Riding Life's Waves

We're on our last day of vacation in California. We're at Matt's parents now, but we rented a house on Newport Beach this time, so we were mere steps to the ocean. It was a little chilly this time around, but that didn't keep Matt and Sam out of the water, both surfing with their wetsuits on. Sam heard a million times, "Oh he's so cute!" Honestly, he did look pretty darn Matt-like in his suit. I asked Sam yesterday morning if he was going surfing, and he answered, "Yes, Mom, it's what I do, it's my job."

Matt and I ran on the beach a couple of times, and there were a few trips to Perry's Pizza and PJ's Surfriders. Standard issue. I know every nuance of Newport Beach now. : )

Sam told Matt how his job isn't any fun, saying, "Daddy, you don't have any toys or children to play with (well, a few children), just those big rocking chairs."

Matt took Sam and I to see his elementary school in Orange. In California, the kids walk from room to room...outdoors. Their little coat hooks are outdoors. Gotta pee? The bathroom is located outdoors. It's crazy to think that these little kids aren't locked inside some building, wandering the halls like all the little Indiana chillins. I like the concept, but...

The Newport Beach Grammar School is located on the beach! OMG, how much sand those poor teachers must have to sweep up daily. Not to mention all the beach bums that stop and gawk. Oh, no way.

Yesterday was Matt's and my wedding anniversary. It was a very sweet day. I think we hugged and kissed 53 times. He took me to our favorite restaurant, Orange Hill, that looks out over all of Orange County and a sliver of the ocean. I gave him a plastic, red heart that I'd dug out of the sand, to which I'd added a piece of heavy string. It was kind of a joke, but he got it. Our hearts are still strong, and our perspective on what marriage really takes in unflawed. He truly is the best guy, and I'm extremely fortunate. I love my guys so much.

Camper Van Halen

Matt told me two days ago that we'd been invited to a suite at whatever-Conseco-Fieldhouse-is-called-now to see Van Halen. I stared blankly, looking for an escape hatch.

I said, "Oh, god, honey, it's just that I...it's just...oh, how do I say this...I hate them. I hate them so much." I told him I'd look for a sitter. Imagine my delight when all Brooks family members were unavailable! But, damn, our Australian friend said, "Yes, of course I'll watch the lad. I'm pissed that you didn't ask me first."

I told Matt that the only song I remember is Pour Some Sugar On Me.

Matt's response--OK, more like a snicker--was, "Jill, that wasn't Van Halen."

I like the friends we'll be joining, I happen to love making fun of big hair and Spandex, and Matt told me today that Kool and the Gang are opening. OK, I'm there. I'm so there.

Open That Bottle

The Wall Street Journal, in an attempt to encourage their wine-loving readers to drink the good stuff, began an Open That Bottle night program. Instead of hiding your prized wines (I have several from the early 1990s that I've been hoarding), you take them to a party of fellow wine enthusiasts and drink.

We participated Sunday night at the home of my editor friend who lives downtown in the old Block building. Although I've turned Matt into a wine snob over the years, we paled in comparison to most of the knowledgeable folks sharing bottles at this fest. There were Rochioli pinot noirs, Martinelli Zinfandels from Jackass Vineyard, plenty of Côtes du Rhône, Burgundy and Châteauneuf-du-Pape...and one of my old boyfriends. DRINK! 
 
Just kidding, it was fine.
 
Matt and I met DJ for dinner at St. Elmo's afterward--more wine--and then flipped a coin for who drove home. Fun evening.

Happy Valentine's Day, Matt...

Quads 21st Birthday Bash

We celebrated the adorable quadruplets' birthday last Saturday night in Broad Ripple. We met at Union Jack's for some intensely yummy pizza, and Matt was sweet enough to stay home with Sam so that Deb--our favorite babysitter--could join us.

Deb returned home, but my dad stayed with us, and we felt that a ripening experience in Ripple would be a quick shot at the Alley Cat Lounge. I always loved the Cat. I maybe or maybe didn't play pool there with several bands over the years...

Saturday night, Whitney Houston had just been pronounced dead--no real surprise to us--and some big, loud, weepy girl at the Cat (also drunk and stupid) went up to my dad and asked if he was a Republican. My dad, meekly, answered, "Um, no, I'm not a Republican," (fibber) to which she said, "Good, because if you were I'd punch you in the face."

She continued walking around the bar crying, so I had to make fun of her, just a wee bit. I said, "Oh, are you all right?" to which she replied, "No. Ronald Regan killed Whitney Houston, and if I find any Republicans here tonight (shew, I was safe) I'll f*@#ing punch them in the face."

We left the Cat pretty quickly. It was getting weird earlier than I remember back in my days. We walked down the alley (you see the significance here) to the Vogue Nightclub. My favorite place on earth next to my very own family room.

Our entire bunch: Jason, Angie, Nick, Tyler, Lauren, my dad and I got jiggy with it for hours. We all knocked back some tasty beverages, and none of us were feeling any pain...until the next morning.

Chocolate milk definitely cures a hang-over.

Matt's Birthday Party

I really must desist in surprising Matt each year, because by the time he's 40 there will be no more tricks up my sleeve. And I've already told him...we're going somewhere hot for his 40th.

We had a surprise party open house this year. I told Matt that our neighbors previous and past would be joining us, which was fine with him, but people kept coming, kept coming, more people. We realized that we are still friends with almost all of our former neighbors. We're very fortunate with that.

I made a bunch of very yummy soup for the occasion:

bought him the perfect cake with our likenesses :) (and broke the "H"candle):

and his friend re-gifted this hideous thing from Christmas:

Another party snaps to attention. I'm on break until Valentine's Day.

Do What You Like

I shared the best "secret" moment with Sam tonight...and then ran to tell Matt about it.

I have kept a journal since the 7th grade. Thank you, Mrs. Blaylock.

Sure, at many points it has saved my life. But my most extensive, serious journaling has been since the day I found out I was pregnant with Sam.

I journal all the time, and many days--most days--after Sam has said something funny, interesting or mean, I'll say, "Oh, Mommy needs to write that in her journal."

Tonight, Sam said, "I want to journal. I love to write."

I replied, "Well, when you learn all of your letters you'll be able to form words, and then you'll...oh, Sam! You'll be a writer. Mommy always wanted to be a real writer, but Mommy lacks some discipline, but if you want to be a writer...write! You can write a book!"

Sam's face burst with a smile. He couldn't contain himself, and he threw himself forward, hugging me, and simply said, "Mommy..."

Sam loves praise and nurturing. I followed it up (because of the parenting books) with, "You can be anything you want to be. Even a Senator. Mommy will still love you."

Sam said, "I want to be a writer."

I expounded to Matt.  Matt's response: "Well, better than a lawyer..."

Apple Pie and Amoxicillin

Not since I was in Madrid, Spain, searching for a 24-hr RX, have I been so greatly disappointed. In Spain, lovely Spain, there are roughly 3 drug stores per any metropolitan area. They open at 9, close at 5, and none of them are open weekends. This goes for France, too, come to think of it. While walking what seemed the entire country of Spain, back when I was still "fashion over function," I had at least 15 blisters on my feet from walking in clown shoes all day.

I searched for hours, not speaking a word of Spanish (5 years of French has really come in not handy), for a freaking drug store! To no avail.

But I will say this: at least in Europe you understand. They're purists. They don't like neon. They don't like advertising and marketing. They won't allow "box stores." Bless their hearts, I love Europeans.

But when Sam got strep throat over the weekend, and I had to call my always-there-for-me stepmom to find an open MedCheck (at 6 p.m.) I was pissed. We live in Carmel, for God's sake. Strip mall capital of the world, right?

And then to fill a prescription? Forget about it. One open. ONE. Oh-my-high-price-of-gas-God.

I called Matt after I'd already driven at least 12 miles around in a circle, asking, "Please hold dinner for me, I'm at CVS on Rangeline" (my third attempt at an open pharmacy). Matt said, "Better you than me, because someone would already be dead if it were me..."

There were actual tears in my eyes.

So, Sam's better. God bless America and amoxicillin.

We took him to see Beauty and the Beast 3D the next day. Ten minutes into it I spoke over Sam's head to Matt: this is a horrible message, if you really think about it. Matt nodded.

When we left the theater, Matt said, "So, Sam, the message is that if you hold a girl captive for long enough, she might fall in love with you."

Oh, the truth does sting.

People in my hot tub

The "people in your hot tub" idea is a theory that allows you to entertain famous people who you may not--and probably are not--married to.

My neighbors, Kelly and Mike, and my husband all chose sex symbols, television personalities (if you can call it having a personality), and moviestars. OK, OK, I gave Kelly "Dennis Quaid," because I rather like him, too. And, honestly, I'm probably too old to know her other choices. I think both husbands chose Megan Fox, because, you know, they're guys.

Except for Jon Stewart, a highly sexy, funny and intellectual television personality--with tons of personality--I had a difficult time coming up with people who are actually still alive. Kelly thinks I'm nuts. She lets out screams regarding my choices.

I've spent a lot of time with Shakespeare. Old Bill would be in my hot tub, for sure, and now Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.

I've been on an F. Scott Fitzgerald kick, of late. For those of you who may have only referred to the Cliffs Notes for Fitzgerald or, who, like myself, didn't completely 'get' him at age 16...reread! I just finished This Side of Paradise, and it's as if time stood still since 1920. Highly intellectual and philosophical, mildly political and greatly FED UP with humanity.

I'm walking on a cloud, having just laid the book down after a heavy sigh.

On to revisit the works of George Bernard Shaw. If you have ever seen a photo of him you may already know that he won't be joining my party.