Ramblings of a girl getting older.

Tomorrow is the big day and I will officially have entered my late twenties. I know. Still young. There are many people older than me, including the Husband (who's almost dead forty), who would scoff at me calling myself old, but let me clarify.

It's just... I'm getting older. And so are the people around me. And it's strange. A couple nights ago, my brother called me. I ignored couldn't hear my cell phone and only realized it was him much later that night. And something about seeing my brother's name on my missed call list made me feel weird. I don't know if I can explain it right, but suddenly I was thinking shit, we're all grown up. We all have our own lives now and these people I once grew up with, was children with, are adults. They're working, getting married, starting families, and we each call each other from time to time to catch up.

It just seemed so normal for adults, but... we're not adults. We're still just kids! We still run and tattle to mom when someone is being mean. We still fight and wrestle and taunt and embarrass each other. It just seems so... strange. Does everyone go through this when they realize they're going to be thirty in four short years?

I don't think I'm ready to get older. I still don't own my own home. There aren't any children on the way. I have a stable job, but certainly wouldn't consider it a career. I really think I'd like to prolong this whole getting old business.

So, tomorrow's the day and you can bet your sweet ass I'll be consuming my fair share of alcohol tomorrow. And chocolate. Definitely chocolate.

Just one reason I've stopped answering my phone.

One of the pitfalls of working in a hotel are the inevitable requests for discounts from relatives you haven't heard from since the last time they needed a hotel room.

These usually end up being the worst kind of guest. It's like they suddenly forgot how to travel. It's really quite something to watch your (relatively) normal relatives suddenly become completely incapable of anything.

Should you decide to help, you will (from the time the request comes through to three months after they check out) receive no fewer than eight thousand phone calls. All will be made with the intention of asking one single question, which will be so stupid you begin wondering how these people even leave the house alone on a daily basis.

Each call will occur while you're in the middle of dinner or sex and last anywhere from three to nine minutes (long enough to completely piss off your partner) and usually require that you make at least one additional phone call after the initial call has ended.

Of course, the people you've so generously decided to help are totally oblivious to the trouble they're putting you through. In fact, they'll likely feel put out should they encounter any problems, which is funny, because these problems are usually brought on by themselves.

Look, Ma! Fireworks!

We normally don't stay for the fireworks display after Friday night games due to the heavy traffic and, well, The Husband gets embarrassed when I start "moo"ing as we, and thousands of strangers, try to maneuver our way down ramps and through gates.

This time, I'm glad we stayed. Don't let anyone tell you that photographing fireworks is difficult. It's not. Not at all. As long as you have the right settings.

This past Fourth of July was my first attempt. They all came out looking as sad as this one:



I was totally discouraged. Of course, it wasn't until July 5th that I read this. She made it look so easy, but then she made everything look easy. (I hate talented people.)



What an improvement! I was so incredibly happy to see how these turned out! Granted, there's a few things I'll change the next time.



A tripod is necessary. (Are those allowed in the ballpark?) These pictures were taken while I had the camera settled on my lap. You can see all the stationary objects around the fireworks are terribly blurry.



Also, I'll make it a point next time to get a better view. I thought briefly of moving seats since I knew the stadium overhang would probably get in the shot, but since I wasn't really thinking of taking the pictures at all, I waved it off. Now, after seeing how these turned out, I know better.



I think the only other thing I'd change is the aperture. An aperture of f8 was recommended, but I think f11-f14 worked better. The fireworks weren't quite so blown out.



This was a lot of fun. I can't wait to try my hand at fireworks again. In fact, I might actually encourage the Husband to get more Friday night tickets just so I have the opportunity. I doubt he'll mind.

I find baseball extremely boring. Please don't tell my husband.

I was dragged along to not one, but two Angel's games on Thursday and Friday night. The Twins are in town. The Husband was not going to miss it.

So, I did what I always do when I'm forced to do something I have absolutely no interest in doing. I brought my good friend, Nikon, along for the ride.


Here we are in the car on the way to Thursday night's game.
Those arms belong to the Husband.
I really like watching him drive.
Don't ask.


Everyone say Hello Orange County traffic!
(It was about this time I started feeling nauseous.)


Our seats were on top of the stadium. At least we had a great view. (And by "we" I mean Nikon and myself.) Those there cars missed the start of the game. Not me! I were there for every moment of it!


40,000 fans knew to wear red.
Those two guys didn't get the memo.


People are slobs. I will never be comfortable spitting remnants of food out of my mouth onto the floor of a public area. Sorry, it's just not me.


I really wanted garlic fries.
Those are the remains of the fruit cup I got instead.
It was tasty.
It was not garlic fries.


This was the sunset when we arrived to the Thursday night game.


This was the sunset when we arrived to the Friday night game.


That there catcher would be Joe Mauer of the Minnesota Twins.
We like him. (And by "we" I mean me and... me.)


Excuse me! Cotton candy guy! Come back!!!


This girl sitting in front of us brought a book. Smart.


This man's sole purpose in life was to make me jealous.
I love Red Vines. (I detest Twizzlers.)

It was about this time that the Husband decided he needed to shut me up. He hailed the cotton candy guy and I stayed quiet until... it was gone.

Then the fireworks started.

Lindt Excellence Chili Dark

(More blue glare. And some blur. Again... my bad.)

While The Husband and I were at Target, I decided to take a stroll through the candy aisle and see if anything caught my eye. I grabbed this the instant I saw it. I've wanted to experience this combination of flavors ever since I watched Chocolat. (And if you haven't seen this movie, add it to your Netflix queue immediately. It's incredibly sweet and romantic and wonderful.) Normally, this kind of chocolate would make me nervous, but that's exactly why I had to go for it. It's all about trying new things, right?

So, let's open this bad boy up.

Hello, lover.

I thought the scent of the chocolate was pretty much what you might expect from a piece of dark chocolate. Certainly not an indication of things to come.


It sure is pretty, isn't it?


Please excuse my finger prints. They couldn't be helped.

The first bite was very smooth and tasted as you'd expect a good dark chocolate to taste. The Husband asked me, "Is it spicy?"

"No, not at all," I said, somewhat surprised. I hadn't expected the chili to be overpowering, but I hadn't expected it to be quite so mild either.

I tasted again. "The hint of spice is interesting."

Another taste. "It seems to become more prominent the more I eat."

(The Husband has started ignoring me at this point.)

Fourth bite. "Wow, it's getting stronger," I say. To myself.

I took my time on the last bite. I really wanted to understand this chocolate.

"Yes, it's spicy," I amend. It really is.

Five minutes later: "I think it's giving me heartburn."

Let's just say that while I'm glad I tried it, the rest of this chocolate will be going to work with me where someone is sure to take it off my hands.

The fight

It was all over ice cream and how he had agreed to get some with me, but once we arrived at Golden Spoon he decided he wanted Starbucks which was right next to the ATM we had just left and I didn't understand why he couldn't have decided this while we were over there, but he didn't want to carry it on his bike, but it's okay for me to carry ice cream on my bike, and so he went to get his Starbucks and I told him I'd wait, but I waited and waited and waited, and finally I decided to go see what was taking so long because what if something bad had happened and I didn't have my cell phone because I never have my cell phone, but just as I was about to cross the street, there he was and he was all let's go get your ice cream and I was all no, I'm over it, let's just go home, and then he felt bad and GOOD, HE SHOULD HAVE, and he started giving me all these excuses and I was just not having it, YOU KEPT ME FROM ICE CREAM, and sure, I could've still had some, but I was mad and I'm so good at being a martyr, so I had no ice cream, and the funny thing is he still takes no responsibility for any of it because it was Starbucks' fault for forgetting his order and YOU SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN ICE CREAM LIKE YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO.

Not to be confused with Skywalker.

I'd like to introduce you to someone. This is Luke.



And he was not named after the Star Wars character, thank you very much. (Fact: I only just watched the Star Wars series a year ago. And... they weren't bad.)

Luke and I were meant to be together. He was the last of a litter (the runt, too) that I found advertised in a local paper. When I arrived to pick him up, he was behind a sofa, hiding from two terrorist children. Their mother seemed disinterested, just wanted this last nuisance out of the house and I wasn't leaving him behind.

On the way home, he slept in my lap. I was in love. While he was small, he would find random places to sleep; on shelves behind picture frames, in the entertainment center. Now, he often sleeps here, on our shoes:



He talks a lot, especially when he wants treats. And he still looks for warm, available laps. He is so super cuddly and lovable.

The Husband and I are animal lovers for sure, but we live in an apartment and it wouldn't be fair for us to try and house a bunch of pets. We're happy with our two "kids" right now. (Yes, Luke has a brother from another mother. Actually, a sister, but "sister" doesn't sound quite right in that sentence. I've ruined it now, haven't I?)

It always surprises me how often I hear people say they don't like cats, or they're "dog people." Cats (okay, some cats) have such amazing personalities. Sure, I'd love to have dogs and turtles and pigs, but I wouldn't give my cats up for the world.

A picture worth 152 words

I took this picture of my desk today. I'm not really sure why, but I realized that there's a lot to learn about me from this photo. Come on, I'll show you...


I collect stuff and it accumulates on surfaces around our apartment until I finally put everything away. In the trash.


Actually, I have more than one. And some brothers, too.




We have cats. We always need to dust. Speaking of cats...




These days it's mostly country, but I still like to turn up Bone Thugs 'N' Harmony from time to time when I'm feeling particularly feisty.


I don't even know why the Husband wants me to keep them all. He's strange.


I love, love, love to read. Trashy romance novels. Just thought I should throw that out there now.


That's the mirror above the wet bar. We have an old apartment. It was built when "wet bars" were popular. Good thing for us, though. We have a lot of booze in that bar.




Seriously. She does.


Not really.


They're real cute. Cute little dust collectors.


Might?

It's good to be employed.

Why is it that when people hear you have a professional (or even, in my case, a semi-professional) camera, they automatically assume that you are a professional photographer?

Fact: I am not a photographer. I don't even like using the word "photographer" because the truth is there are REAL LIVE PHOTOGRAPHERS out there in the world and they're fantastic and I can only hope to be a fraction as good one day. Using words like "photography" and "camera" make me feel like an impostor and I offend even myself! (Kidding. Sorta.)

My boss's boss came to me yesterday and said, "I hear you have a fancy camera."

I didn't know what to say. It is a pretty fancy camera, if you're used to the everyday "point-and-shoot" variety. However, there are fancier cameras and why the hell are we using the word "fancy" anyway? Is my camera dressed up to go dancing?

But I digress. Here at The Hotel, we are currently knee deep in the middle of a huge rooms renovation and he wants someone to take pictures of one our "new" rooms to e-mail to the company's President of Operations or some such person. Would I be willing to bring in my camera and take a few pictures?

Fact: I do not know how to say "no." I squirmed in my chair a bit, kinda smiled and contorted my face in a way that should have told him how uncomfortable I was with the request, but okay, I'll do it if I absolutely have to, but please don't make me.

Today I came to work with my camera. I told them, "I'll give it a shot (haha, get it?), but I can't guarantee anything! I'm still learning!" and then we proceeded up to the seventeenth floor and took some pictures.

And after all was said and done, the photos came out all right. The wannabe photographer in me wishes I could have taken them on my terms, in better light, with a tripod, ALONE, but the administrative peon doesn't care enough to be bothered.

The Husband

Before I give free reign to all the thoughts I have on The Husband and marriage in general, I thought I'd share some of the history.

The Husband and I met at work and started dating when I was eighteen. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first real love, my first you know (insert twitchy wink here).

It wasn't long before he accepted a promotion and moved up north. When he asked me to go with him, I said yes. Much to the shock of everyone around me. And I couldn't blame them.

At stupid-years-old, and after only having dated for six months, we moved away together. Seven hours from where I had been born and raised. Seven hours away from the only family and friends I had ever known.

And it was a crazy first year. To say the least, I was nowhere near ready to move in with anybody and I believe that long ago decision plays a huge part in our relationship today. But I'll explain more about that later.

The Husband and I lived together for eighteen months before he proposed, and exactly one year later, we were married in a small ceremony in Las Vegas. It was shortly after that we relocated back to southern California.

November will see our fifth anniversary and someone recently said to me, "Five years? You don't see that very often." Five years seems like such a short time, I didn't realize we had reached a significant milestone.

The Husband is eleven years older than me, another fact that plays a huge part in why our relationship is the way it is. See, our marriage is far from perfect and, lately, we've experienced our fair share of problems. I think most of it can be chalked up to the fact that I was too young, too inexperienced, to make a decision like marriage when I was only twenty. I didn't know myself nearly well enough.

But, overall, he's a good man. He wants to take care of me, protect me, and see me happy. And despite us having very few things in common, we get along and enjoy spending time together.

I'm hoping this blog will provide a much needed outlet for the thoughts and feelings I just don't feel comfortable sharing with the people around me.

Update June 5, 2013: This post makes me want to barf. But I'm going to keep it and deal with my past mistakes (both in life and writing) like a mature adult. By drinking excessively. (Kidding.) (Mostly.)

At least he's old enough to enter.

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This is me.

I'm twenty-five years old. I consider a Grande Skinny Caramel Latte from Starbucks to be a well-balanced breakfast. I'm a Weight Watchers lifetime member. I've been married for five years. I live in southern California. I find myself extremely creative but am still waiting to see if I have any real talent. I find it impossible to spend less than $50 at Target. I love to watch TV and consider the DVR to be one of man's greatest inventions. I am totally inconsistent. I'm a photographer... trapped inside the body of an administrative assistant. I don't like people. I love tequila. I love to watch movies. I can't live without chocolate. I'm eleven years younger than The Husband. I'm afraid of everything and I desperately want people to find me interesting.