Two vignettes

1.

Last night, I glanced at my phone and noticed a missed call from my Bestie. We've been trying to chat for a few days, but keep missing each other.

(It should be noted here that both Bestie and her mother, Itinerant Woman, are notorious Anglophiles -- especially on such an occasion that the Anglo is a goodlooking man. Bestie also so happens to have a mini wiener dog named Ralph.)

I had a dinner guest over, so I couldn't call back. I sent her a text (which was all true, by the way):

"Hi boo. I'd call you back but R and I have an Englishman over for dinner. His name is Ralph. I'm sure you understand."

Her reply:

"Of course. Carry on."

2.

A friend of mine recently called me "demanding."

"You know I mean that with love, right?," she asked.

"I also demand love, so yes," I replied.

But later, I told R about it.

"Did I tell you Jules called me demanding? Do you think I'm demanding?"

He looked at me with some surprise.

"Of course. You didn't know that about yourself?"

It was a lot like a first date. I even shaved my legs.

One of the funny things about my moving plan is this: I agreed to move to R's ancestral home without having met, or even spoken to, any of his family.

Not-a-one. Not even on the phone.

And I'll be inheriting a brood. There's dad, there's mom, there's stepmom, there are uncles and aunts, a few cousins and there's a 93-year-old matriarch. All within probably a 50-mile radius.

I'm excited about it, for the most part. So far, they've been terribly sweet. This is good for me, because in the past (long past) I had a boyfriend whose mom thought I was stealing away her baby. It was a nightmare. That's not the case here. They all seem to be (judging by R's reports) genuinely delighted he's found a lady he likes enough to bring home, a lady who likes him enough she's agreed to cross the continent. Whenever he talks to his family back home, they always end the call with messages for me. "Tell Ells we said hi and can't wait to meet her!"

But I'm also kind of nervous. What if they don't like me? What if they don't think I'm pretty enough for him? What if they judge me? What if they hate my dog? I realize these are mostly asinine, insecure thoughts (with the exception of the dog concern. It's totally reasonable to think that she might cause problems), but I can't help it. Fears are fears, you can try to reason with them, but sometimes it's hard to make them go away.

So when R announced that one of his uncles was coming through town with his wife (not the uncle who works with my new internet friend, a different uncle, I was both excited and nervous. I started getting ready hours before our date at a local brewpub. I tried on multiple outfits, checking with my girlfriend, Q.

"Is this cute?" I asked, spinning in front of her in a blue cotton summer dress.

"Yeah, it's cute," Q said.

"Is it too much? I think it's too much."

"It's not too much, it's cute."

It was like a first date.

As we walked into the pub, Uncle was sitting at the table. I spotted R's sparkly blue eyes across the room. As we walked up, he was sort of stuck in the corner, so I reached over and shook his hand. As we chose seats, Auntie returned from the bathroom. She gave R a big hug and then turned to me.

"Hi, good to meet you," I said, putting out my hand.

She looked at my hand.

"Honey, if you're moving to South Carolina, you're going to have to get over shaking hands," she said as she folded me into a big hug.

Seems like a good sign to me.

The internet is so awesome, you guys.

Oh, wow. Has it really been that long since I posted? What a jerk! And it’s not like I have nothing to write about. Hooboy and howdy do I.

Like the story about my first friend in Myrtle Beach.

Yeah, that’s right. I haven’t even been to the state and I have a friend.

How, you ask?

Well, it started a few years back. Four? Three? Not sure, but it was long enough ago that people I knew were blogging on LiveJournal. One day, I was bored, poking around on LJ when I ran across a woman whose userpic was a still from one of the best films of all time, Grey Gardens. And I’m not talking about the Drew Barrymore version (which, incidentally, I heartily endorse), I’m talking O.G. Grey Gardens.

“Here’s a blogger I could read,” I thought.

So I did. For years. Her name is Katie, and she now has several active blogs, none of which is on LiveJournal. She’s my first internet friend.

So when Katie joined Twitter, I was all over it. The thing is, Twitter sounds lame, but I actually think it’s fun. Really. It’s much less high-school-reunion-ey than Facebook. You can actually end up finding funny people and ridiculous links.

One of the followers I gained through Katie was JEKinard. Now, when I get a follower, I don’t always follow back. But JEK had some good Tweets, and she seemed more human than Spam-bot (always a big consideration on Twitter). So I followed her back. Over the last few months, she’s someone I’ve seen floating around on the internet. All I knew is that she was a budding attorney who lived in the south.

So when I announced that I was moving to Myrtle Beach, S.C., imagine my delight when JEK replied, “I work in Myrtle Beach and live just south of it. We can be pals. You won't get a twang and I'll help you find the culture.”

Naturally, I found her on Facebook and added her.

When she accepted my friend request (I realize that this story with all it’s Twitter and Facebook references is sort of boring up to this point, but if you're still reading, here’s where it gets crazy), and when she added me back, I decided to look at her info. She read good books, listened to good music, and liked good movies. Check, check and check.

Then I saw her employer.

R&R PC

What? No. Way. I sent her a note.

Subject: WAIT

Body: “Where do you work? For Bob R??”

Her reply:

“Yes... I do. Should I be weirded out?”

Sputter.

“I just can't believe what a small world it is! My boyfriend is R, Bob is his uncle. We've actually been trying to get a hold of Bob …”

“Dude!! I've met R's dad a couple times! …”

And on and on it goes. She knows of R, knows his family. Knows his cousins. And now JEK and I are friends and we will soon hang out, even though I’m totally the needy new friend who is constantly like, “What’s it like there? Are the bugs terrible? Will my hair be frizzy? Are you smart? Can we hang out?” She’s either patient or she’s faking it because she knows I’ll blog about it. Either way, I’ll take it because, according to Facebook, she wears cute outfits and quotes Margaret Atwood.

But seriously, y’all. The universe is tiny. Some random girl on Twitter who was cool enough to not get unfollowed (which I do with extreme prejudice ((I actually don’t know what ‘with extreme prejudice’ means, I just thought it sounded tough))) not only lives where I’m moving and is into a lot of the same stuff I like — including sharing a blogger friend whom neither of us has met — but she knows Roomie’s family. I haven’t met his family.

All’s I’m saying is, the internet is RAD, people.

I’m moving to South Carolina, y’all

I was born in Oregon. I was raised in Oregon. I went to college in Oregon. I know how to properly pronounce Oregon (it does not rhyme with lawn), Chemeketa, Aloha (not the Hawaiian way), Coos and Willamette. I know that in Portland, the street Couch rhymes with pooch. I've got Palaniuk, Groening and Van Sant pride, as well as Tonya Harding shame. I cringe when someone throws something recyclable in the garbage. I wear glasses and have fair skin and I know people who throw secret, underground restaurant parties. I love pinot noir (when I can afford it). I’ve always lived in places within a few hours’ drive from mountains–and I’m talking big, crusty, white volcanoes

And by the end of the year, I’m moving to South Carolina. I'll probably live in Myrtle Beach. It’s a small town, not even 35,000 permanent residents, but it sees nearly 15 million tourists every year. Some are golfers, some are partiers. I’ve never been there. I don’t have a job there, and I don’t know anyone who lives there (yet).

As I was leaving work today, a co-worker stopped me.

“Is it true you’re leaving?”

“Oh, yeah. You heard.”

“Tell me it’s not for a man.”

“It’s for a man.”

She shook her head. “Don't do it.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, it never works out. You’ll be back.”

Well, I don’t know that I agree on the “never works out” thing. I’m sure, once in awhile, it does work out. But I’ll admit it; there’s a good chance she’s right. If you define “working out” as “staying together until one of us dies,” then sure. If those are your standards, there’s a solid chance we’re not going to be checking off the box marked “WIN!”

But I’m not looking at it that way. I’m looking at it this way: Many of the most interesting people I know, at some point, took up and left. They went far. They did something scary. It didn’t always pay off immediately, but they sure as shit learned heaps.

I’m about to do something scary. A move like this is something I chastised a friend about when she did a very similar thing (different Carolina), and guess what? It didn’t work out. He broke up with her a few months later. And she’d been with her honey for several years. Me and R? Just one year under our belts. But guess what else? My friend who ran away with her man? She loves where she ended up. She’s happy with her new friends, her new job, and her new life.

(And of course I could subject you people to my justifications, relationship-wise. I could list the amazing qualities of this person, the kindest person I’ve ever known, and the amazing qualities of this relationship, the healthiest relationship I’ve ever known, but who wants to hear all that nonsense?)

So now, this blog, which was once going to be about running, is going to be about running away with someone.

Rather than letting myself be sad about all the things I’ll miss, (there’s plenty of time for that) I’m excited. It’s going to be crazy. It’s going to be super hot and humid so I’ll probably have to wear my hair curly all the time. There’s a chance, if I get a job first, that I’m going to have to drive across the country, just me and my dog. I haven’t even met R’s family, and I’ll probably have to live with them for awhile.

Will I be shocked by the new and interesting ways foods can be deep-fried? I hope so! Will it be 70 degrees on Christmas? Good chance! Am I going to be unable to find work and eventually go bankrupt? Maybe!

Things I’m excited for: Watching the sun rise over the ocean. Land so flat your gas mileage is great and biking everywhere on a single speed Schwinn (mine is purple) is totally possible. Living near a bathwater-warm ocean. Changing the industry I work in. The super-long growing season. Joining R’s 92-year-old grandmother’s book club. Low cost of living. Fireflies. Visiting Katie Ett in New York (I’m not kidding, lady).

This morning, I was at my dentist’s office, and I told them I needed to schedule some work I’d been putting off. I told them we still had some time, as we’re planning to be in South Carolina by Christmas. The dental assistant, a woman who’s sucked saliva out of the corners of my mouth with a tube twice a year for the last five years, got wistful.

“I used to live out there,” she said. She lived two hours away, near Fort Sumter.

“You’ll have a twang after a couple of years. Just you wait. I worked at it and hid mine after I left because I got made fun of, but you’ll get one.”

She’s now probably in her early 60s. While she polished my teeth she told me a story about skipping school with her friends and heading over to Myrtle Beach when she was a sophomore in high school.

“The first time I streaked was in Myrtle Beach. My boyfriend was so mad, when he saw me going down the main drag, naked, on some guy’s shoulders,” she said.

Now, that's not quite the experience I'm looking for, but I think it's safe to say this'll be interesting.

News. Big. Huge.

So, I don't want to get all Dooce on my three readers, but there's a big announcement in the works here at MOU. Huge. Giant. Life-altering.

But not yet.

So. There's that.

And really, I could write up a post right now updating y'all about the stupid heel that won't heal and blah blah blah but instead instead I'll brag about my awesome day yesterday: Elk Lake, mountain views, shining sun, cute baby and 14 week old puppy. I stuffed my face all day with roasted turkey sammiches and fresh cherries and blueberries (plus maybe a few potato chips) and also probably too much beer. Oy. Oh, and I also did some stand up paddleboarding AND didn't fall into the frigid lake. I'd call that a successful holiday.



The puppy's name is George. He was very sleepy after playing all day.

Final countdown

So this blog was supposed to be about my transition back into running. Specifically, I was thinking I'd have my stupid plantar fasciitis all cleared up and I'd get to running in time to do another half marathon, as I did last year about this time.

But no. Instead, it's been a place to document my failures. Failure to heal, failure to trim up before my sister's wedding -- now one week away, and with no improvements in ye olde waistline -- oh and my high school reunion's also this week. My 11 year. Yeah, I know. I went to an odd high school.

I'm close to considering the surgical option, though I hear that even that has risks, including flattening the arch in your foot, which can be an even worse fate than what I'm dealing with now.

Yeah.

But I was thinking recently, as an ad for American Apparel came up on my computer, about skinny people. They're responsible for a lot of stupid trends. I wonder, if I became one of those skinny people, if I'd suddenly get cool and trendy and start wearing leggings. Or, worse yet, if I'd see these and think, "Oh, those are really cute formal shorts."



















OK. I know that's ridiculous. I mean, I don't like imagining the kind of brain trauma that would lead me to such insanity.

Butter

A little unsolicited advice for y'all: If you have ambitions of weight loss, don't date a southern boy.

Sunday was R's birthday, and I think I went through a pound of butter cooking him his favorite things. And a quart of heavy cream, several cups of sugar, a half pound of bacon and about a third of a bottle of maple syrup.

The details? Pancakes and bacon for breakfast. Lunch didn't matter, because I finished making him two crack pies (Most of the butter went into the crack pie. It's a dairy-and-caramelized-sugary-goo pie in an oatmeal-cookie-crumbled-with-butter crust), and he decided because it was his birthday he could cut into a pie before we went to the movie and ate a tub of popcorn and just call that lunch. Dinner was Emeril's shrimp (with cream and peppers, garlic and cajun seasoning. Now, I think Emeril's a bit much, but if he knows how to make anything, it's southern-style shrimp) and Charleston-style grits (the grits contained two cups of milk, a cup of heavy cream and a stick of butter. it's really the only way to eat grits), which apparently in the south they serve with corn bread. After the cornbread came out of the oven, we frosted it with butter and honey until it weighed about a half pound per cube. I would've taken photos of some of this deliciously fattening food, but we were kind of busy stuffing it in our faces. (Exaggeration. He was stuffing. I was actually pretty restrained. One pancake. Half slice of crack pie. OK, I did hit the bacon pretty hard, but c'mon. Gimme a break.)

Since then, I've not let a carb pass my lips, and barely any dairy. It's been mostly egg whites salad and lean meats. A few nuts and avocado. I've walked the butte every morning and done pilates in the evenings. Too little too late? (Sleeveless maid of honor dress in little more than 2 weeks. gulp. thank the lord for spanx) Probably.

Oh, and in totally unrelated news, I went to see a new chiropractor, and hours after the appointment with the new guy, my old chiro called me to schedule my next appointment. It's like he knew I was cheating. But the new guy! He adjusts my whole spine! He doesn't try to rip me off by selling me $600 orthotics!

He also makes me take my shoes off in his office, but, you know. Win some, lose some.