he called my mom

I've been on a Gilmore Girls kick for a couple of weeks now, culminating in an epic marathon this weekend. I had never watched it before. I was in college when it started and too busy to watch much tv, and since we didn't have Netflix to let us binge I couldn't exactly start from the beginning. With the announcement of the revival my friends started chattering more and more about it, so I decided to catch up.

People who've only known me as an adult know one side of my relationship with my mom. But the relationship I had when I was a high school kid living in her house? After it was just the two of us? It's soooo like Lorelai and Rory. My mom had me when she was 38, not 16, and her dating life wasn't a central plot line - but the codependent best friend thing? We had that down pat.

The last few years, my mom gave horrible advice. I've noted some of those gems in this blog. But she was still my mom. There was a time I didn't know her guy advice was horrible. And, sometimes it wasn't.

Tonight, I had a super strong urge to call her to ask/vent about the recent spate of boy confusion I'm facing. Sometimes a girl just wants to talk to her mom. And then I thought about what terrible advice she'd give me. But I tried to remember a time she had good advice, and this amazing memory popped up:

When I was 17, I broke up with my boyfriend. He called my Mom to persuade her to change my mind. When that didn't work, he had his mom call my mom. Of course, the first thing my mom did was tell me and we spent an evening laughing about it together. Why? He was 24.

I can hear her chuckle now. Maybe because I'm making the sound myself?

God I miss my mom.

Onto more Gilmore Girls.

how Gracie got her name

In the letters between my mom and dad when she still lived in Germany, my mom demonstrates a strong grasp of the English language, but you can tell that she learned more formal English that she uses with my father.



I happen to love how she used the word crazy, and I love even more that she spelled it "grasy". She used it quite often, and I read these letters right before I got the kittens.

I couldn't think of a better way to honor this little smiley bit than the beautiful cat Gracie has grown into. Mom would have loved her!

Schlafzimmergangster

Sometimes I'm lucky enough to get a rare glimpse into the woman mom my was when she was very young.

My mom met my father when she was a nurse in Wiesbaden and he was stationed in the Air Force in Erbenheim. Erbenheim was my mom's home town, and was about an hour train ride from Wiesbaden. They had one date, declared their love for each other, then wrote letters back and forth until they decided to marry.

This is an excerpt from one of those letters.




I can't tell from the letters what happened on their previous date that she references at the top. And it breaks my heart that I can't ask her.

But I will always chuckle when I see that my mom called my dad her "bedroom gangster".

the things you miss

My mom was known for some pretty fantastic tidbits of advice.

She was a wise woman in so many ways, and she was smarter than most people thought (funny how a thick German accent in southern Missouri will make people think you're dumb), but my mom was not the best mentor when it came to dating.

Mama was eager to have me married off and bearing her grandchildren. She never wanted me to be unhappy, and she never nagged, but every once in awhile her agenda came out in terrible, and terribly funny ways.

When I was frustrated that a serious boyfriend was still protecting his ex, my mom's advice was, "Why don't you just get pregnant so he'll marry you?"

Good job, Mom.

And when I was missing that boyfriend months after we'd broken up, rather than consoling me, Mom said, "You should just go over to his house now and propose."

Even better.

That was my mom. She wanted to see me be a mom, and she wanted to know those kids. Badly enough that in later years she thought the quality of the man wasn't nearly as important as the grandchild he might give her.

She wasn't serious - not completely. But she didn't filter herself. (I mean - we all knew I had to get that from somewhere.)

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. That same ex was up at the ski house with his new girlfriend while I was there. I played it cool and was very nice to both of them, but when I went to bed I lost my shit. I found myself crying and reading through old emails, and I stumbled across the ones where I shared my mom's "wisdom" with my sister.

And then I really lost it.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to call my mom and hear whatever crazy piece of guidance she had to offer. I wanted to hear tell me to make a scene, or go dump cold water on his head, or profess my (non-existent) love to him. I'm sure whatever I can think of that she would say wouldn't compare to the amazing gem she would have actually given me.

And THAT is one of the things I miss the most.

a thousand goodbyes

A year ago today I spoke to my mother for the last time.

I'm not sure she could hear me, and I'm not sure she could understand me if she did. She sounded like a very drunk person on the phone - someone on the verge of passing out, but trying to talk to you. The encephalopathy in her brain had taken over, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her body shut down, as well. 

I remember what I told her. I told her I loved her over and over, and I told her it was okay to let go. I told her I would be okay, that she didn't need to worry about her children - that we would all be okay. I told her it was okay.

I lied. 

More on that later. 

This had happened three times in the preceding 4 months. The first time, we thought she had a stroke. We were thankful to find out that wasn't the case, but the truth wasn't much better. Her congestive heart failure, accelerated by an infection that sent her into septic shock and almost killed her in October, was slowly depriving her body of oxygen. The other times it happened, she was rushed to the hospital and placed on BiPAP, and the encephalopathy quicky resolved. 

By January, however, my mom had had enough. She called me to tell me that they wanted to move her to a specialized facility where she would remain on a ventilator - her biggest fear and the one thing she consistently told me she didn't want to do. She told me that she didn't want that - that she wanted to go home. We agreed that she would return to the nursing home she had just moved into to spend her final days with her husband. I flew home to move her and spend the remaining time with her. 

The doctors told me it could be a few hours or a few days, but not likely more than a week or two. I set her up with hospice and helped her with all the things she wanted to do before she died. She wanted a bowl of these terrible candies I couldn't stand, a domino's pizza, and all the diet coke she could drink. She talked to her siblings in Germany. She asked me to bring her the paper she liked so she could write letters to people. 

She never did write those letters.

Mom immediately got better after arriving back at the nursing home. Her oxygen levels maintained without the ventilator, and she felt good enough to get out of bed and take her wheelchair to the dining room to show off her daughter to her new friends. We watched tv together and talked about plans. She talked about getting healthy enough to walk again and I asked her if she wanted me to get a red hat to join the home's red hat ladies club. She definitely didn't. 

I had heard from enough people that when someone is dying, they frequently get better right before they pass. That happened with my father, and I thought it was happening now. So I extended my trip home. I decided I would stay until she died. 

But she didn't die. She kept getting better. She had energy. She made jokes. She yelled at me for all the things I threw out when I cleaned out her house. She nagged me to marry the boy I was seeing who had the German last name. She let me fix her hair. We even had a photo session where she learned (kinda) where to look on the phone for a selfie!



She was happy. 

Almost three weeks after she decided she didn't want anymore treatment, we also decided I should return to San Francisco. She was doing fine. The doctors said it might be months before something else happened. I had already taken 8 weeks of unpaid time off at a job I started 3 weeks before Mom got sick. I was paying for so many of the bills that me losing that income was more of a factor than I would have liked. I was also scared that maybe Mom was just hanging on for me. I wanted her to hang on for me, but I didn't want her to fight through something if it was really her time to go. I struggled with the decision for a while before I finally booked a return flight. 

We talked about death. We talked about how this might be the last time we saw each other. We talked about what she wanted. I knew that I might never see her again - that the next call might be the last call. But I didn't really KNOW it. I made plans to come back and see her in March - a mere 5 weeks away. 

As I left her room after telling her goodbye and hugging her about a thousand times, I heard her call my name. I will forever remember her voice in that moment. 

I turned back, "yes, Mama?"
She looked at me with skepticism, "If you want to get me a red hat, make it a really funky one."

That was my Mama.

I promised, we laughed, and I went back and did the hugging goodbye ritual another few times before I finally left.

I called her as soon as we landed, and we talked the whole way home. We spoke every day for the next 11 days. I could tell she was getting a little more tired, but she was doing okay. And then she wasn't. 

I noticed on the 9th that she seemed a little more tired than normal and she wasn't responding fully. On the 10th I could tell the encephalopathy was taking over her brain again. 

On the 11th I talked to her for the last time. 

I tried to call her on the 12th, but her phone was busy. I called my sister instead. As I was telling my sister that I was ready because I didn't want Mom to hurt anymore, as I was telling my sister that I wanted this to be over, as I was fooling myself into thinking that it could ever really be over, I was telling my sister that I had already said goodbye, and that I could only say goodbye so many times - I got a call from my brother. Mom had just passed as her husband held her phone to her ear with my brother on the other end of the line.

Mom died knowing how much we all loved her. She died knowing that we all had good lives and people who loved us. She died having taken control of the decision and having chosen not to suffer more than she already had.

But she also died with me having just lied to her.

I told her I would be okay. 

I'm not okay. 

I honestly don't know if I'll ever be okay again. Or maybe I'll just find a new definition of "okay".

 

It's been a year since I last told her I loved her. I wish I could say it again and again and again. It's been a year since I told her goodbye. It's been a year since I believed I had said goodbye more times than I could.

Today, a year later, I wish I could say goodbye to my mama again. I wish I could say it every day and never have it be the last one. I wish for a thousand more goodbyes.

habits aren't easy to break

Last night I felt the weight of losing my mom more than I thought was possible at this point.

My mom and I didn't always talk at regular times. She'd call me every Saturday morning super early, forgetting the time difference, and I'd let it go to voicemail and call her back sometime within the next couple of days. We'd call each other when something happened or we just needed to talk. But we never had a standing phone call.

We did, however, start our own tradition of always talking before and after flights. When I started flying pretty regularly in 2006, Mom would always worry a bit. So I called her on the way to the airport, and I always ALWAYS called her when I touched down back at SFO. The cab drive back into the city was OUR time. It was a reminder that coming home to SFO was also coming HOME. Sometimes it felt maybe a bit annoying that I needed to report in, but mostly I cherished that time with my mom.

When I was flying to Malaysia or Thailand or China every other week, we spent hours on the phone before and after my flights. Even when I was dead exhausted, that call home was my top priority. I loved sharing my adventures with Mom and hearing about her life that I'd missed while I was way. 

When I flew home from the Funeral at the end of February, I cried as I landed because there was nobody to call. It hit me hard and I spent the next week wallowing in bed (and sick as a dog from some airplane bug).

I haven't flown since then. Until last week.

I recognized the temptation to call Mom on the way to OAK to head out on this trip. But I also was aware enough to realize I couldn't. I let myself feel sad for a moment, and then I moved on.

Last night was different. Last night I was exhausted. It had been a long flight in with tons of turbulence and a 30 minute delay on the tarmac. I was tired and fuzzy and not really thinking. As soon as I got into the cab to take me home, I picked up the phone and hit speed dial on my mom's number.

As it rang I realized my mistake, but I couldn't hang up. I needed to hear that out of service message on the other end. I needed to hear the finality of it. And then I lost my shit.

After all these months, my first instinct upon returning to SFO is still to call Mom. To tell her I'm okay. To find out how she is. To tell her I love her.

It's heartbreaking. It's gut wrenching and it has thrown off my whole day today. I'm not very good at functioning while trying not to cry all over my computer.

But I hope that impulse NEVER goes away.

The Other Woman

Having been the other woman unknowingly, and then knowingly, and then having it turned around so I was threatened by the other woman, I feel like I have a little bit to say on the subject. One of the things that is most difficult is that even after the relationship is long over, even after you don't even want to be with the partner anymore, there is still this feeling of primal hatred for a woman you don't even know. Even when I felt sorry for her, even when I felt like she could be someone I liked, I still had this undercurrent of hate. If I'm truly honest with myself, I probably still do.

Caroline Bromley posted a list of lessons regarding the other woman on Thought Catalog, and I found myself wishing I had had this list taped to my mirror while I was in the thick of these emotions. So I'm sharing it here in hopes that if there is anyone out there dealing with this currently or recovering from the effects of having been there, that this helps, even if just a little bit.

The one that was most important for me?

Nobody is out to get you specifically. Everybody just wants to be loved and is fighting as hard as they can for themselves. 

Read all of them here. 

Breaking

She leaned a little into the ledge of the roof deck as he took an almost imperceptible step toward her. The conversation had been lively and constant all evening, but before this she hadn't been sure whether he even found her attractive. Waiting for him to interrupt her with that first kiss, she continued talking, not sure of how to stop.

"...so now I'm here, living in this beautiful city," she gestured with her head to the tops of the buildings they were overlooking, "and I feel pretty lucky..."

"Yes we are," he said as he moved toward her. He wrapped his arms around her in a hug and pulled her close to him.

A hug? This was not what she had been expecting. As soon as she felt herself relax into it, he pulled his face back without letting any space come between them.

She watched him watch her. "You're studying me."

He caught the hint of a question in her voice. "Not critically," as he leaned into her and put his lips to hers.

She waited for him to open the kiss. For an agonizingly long time, he remained still - pushing his lips gently into hers while holding her body against him. She felt something go off in her head.

Are these fireworks?

She felt an urge to move - to pull his lips into hers, but somehow knew better. She gave herself permission to trust him. In an almost meditative state, she started to feel all the nuances of the kiss. She felt movement in the stillness. She felt his hands on her back. She felt him meeting her in this moment.

Seconds that seemed like hours later, he pulled her into the open kisses she had been expecting. They were sweet without lacking sensuality. Soft without lacking power.

They paused for a moment and he gestured toward the nearby table. She sat atop it so that he could stand above her. They continued kissing without escalating. It felt like hours. Years. It felt like something she wanted to do forever.

And then, in one slow movement, he raised up and placed her head against his chest.

Really? We're making out on a first date and he wants to cuddle?

He wrapped his hands in her hair and gently held her there, pulling her into him. He held here there for three long breaths, then four.

At first she simply indulged him. But somehow both suddenly and as if it had been building up for eternity, something inside her came loose. She stopped counting breaths and she found herself pushing her forehead into him. As he held her, one arm around her back, one hand cradling her head, she relaxed into him. She felt herself completely surrender to this moment. Trusting this man to hold her, trusting him to know that she needed to be held, trusting him to kiss her just as she needed to be kissed.

Something inside me is breaking.

Tears were starting to fill in her eyes when the security guard abruptly opened the door and told them the roof deck was closing. She buried her face into him and then quickly wiped her eyes as they laughed at the interruption.

He handed her a tissue once they got into the harshly lit elevator.

Does he know I was about to cry?

"I know I always need one after being out in the cold like that."

Maybe not.

They moved outside to the sidewalk and she started to suggest another location, but something in his eyes made her ask how he was feeling.

He told her it had been a long day, that he'd like to end it on a high note. He held her hand as they walked the few blocks until they needed to go in different directions. They kissed again and said goodnight.

She walked home feeling...feeling what? euphoric. excited. violated. and completely abandoned.

Anxious and not understanding why, she let herself text him to thank him for the evening and let him know she'd like to see him again. He responded that he'd like to see her, too, but her nerves never settled.

She awoke the next morning knowing something had shifted. The more she thought about it, the more emotional and anxious she became.

It isn't this guy. I don't even know if I really like this guy. 

She checked her phone for the tenth time in as many minutes.

What the fuck is going on? What is wrong with me?

She closed her eyes and let herself remember how it felt when he first kissed her. She let herself feel him hold her against his chest. She gave herself permission to relax into the feeling. And she started to cry.

In almost four years her ex had never once held her this way. And the man before him? Never. Maybe she hadn't let them. Never had she been so gently forced to let down her guard. Never had she realized how much she needed to feel safe in someone's arms. She sobbed. And laughed. She cried in thankfulness for this beautiful gift, and in sorrow for not knowing if she would ever have it again. She cried because she was finally admitting that she had never in her life, her entire life, really felt completely safe. She cried because she understood this was just a moment in time, and that she may never have it again. And she cried because she knew this was the beginning of something much bigger and truer than she could fully grasp.

Something inside me is breaking free.

Greedy Golden-Mantled Ground Squirrel

Last week PMac and I were planning our Crater Lake camping trip when I showed him the spork/knife I encountered on my Yosemite trip. (These things are awesome, by the way.) He made a stop at REI, and when we set up for dinner he showed me the orange "sporkife" (as he calls it) that he got especially for me. Super sweet.

We had a fantastic campfire dinner, cleaned up, and went to bed. The next morning we realized the camp suds were missing. We figured we'd left them near the water source and someone picked them up. A large group of Russians had taken over all the camp sites around us, and perhaps they decided to keep our soap. Annoying, but we let it go. Which was easy to do because PMac was preoccupied with roasting a corn cob to ashes.

The next night after dinner, I cleaned up and noticed I couldn't find the orange spork I was using. I searched the trash. I searched the fire. I couldn't find it anywhere and was really bummed. Peter told me it was okay, the spork was chillin' with the camp suds. We decided that one of the golden-mantled ground squirrels had stolen them and PMac returned to his attention to burning food parts including the pit from my nectarine.

The following morning I found the camp suds. They were back in the bag where they belonged - the bag both of us had searched multiple times over the previous two days. Seemed like the squirrel decided he didn't want them and brought them back. We hoped the spork might show up before we left, but it didn't happen.

Until yesterday, when I received an envelope containing the following:

Text Reads:

Dearest Monika: 

I wanted to return this spoon to you. I have spent my life at Mazama Campground stealing items from the parks visitors. After a bout of severe indigestion and delerium brought on by drinking Citronela CampSuds, Iw as overcome with remorse when I saw how sad you were for looseing this spoon - such a nice little gift from your boyfrined that I selfishly ran away with. I snuck the Suds back in your bag but missed getting the spoon in before you left us. You and your boyfriend seemed so happy and having such a great time - I am sorry for causing anguish over this lost spoon. Please do come back and see us and I hope you don't take out your anguish on my fellows you see along the highway. Thanks for the bag of nuts (sorry) but what was up with the corn cob and the peach pit?!? 

Now how to get this laptop back to the Russians in E18 without getting caught? 

---happy trails 

GMGS

(golden mantled ground squirell)

Best. Gift. Ever.
Terrible grammar and spelling and all. You can only expect so much from a ground squirrel.

Marriage Baggage

A quote from Presumed Innocent, by Scott Turow:

After almost twenty years of sleeping with Barbara, I no longer went to bed with only her. I lay down with five thousand other fucks; with the recollection of younger bodies; with the worries for the million things that supported and surrounded our life: the corroding rain gutters, Nat's unwillingness to study mathematics, the way Raymond, over the years, had come to greet my work with an eye its defects rather than successes, the particular arrogant glint that came into my mother-in-law's eye when she discussed any person outside her immediate family, including me. In our bed, I reached for Barbara through the spectral intervention of all these visitors, all that time.

What I Want

I watch the show Parenthood regularly. One of the things I always envy is how there are so many siblings who love each other and are there for each other through their lives. It makes me want more than 2 kids...even though I feel like 2 is probably the responsible number.

But this...this got me. In the last episode, the oldest of the children, a high school senior, was in a car accident.

This is the next scene. Watch the first 3 minutes.

Parenthood - Watch the First Three Minutes

This. This is what I want.

Not the car wreck, you idiots. The massive support.

Wisdom from Reader's Digest

My wonderful mother gifts me with a subscription to Reader's Digest every year. As silly as it may seem, I actually really enjoy it. As a kid, RD was one of those things that came in the mail that was actually interesting to me. Finding that little thick rectangle in a stack of bills was always a reward for fetching the mail. So I read it. Still.

A quote from a recent issue I just had to share:

"The only reason to be in a long-term relationship with another adult is to have someone to laugh with. That's it. Because you can always hire someone to put in windows."

Remember This. Write it Down. Don't Forget.

If you have been hurt or wronged it is not your responsibility to attempt to rectify the situation.

A lovely piece of advice from Dating is Miserable.

SF's Commitment Issues

Great article in 7x7 about dating in SF. It doesn't get into much detail, but I appreciated this insight:

Opening yourself to love means “accepting your place in human history.” Whoa. Could that be the real reason for San Franciscans’ inability to settle down? Are we so attached to the idea of being exceptional that we just can’t fathom settling—which would mean, in this case, settling down into the great ordinary mass of humanity? Is long-term love (as opposed to sex and romance) just too ordinary for San Franciscans?

I think there's something to this.

The people who work their asses off to get here and succeed are frequently very extraordinary people. Maybe we have unrealistic explanations about what love and commitment is supposed to feel like, supposed to be. Maybe we won't find it until we're willing to accept that sometimes the extraordinary is something that find everywhere, in everyone, right in front of our eyes.

Thought on What Women Want

 From Cougar Town

There is no end to what a man must do for a woman
~Ellie
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grayson:
How can I still not understand what women want?

Jules:
Women just want a guy who respects our independence, but also wants to take care of us.
We want a guy who's secure, but also gets jealous.
We want a guy who truly listens to us, but also wants us to kinda shut up.
Like yesterday, when you were being a little mean to me, but you weren't being too mean, that was so hot.


Grayson:
It sucks being a dude...women want an everything man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Everything Man"

Runnin', runnin', runnin' just as fast as I can
Trying to be your everything man.

You want me to want you, but not every day.
You want me to beg when there is nothing to say.

You want me la la la la but there's always a hitch.
La la la la la when you act like a bitch.

You want toughness and sweetness
and softness and meanness
wanna make me the master of this inbetweenness

Runnin', runnin', runnin' just as fast as I can
Trying to be your everything man.

Told You I'm Not the Only One

Even SF Weekly thinks SF is a tough city for women looking to date men.

This week they featured an article about a pick-up artist who tried to teach SF women how to pick up men in the city...and found it more difficult than he expected.

Read for yourself: Girl Game

Some favorite excerpts:

...being a single, straight woman in this city can be an exercise in frustration and humiliation. All around the city, successful single women complain about not being able to find quality partners.

Although there's no hard data to prove it, anecdotal evidence abounds.

One possible explanation is that in San Francisco, men who aren't gay, married, or damaged by a previous owner are decidedly cagey when it comes to dating and relationships. "Men are more timid here to ask women out," says Emily Morse, a local radio show host who regularly discusses sex and relationships. "They also seem to think dating just isn't cool."

------------

"I've never had as much trouble finding people to date as I have here," a woman wrote. It was the first response to an SF Weekly tweet calling for women fed up with the dating scene in San Francisco and willing to subject themselves to a pickup artist's workshop. "I moved to the city after a nasty breakup, expecting to casually date people," she continued. "I couldn't even get laid at first."

Plenty of other responses zoomed in, many including pointed complaints about male-female relations. "I've never seen so much dating down in my life," a woman wrote, referring to how many couples she knows that seem to include a smart, attractive woman and an average, barely tolerable guy.

------------

In San Francisco, though, women have to deal with a lot of ambiguity. "We don't even know what it is," Valencia said of some men she has encountered around the city. "Is it gay? Is it straight? Is it a friend Is it a foe? Is it looking for a job? Is it looking for a place to crash?"

Another contributing factor to the dating doldrums: "There's no pressure to grow up here," she says. "The way I act now is pretty much the same way I acted when I was 24. It's culturally reinforced here. Nobody cares that you're in your late 30s and have roommates."

------------

But as someone who has lived in New York City, she has noticed that in San Francisco, men are not very bold in approaching women.

"Here, there are all these group get-togethers," she says. "Men prefer to see women a few times before asking them out." And, as in any other city full of young, ambitious people, San Franciscans seem less interested in settling down than in exploring their options.

------------

Maybe it was because we were out on a Wednesday. Maybe we had chosen the wrong bar. But that particular scenario — having just a couple of attractive men to fight over, finding out they're gay, then hitting on them anyway — seemed a perfect representation of what it's like for a single woman in San Francisco.

------------ 

Valencia said her mother has a theory about men. "A good guy is like a good bra," she used to say. "He should uplift and make you look beautiful. He should fit really well. He should flatter you and never poke you in the wrong place or make you uncomfortable."

------------ 

Dating's hard! (said in an incredibly whiny voice, of course)

Good Mothering

Overheard in SF:

"If he can't figure out the public transportation system, well ... I don't want you dating him."
(Mother to teenage girl, overheard at San Francisco General Hospital)

There's more where that came from on SFGate.com.

Saturday Afternoon

She squints as the clouds blow by, letting the sun flash in through the cafe window.
"I just don't get why he hasn't called back. It's been two days. He never takes this long."

One of the other three women at the table hands her a pair of sunglasses.
"Honey, don't worry about it, he's probably out of town...somewhere with no reception."

"Or," another drawls as she examines her reflection in the window, "he's so wrapped up in some other girl he hasn't even checked his phone." She brushes off the death glares and napkin wads.

"Maybe he got into a terrible accident and he's in a hospital somewhere. He could be dying wishing I was by his side! Maybe I should call around?"

"Don't sound so hopeful."

"Well, it's better than another woman." She pushes out her bottom lip.

The fourth woman speaks up. "Maybe he's in jail."

"If only he was exciting enough for me to believe that one. It's probably something totally boring. I bet he dropped his phone in the toilet and fried his contacts."

"You really think he's the kind of guy who wouldn't have them backed up?"

"Oh, damn."

"Maybe a friend came into town unexpectedly and he just isn't thinking about it."

"Yeah, the woman he's wrapped up in." This time she dodges french fries.

The phone rings.

Pioneer Woman's Love Story

I'm still not a hundred percent sure how I came across her website, but Ree, better known as Pioneer Woman, has a collection of blog posts that are stealing all of my time.

Ree was a midwestern girl who moved to LA for college and loved it. She stayed a few years after, knowing that she needed the big city, and happy in a long relationship.

As that relationship progressed, though, Ree realized that she needed some time alone to figure things out. She didn't know exactly what she wanted to do or where she wanted to be, so she went home.

Then she met the cowboy.

Seriously, this woman lived my effing fantasy. Except for the whole, move away from the ocean AND the city thing. Not sure I could handle that one.

Her writing is worthy of any romance section, but ladies beware - you'll be pulled in faster than you think.

On this one, though, I'm gonna say it's worth it.

Read Ree's Story.
(read from the bottom up)

Weirdly, I prefer reading it in those installments. Once you get far enough in, however, you'll find Ree's link to the entire story all in one place. Try that if it makes you happier.

Book Report: How the World Makes Love

Very good, fast-paced piece of travel/relationship writing. I highly recommend it.

Some favorite parts:

A married Nicaraguan woman explains success

Physical appearance is irrelevant, though it is important to be good in bed.

The author has a realization

Love is the only belief on which the world agrees. Meters or feet, coffee or tea, Buddha or Allah, futbol or football, cars on the left or right--our planet cannot come to a consensus on anything. Except love.

The world believes deeply in love. Deeply. Ardently. With a shy smile and an instant nod, people around the globe say it exists in all of us. It can thrive. Sure, they have a hard time describing it, let alone capturing it, but it's there. They know it. From closed societies or Western worlds, in bodies wrinkled or smooth, with preferences for the apposite sex or the same, with pockets well stocked or barren, the world sings the same love song. The practices vary, but the passions remain identical.

A young Nicaraguan woman talking about love

Nica men think love is an empty space you need to fill. For me, love is if I am happy and you are happy, we can share. But if you are not happy, you can share nothing.

When I had sex with the fireman, it was not love. Just I needed a hug. But love doesn't leave in the morning.

Go read it for yourself: How the World Makes Love, Franz Wisner