A Big Announcement

Dear Babycakes,

I’m gonna level with you: Man, this is weird. You and I have been hanging out together for 13 weeks, and still I have these serious moments of disbelief—like those dreams where my teeth are all falling out and I tell myself in the dream, “No, you dream this all the time, this isn’t real,” and then I tell myself in the dream, “Yes, those were dreams but this is the real thing, all your teeth are really falling out,” and then I wake up and have to touch my teeth or look in the mirror to make sure they are all still there—there you are.  You’re the real thing. I don’t know what more confirmation I could really be looking for.

I mean, you have upended my life already, like it or not. My body: not my own. My emotions: not my own. My energy level: Not my own. For some reason, you have nixed my appetite even though in theory I want to get all earth-mama-hippie and eat organic vegetables and salmon chock-full of Omega-3s to build up your brain. I can’t. The thought of cooked asparagus makes me want to vomit, even though it is one of my favorite dinnertime foods. I have eaten like a seventh grader for weeks: granola bars, dry cereal, Laffy Taffy, and Icees. Ice-cold sour Granny Smith apples with sea salt. Popsicles. And the ill-fated strawberry Jell-O. We won’t revisit that one again, I heard you. You didn’t have to be quite so emphatic.

Baby, it has been hot here. That is not helping my “condition,” as it is. Funny thing is, I met your dad when it was scorching outside. Our first date was right after the Fourth of July, seven years ago, and you could fry eggs on the sidewalk. This is that same kind of summer, and it makes me feel like I will love you with the same searing intensity I love your dad. We just celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. Unbeknownst to me, your dad bought me the fancy-pants Champagne I love to drink, the kind we drank on our wedding day in south Maui. But I surprised him right before the anniversary with the news that we were having you. So the bottle of Veuve Cliquot is sitting in your future nursery, and we will drink it when you arrive instead, which is due to happen January 29.

We know all of this thanks to science and technology (herewith begins all my unsolicited advice to you: make science and technology your friends and be smart and kind with them). Once we glimpsed you, although it was mostly circularish blobs. But we have heard you twice, and baby, that is the best sound I have ever heard in my life. Better than Michael Stipe singing "Find the River," better than a Led Zeppelin guitar solo, better than cardinals whistling in the trees after a long winter, better than laughter.

The day we saw you, you were only 7 weeks into your pre-life, which is like having, what, 110 percent of your life ahead of you or something (I’m not good at math; I hope you are). I laid in the dark on a table while a lady used an ultrasound to show us that you had indeed taken up residence. She let us hear the heartbeat for just the merest of seconds. I was so awed I didn’t think to ask her to prolong it, but both your dad and I were deeply disappointed that was all we got once the appointment was over. You see: We’re already hooked on you.

Then we had to wait another five long weeks before we could hear you again. (The rest of this feels like a terrible case of lasting, amped-up PMS, plus a hangover—promise me you’ll never have one of those—plus stomach flu.) It’s not so much the romantic waiting-for-baby thing one might think it feels like. 

I waited it out on the couch in the sunroom with the dogs, watching reruns of The Wonder Years, nibbling like a bird on snacks and groaning whenever your dad walked by so he’d take pity on me and rub my feet or kiss my forehead, or re-up my ice water because I was so desperate for comfort in a sea of sick.  Sometimes when I’d have a break in the day at work, I’d count on my calendar how many days until the doctor would let us hear your heartbeat again, and reassure us that everything was fine.

This past Monday, we saw Dr. M. We used a Doppler to hear your heartbeat. She warned us that sometimes it takes a second to find it, because you are so small right now. The suspense was exquisite, but didn’t last long. She found it right away, and suddenly, your rabbit-quick heart sounds filled the little beige room. Your dad said, “Sounds like a choo choo train,” and I cried on the table, filled with an almost incomprehensible relief that my Laffy Taffy diet had actually sustained you and that nothing had gone wrong. My doctor is a pretty woman, whipsmart and caring. I’ve been seeing her for years and I trust her completely; she is confident and articulate, and she wears eyeglasses that are like works of art. On this day she was wearing all black, with carnation-pink glasses that nearly had flames coming off the sides, with red lipstick. She has very dark hair, and kind eyes. And she let us listen for a long time, over and over reassuring me that it was a good, strong heartbeat, that my uterus felt exactly like one carrying a baby, that you were indeed there. A showoff, she called you. Later, I sent a message to your auntie Cindy, telling her the news. She replied: “That’s what we want to hear! I’m not surprised the baby is an overachiever. A true Van Dorne,” which is a longstanding joke about our last name we will explain to you someday. Your dad and I wiped away tears and we kissed in the elevator on the way home. The rest of the week paled in comparison.

The last couple of days we were able to turn off the air conditioning and tonight the windows were open. Cool, sweet breeze poured in the front windows of the house as I read my book (Some Assembly Required, by Anne Lamott, in case you ever want to know) and relaxed after a taxing week (and, surprise, surprise, endured some nausea). I did my best to bask in the true Minnesota air, the kind I can’t wait for you to grow up breathing in.

Love,

Your Mama

Six Years

I'm sitting in the atrium waiting room with my mom and sister, the sun streaming down. We are waiting, anxiously, for the surgeon to tell us the news. Suddenly they perk up and look at the back of a doctor. She's wearing a white coat, and her fluffy hair is pulled back into a barely-contained ponytail.

"I think that's her," my mom says.
"Dr. K.?" my sister asks.
"Don't you think?"

I look over. I have no recollection of what Dr. K. looks like. None at all. I remember her having a youthful face, but that's about it. That time period is so blurry to me now, although the anxious feelings are not.

My sister starts to say something about how she thinks it would be nice to go over and say hello, thank her for the surgery she successfully completed six years ago, when she removed the cancerous half of my dad's lung. Then she gets that look on her face, and I know she's going to cry.

"You go do it," my mom says. I start to get choked up as I watch her talk to another grave-faced family. Those feelings come rushing back and I hope she is not telling them the opposite of what we heard that day. I hope they are hearing "It all went well; he is in recovery; we got everything." But none of them smile, no waves of relief pass over their faces.

I try to divorce myself from the profound gratitude I have, because if I don't, I won't be able to talk to her. She turns toward us, and I know I have just a small window of time to reach her. I get up.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. K.?"
She looks surprised.
"I am."
"Um, hi. I'm K. D., and--" I used my maiden name.
"D? I recognize that name," she says, looking upward as she scans her memory for the patient. I fill in the blanks.
"Mr. D. is my dad, and six years ago you took out half his lung."
"Oh?" Then she looks around, nervously. "Why are you here?"
I laugh. She laughs.
I point over to my mom and my sister. "We're here waiting for him to come out of a hip replacement surgery."
She is visibly relieved, putting a hand to her heart.
"We just wanted you to know how grateful we are to you for the surgery that day, and what it did for our family. We just wanted to say thank you."
She has a wide grin that lights up her whole face, hand still to her heart.
"Wow, that makes me feel so good," she says. "When was his lung surgery, again?"
"Six years ago this month," I tell her, and that is when I start to feel like I might cry, but I hang on.
"Six years? Well, you know what they say about that, don't you?"
"No..."
"They call that a cure."

And just like that, six years later, she delivers one of the most powerful gifts I have ever received, just five small words. Thank you, Dr. K. Again.

A to Z

Yes! Memes will get me writing again! I can do this! Step inside and learn all about my weird neuroses.

Age: 31

Bed size: Queen. William and I just ordered a mattress this weekend with the President's Day sale. We really needed it. I can't wait. It's supposedly George-Clooney approved.

Chore that you hate: I hate getting my car washed!! I have an irrational fear of the car wash, so I never go. This weekend William drove through it for me and I closed my eyes and sweated my way through in the passenger's seat (this was after our mattress-buying or I would have asked him to go alone). GAH! My heart is racing just typing about it. I don't mind the obvious, like laundry or cleaning toilets. I'd rather do those than dishes.I love having a made bed, so I do that, but I hate putting the fitted sheet on if I accidentally put the wrong corner on first—it always makes me go into a cussing tirade even though it's easy to fix.

Dogs: Well, this is as good a place as any to announce that we have two new bundles of fluffy joy in our house; Murray, a 5-year-old Coton de Tulear, and Ernie, a four-month-old shih tzu/bichon mix. Another post to come on this.

Essential start to your day: Coffee. I can do anything if I have coffee.

Favorite color: I love color in general. Pink is probably my favorite; purple close behind. I pick pink first because I love all kinds of pink. I'm very particular about purples (no Easter eggy colors ... but the right purple is maybe my favorite color of all.) Recently I have been loving yellow and orange and chartreuse.

Gold or silver: I am an equal-opportunity metallics lover. Recently I've been wearing much more yellow-gold. (I assume they are not meaning white gold in this question...can you tell what I do for a living? Answer revealed below!)

Height: almost 5'7". I used to feel tall until I married a man that's 6'3".

Instruments you play: I played flute for many years in band (I miss it still)..I can play a few chords on guitar. I wish I'd learned to play piano and trumpet.

Job title: Style editor.

Kids: Someday. For now I just have furbabies.

Live: In my hometown. Never thought that'd happen again!

Mother’s name: Eileen. As in, Come on, Eileen..Oh I swear on my knees...at this moment, you mean evvverrrythiiiing....

Nicknames: my initials, Kitty, Smalls

Overnight hospital stays: None so far (knock on wood).

Pet peeves: Agh, I have so many pet peeves, especially about drivers and grammar/spelling, I can't even begin to say here. I am actively trying to let the little things bother me less, though.

Quote from a movie: I can extensively and frequently quote Annie, Dumb & Dumber, Almost Famous, Love Actually, Reality Bites, Speed, Wayne's World... (Am very sophisticated.)

Right or left handed: Right. As my mom says, my left side is only there to match the right. 

Siblings: One of each, both older. They are two of my bestest friends in the entire universe. I am so lucky.

Tattoos or piercings: Just my ears. Four holes in one, three in the other, although I only wear my first piercings now. I got them on my golden birthday—I was 10—and my mom snuck me to Two Plus Two at the mall to get them done. I got my birthstone for my starter studs. She told me not to tell my dad and just wait for him to notice. I was so happy.

Underwear: I love pretty undies. I do not use the p-word.

Vegetables you hate: Raw onions, because they make me sick. I  hate canned peas. I love most veggies, especially if they are fresh.

What makes you run late: Snooze button, my dogs having accidents, figuring out an outfit to wear, traffic jams. Also, I have terrible time perception. Ask my husband.

X-rays: Teeth, foot when I broke a toe in college, that's about it. X-rays are pretty cool. One medical thing I can look at that doesn't make me want to faint.

Yummy food that you make: I just made homemade Snickers bars this weekend and they are TO DIE FOR. I usually do pretty well if I have a recipe...but I'm not a great freestyle cook. I need a framework.

Zoo animals: Zoos make me sad in general. I hope I can get over this if/when I have children. I do love animals though, as long as they follow my "fur or feathers" rule. Geckos being maybe one exception because they eat bugs and other nasties, plus they never try to touch you or look at you like they're going to eat your face. Also, I think bats are cool, but I think they have some fur? There is a local band called Zoo Animal that I like.

Try To Sleep

It has been nearly three months since October 21. And in all of that time, I have been unable to bring myself to write about Molly's death. I keep thinking about it; she deserves a proper post. But in so many ways, writing about it makes final-final. That I have processed my feelings enough to sum them up here. And I don't think I have.

Our little Mo died on an otherwise-beautiful October afternoon. I'm sure everyone in Minnesota was remarking what a beautiful day it was as I sat on the couch and ticked away the minutes stroking her meringue-fur belly and heavy, silky ears, knowing the time was coming where I would force myself to get off the couch, get in the car with William, and I would betray her by bringing her to vet, where we would have our last snuggle, forever and ever, amen.

Mo long had a heart murmur; we knew that. We knew what would eventually come. Her heart would become too big for her chest, or it would fill with fluid, or any other variety of things. We had been told. But her last few checkups had been great, and I had suspected nothing. Right when we moved, she developed a cough; completely unrelated, the vet strongly promised, to the second-story fall she suffered the day we moved. (Just a sprained paw was all the damage done that day to my little blind baby, who was just trying to find us among the hustle-bustle of the move; little did I know the worst was yet to come, and sooner than later. I kill myself over thinking about that unnecessary suffering.) I kept thinking the vet was maybe a little wrong; maybe her ribs were bruised or something was jostled and irritated, and that the cough would go away.

A couple of vet visits later, and it was confirmed that the early signs of congestive heart failure were all there; that the normally black, clear void that showed as her lungs on the X-ray indeed looked laced with smoke. I could see it. The vet was very optimistic. She said this was treatable; many dogs lived with it with no ill effects to speak of, for years. I sobbed at the table despite her repeated insistence that this was not a surprise and nothing to get too excited over.

Don't they say moms "just know?"

We began courses upon courses of medications, some more expensive than others, and we gave up sleeping at night because her cough intensified then and could be heard throughout the house. William and I took turns sleeping on the couch for the very small bit of relief it allowed. For weeks this persisted, coupled with late-night discussions with our ever-faithful vet, who promised our options were not exhausted—yet. But I knew better. We were just rotating around without any relief for Molly, nothing that really quieted her cough—instead, the diuretic just made it hard for her to control her urine. Her accidents seemed to cause her no end of shame, even as we pet and soothed her that it wasn't her fault, that we knew she was such a good girl.

So then, the day I found out that there was nothing more our vet could do did not come as a surprise, and maybe it came with a little relief to know we had absolutely, positively exhausted every option out there. It wasn't just the congestive heart failure, after all; that had gotten much better. It was another, uncurable thing: Her trachea was collapsing in two places. Vets can administer steroids for relief, but unfortunately, it would intensify her heart condition. The vet looked as though she might cry when she told me. "It sucks, this is really shitty." Her hands fluttered uselessly after she delivered the news. She told me to schedule the appointment when we were ready. She said, "I'd feel confident doing it today if William were here." And she did me the kindness of telling me Molly "seemed tired." A gentle nudge: Soon. I heard her loud and clear. I went home and told William—we hadn't really anticipated that this particular appointment would be The Last One, so I had gone alone. I told him I couldn't make the call, I just couldn't, but I also couldn't have the cloud hanging over my head; the spectre of making the phone call, the knowledge that she might truly be suffering despite her sunny disposition. So my brave husband did what I could not; he scheduled the appointment as soon as possible. "What should I say?" he asked, phone to his ear as it rang. I was speechless. Finally, I said, "Maybe just tell them it's time for us to say goodbye." The code.

We stopped feeding her dog food. We fed her hamburger and rice, and she even snared a taco off the coffee table one night while my back was turned (I must emphasize this was not a dog that seemed sick otherwise, which made this whole decision about dying harder) and she wagged her nub for all it was worth, even though she choked as she ate. I worried needlessly about the onions in the guacamole.

We would randomly hit the icemaker button on the refrigerator, so that it felt like it was snowing desserts—she loved ice cubes so much, and she would come running. We gave her all the treats and yogurt she could eat. We snuggled her and told her we loved her. The two nights before we said goodbye we had a cast of visitors, who came to give her a last treat and pet and keep our spirits up as time ticked down (we were endlessly thankful for the celebration of life, not mourning of death, and for keeping our minds off the clock). She had made quite an impression on everyone in her four short years with us.

Her appointment was scheduled at the end of a Friday afternoon. We spent the day with her, taking her through the McDonald's drive-thru for a McDouble and fries. We walked in the park and took some photos—they turned out beautifully. In some of them, she appears to be smiling. I would swear to you she was happier that day than she had been in weeks. Did she know?

We took the long way to the vet's office, prolonging the inevitable but also giving her a chance to take an extra-long car ride with her head out the window (another one of her favorites). When we got there, they quickly and compassionately dispatched us to The Goodbye Room. They took her and hooked her up to an IV, returned with a clay imprint of her paw, with instructions to bake it when we got home, to make it permanent. They laid blankets and a little potty pad across my lap just in case, then gingerly set her down, a purple bandage wrapped around the IV, her little Muppet fur displacing itself around the edges.

It was so hard, that moment, but she was so docile and settled right in. It's like she had given herself over to the process. Like she accepted it more than we did. I have to believe she knew and she was ready. She was not agitated or fearful. She was so, so, so tired. I have to believe that she thought it was the right thing. That she understood that we had done everything we possibly could; endured as many sleepless nights as we could; paid as many vet bills as we could. I have to believe that she knew that if we could have made it any other way, we would have. We would have moved mountains.

The vet came in. Not our usual vet, but she spoke highly and sincerely of Molly, as though she knew her. It helped. I thanked her for doing such a shitty job—and she reminded us this was in fact the absolute best thing we could do and that she was happy to provide relief. And that we could take as much time as we needed right now.

But we could not stop time and I was a flight risk. I wanted to hike her twenty, fluffy pounds under my arm like a football and win the Heisman running out of that office. I saw myself bounding down the stairs in my mind, one arm out, fur flying. Instead, William and I gave the go-ahead.

I was really glad my sister told me this before we went, and so I will share it with you, in the sad knowledge that some of you may need it sometime: It is a very peaceful moment and the process itself is nothing to fear. The vet administered the drug slowly through a syringe, and, honestly, I could not tell when Molly left us. She never stirred. We cried, but silently—she hated tears. (No, really, she would pace when I cried, and literally wipe my face her her paws.) We murmured all the sweet nothings we always said to her. We held her until the vet assured us that she was gone. (I'll never forget, she said, so kindly, "Her heart is so big, it is taking a little longer for it to stop," as she felt around with her stethoscope. And, oh, how I ached knowing she suffered in her last weeks on Earth, but yet I reveled in the idea that her heart was so big with love.) Her heavy limbs were draped on mine and over William's; she was still warm. I would have sworn to you she was sleeping, like any other afternoon. I wasn't afraid to touch her after she was gone. To me, she was still there. I had to walk out and I tried not to look back. But I did. The vet was cradling her sweetly in her arms. I forced myself down the stairs and out the door.

You guys, saying goodbye to a beloved pet, my sweet Momo, was one of my biggest fears. She was my girl, our girl, our first dog together, our first love outside ourselves together, our first. I can't remember our relationship before her, it seems. I used to panic thinking of her end days. When we got her, she was scared, she had been alone and abused for years; she didn't even know how to play or what to do with toys. The broom made her cower, and sometimes if William stood up too fast she skittered away. By the end of our time with her, she took naps on his chest while he watched football. She never trembled when we opened the closet door. She was our shadow, our family. Loyal and loving, a true companion and master negotiator and peacemaker. She probably saved our marriage a time or two; she hated when we were at odds with each other and she often made the first move when we'd retreated to our corners, as if to say "Enough is enough, just apologize already so we can get back to food and snuggling." She was all the noble things a dog should be, and we loved her unconditionally, and there is no doubt in my mind she loved us back, wholeheartedly and without reserve.

We left the office, and the sun was streaming through the windshield. We drove down the freeway and this Low song was on the radio:

You stretch your wings
You take a breath
You hide your feet
Embrace your head

A tragedy, no there's never enough
You try to sleep
But you never wake up

Try to sleep
but you never wake up
No you never wake up

It gave me chills, the timing of that song. We spent the evening trying to run away from that drowning sadness. Avoided going home to a house without her. William bought me a little rose-gold band with a tiny little pink-sapphire heart atop it. To remember her by.

And the other things I will remember: her face peeking up over the edge of our bed once she knew we were awake for the day; her tightrope-walking routine to get our attention as she edged along the bed; her crazy, crosswise walk outside; her fat, squishy paws that smelled like caramel corn and Fritos and vacuum dust; her love of her stuffed bunny, Bun-Buns, who she would lovingly fake-bite, shake by its neck, then take a nap on every time we came home; her sunny-side-up naps on the couch; and how she snored and ran and dug and ate in her sleep; how she would get up on the couch before I could even sit down, ready for attention whether I could give it or not; her nose snorting underneath the door while I was in the bathroom. Her devotion to the pursuit of food. Her nub-tail immediately wagging in agreement to everything I said. The sweetness that everyone felt about her; that made everyone fall in love with her. That she was ours. So distinctly and loyally and wonderfully ours.

She was meant to be with us. I will remember the door opening as we were about to leave the Humane Society empty-handed and there she burst through the door with the cold sunlight, panting and cute as a button. And our arms raised up together to point at her. It was January 23, and if she were still with us, she would be about to celebrate her 13th birthday (we think). As dog "rescuers" will say: Who rescued who?

She was it. She was our divine intervention.

Our bestest girl in the whole wide world. God. We miss her so.

Things I Love

Since my other blogging girls did it....

I love playing and winning trivia games.

I love listening to all kinds of music, but I really, really love rock and roll.

I love tea with honey and half-and-half at night, with a blanket over my legs and a new book to read in my hand.

I love gabbing with my hairstylist.

I love grapefruit and oranges and lemons and limes. The smell, the taste, the everything. I love pineapple.

I love a perfect Honeycrisp apple.

I love cheese: goat cheese, gouda, cheddar, brie, you name it. I loved stealing a wheel of gouda with my Lillie girls. I knew we’d be friends forever that day.

I love dogs.

I love the smell of a dog’s paws.

I love the joyful reunion at the end of each day. They teach us to live in the moment.

I love a good, hard yoga session.

I love that I can now touch the ground, where I used to only be able to go a little past my knees.

I love red hair.

I love the smell of babies’ heads.

I love one-on-one time, or small-group time.

I love the underdog.

I love that the internet allows us to connect with people around the world.

I love traveling.

I love that I can take Xanax to get on a plane.

I love peonies and lilacs and orchids and begonias and hibiscus.

I love that my husband sends me flowers from time to time.

I love the moment when the lights go down and the band walks on the stage.

I love my parents’ cabin on Deer Lake.

I love small-town junk shops.

I love mid-century modern decorating.

I love buying local and independent.

I love glitter and sequins and sparkles and tinsel and bright colors.

I love sleeping late.

I love getting up early and actually feeling awake. (it never happens, though.)

I love elderly people.

I love big sunglasses.

I love postcards.

I love learning.

I love random acts of kindness.

I love when you let someone in in traffic and they wave at you.

I love when someone lets you go ahead of them, or you let someone go ahead of you, at the grocery store because you have less stuff.

I love people who get excited about everything.            

I love when you’re sitting next to strangers at an event and they turn out to be super fun.

I love natural, safe ingredients.

I love soap.

I love ballet flats.

I love massages.

I love being with my family.

I love figuring out a new outfit from clothes I already have.

I love people who go for broke.

I love animals, but not insects, except for butterflies.

I love writing.

I love when good things happen to good people.

I love hot summer sun.

I love Hawaii.

I love magazines.

I love laughing at people’s jokes.

I love line-dried sheets.

I love long conversations.

I love big vocabularies.
I love craft shows and art fairs.

I love hot pink lipstick.

I love the idea of universal healthcare, marriage for all, wage equality, the power of choice, and making sure no one gets left behind.

I love the scent of lavender.

I love picking out gifts.

I love the library.

I love snail mail.

I love coffee-table books and documentaries.

I love neck and shoulder rubs.

I love impromptu dance parties and singing in the car.

 

Home Is Wherever I'm With You

Right now, I am enjoying the fifth night in our new home, waiting for my husband to come back from the woodshop. Molly is splayed out on the cool wood floor, the day's heat and humidity is abating some. A breeze is coming through the window and a tree's shadow flitters across the floorboards. Crickets are chirping—they have been all day now, as though they never got the memo that told them they are supposed to only come out at night. Conspicuously absent: people yelling, sirens blaring, helicopters whirring, semi trucks clattering and rattling down the street. Cicadas layer their weirdly electronic-orchestra call like waves lapping the beach. In truth, we are only a mile or two from our former home but it feels like a world away.

It's quiet, and still full of boxes and unordered multitudes of things we deemed important enough to move, waiting patiently to figure out what to do with them. I'm enveloping myself in September Issues...fall fashion bonanzas and sales, coffee-table books about home décor, and enjoying it all, reminding myself that I wanted a house, and the things and the wardrobe will have to come in their own time.

A new house. A fresh start. Changing some old habits. Making new traditions. Ownership. We are now landlords of our downtown loft. Today in the car, after transferring keys and paperwork to actual, real-life renters, William turns to me and says, "Did you ever think you would be a landlord?" I grin, even though I'd rather run screaming from the world of leases and rent and managing anything other than my overfilled daily life. "Nope," I say, with good intention, and he smiles back at me.

Last night and the night before we ate succulent summer tomatoes and corn on the cob, drank some champagne. This is it. Home.

Year In Review.

Hi Kiddies. Here I am! Can you believe it? And with a big ol' blog post. I hope to have resolutions up here soon, because I think being serious and public about them last year made them come true.  I miss you all and hope you are still following along as I follow you a little less loudly than I did before. Say hi! Please!

1. What did you do in 2010 that you’d never done before?

Traveled to Thailand. Had a gym membership for a full year. Did some stuff at a New Thing. Contributed to an honest-to-good real book and my name is on Amazon with “(author)” behind it! Worked side-by-side with my husband on our business.

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I did make resolutions and I did keep some. My resolution was to focus on being happy. I did it! I took a trip, I worked out, and I tried to scale back my spending. I did not keep my resolution to be more work/life balanced. Not at all.

3. Did anyone close to you have a child?

Um, pretty much everyone around me had a child or got pregnant, including a couple of close friends.  It has been wild and beautiful to watch the women around me become mothers.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Thankfully, no.

5. Where did you travel?

Thailand: Bangkok, Ayuttheya, Sukhothai, Chiang Mai, Phuket, Ko Phi Phi. Airport in Japan. O’Hare. That pretty much cashed all vacation days and budget for traveling but it was an experience of a lifetime.

6. What would you like to have in 2011 that you lacked in 2010?

Oh god. Free time. Time to sleep. Time with friends. Time to think.

7. What dates from 2010 will remain etched upon your memory? 

I am so bad with dates. But I did have a few experiences that have enriched my life.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

I think staying happy. Staying focused. All the work.

9. What was your biggest failure?

This blog. Ha. Finding time to spend with family and friends.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Actually, yes. I was hit by the Frito Lay man, who totaled my car, gave me wicked bad muscle spasms, and generally made me fearful of cars approaching on my right although I’ve mostly healed from all of that.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

I am really truly trying not to value my life in terms of things I buy, as trite as that sounds. (See: recently paid off credit card debt).

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

I have family friends, old and new, who have been so supportive this year. I treasure them. So very, very much. I have had so much support that I hate to call anyone out, lest I make someone else feel badly. I am lucky.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

No one personally that I can think of. There are lots of celebrities and public opinions that upset me, but I’m going to call it a good year in spite of those things.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Debt payoff, savings for a house, gas, bills.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Traveling, a New Thing. 2010 was, in one word, overwhelming. But not all bad. Just a year-long adrenaline rush.

16. What song will always remind you of 2010?

Good question. Probably for the first time ever, I don’t know! I have been listening to a lot of Pandora—a lot of soul music, a lot of Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer or poorer?

I think I am happier because I reached some goals and realized that sometimes you must choose happiness. It doesn’t choose you for no reason. I am…maaaaaybe thinner but not by much. But I have realized the importance of fitness in my life, which is more important to me anyway. I don’t feel richer, but I paid off my debt so that’s definitely starting my 30s off right.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Playing and dreaming.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Working.

20. How will you be spending Christmas?

Um, it’s quite a ways away. But hopefully Santa will come!

21. Did you fall in love in 2010?

I have so much love in my life. But you can always have more.

22. What was your favorite TV program?

Dexter, Parenthood, LOST (There are so many! All streamed on Netflix, save for Parenthood.)

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

I keep trying to hate hate, but I really hate Fox News. But that’s not new.

24. What was the best book you read?

I did very little reading this year, which makes my heart sad. But I loved The Help, Lost City of Z, Zeitoun, Strength in What Remains, Half the Sky.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I suppose that Muse finally grew on me and now I love them. Wm and I went to see them live this fall and it was amazing! I also saw Lady Gaga and that was sweet. But I didn’t get into anyone new to me this year.

26. What did you want and get?

This year I heard some extremely frustrating and sad, struggly stories. We are not out of this big-ass mess yet. And yet, I looked around and I had: my husband and our happy marriage, my health, my dog, my parents, my siblings. I had my friends. I had travel. I had heat. I had a loft. I had cute new clothes. I had a new car. I had the money to pay for them. I had a job. Scratch that—I had two employers who wanted to employ me. I just keep wanting this life over and over and over. I have it.

28. What did you want and not get?

Free time. Oh, and our dream house. You know, that. No biggie.

29. What was your favorite film of this year?

Uhm. I think I saw like approximately one movie in the theater this year. Netflix, I love you. I’m not sure which one though…there were so many, I can’t even recall.

30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

The big 3-0! I worked (for the first time ever on my birthday) and then Wm took me to Barrio and we ate and drank ourselves silly. I got some very nice gifts, too.

31. What would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Free time. Are we seeing a pattern here?

32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2010?

Kind of the same as before…girly vintage modern (I believe in sticking with what works as long as you’re honest and you know it works), with lots of navy blue and as many accessories as I could pile on without looking like … well, I am crazy. Nevermind.

33. What kept you sane?

Netflix, laughing with my husband, snuggling with my dog, finally really grasping “This too shall pass.” So that I can enjoy more moments even if they aren’t “perfect.”

34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Probably Jon Stewart. Again. George Clooney. Again. Bill Clinton. Again. Hillary Clinton FTW! Also, my crush on  Mark Ruffalo….hoo boy!

35. What political issue stirred you the most?

The rise of the Tea Party, probably. And people’s impatience with the long, slow climb out of a tanked economy and so many failed political practices of the previous administration. A man can only do so much! Give him time!

36. Who did you miss?

I started out the year feeling lonely, I am not going to lie to any of y’all. My two best girlfriends were not here and it made things hard some days. I missed both of them very much.

37. Who was the best new person you met?

I have had the good fortune to meet a LOT of really cool people this year. That’s not a cop-out.

38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2010.

I learned a couple of them, I think:

1. How important my physical fitness is, even if it’s not as great as someone else’s. That I can get better and that I will feel better and that I will literally be a better person to the people around me. Go endorphins! A long time ago, a teacher I admired wrote a question in my yearbook: Process or product? That was it. It enraged me. Here I am, many moons later, and I think I’ve figured it out. It’s the process. It all is.

2.  I never want to get into credit card debt ever, ever again.

3. If you build it, they will come. Just be patient, and know you will do a lot, a LOT of building. And painting. And sanding. And not a lot of anything else.