week at CVS. I don't really believe it did a fucking thing, but hey, I survived 40 hours of flying without a single panic attack! Am awesome and fearless.)

Flight was actually quite lovely, as I got to watch a ton of television and movies! And eat delicious Thai food! And I actually was able to sleep! Although, J and I were roused several times by the hippie woman behind us SCREAMING bloody murder, apparently in her sleep. And my GOD, the farting. But other than that, bravo Thai Airways. Bravo.

After another short flight from Bangkok, we made it through customs at Chiang Mai with no Brokedown Palace incidents, and at approximately 9 PM Thai time (9 AM our time, so yeah, 21 hours after we started this journey), we were delighted to find a man with a sign, bearing J's last name. And lo, though I practiced it mercilessly before we left, this moment was to be the only time one of us would utter the phrase:

"Poot pa sa ang grit dai mai?"

Which means, "Do you speak English?"

And then the reply: "Nit noi."

Which means, "A little."

Wow. Don't act like you're not impressed.

And so we rode in a taxi to our first hotel, the serene Tamarind Village. Which is truly a story for another day.

To be continued, you gorgeous Internet, you.