Yes, I forgot a period somewhere up there. English majors aren't robots. I also cut off the word 'Twitter'. Don't be mad Twitter.
Let's make this a cool, new blogging thing. Forget the keyboards, bloggers! Pick up your pens! (But you'll probably need a scanner, so don't completely turn your backs on technology.)
Last Sunday night, right after I put Kyle down to bed, I walked into the kitchen and stopped. I got that feeling. You know the one. The did I pay the electric bill?, did I forget to meet that deadline?, did I call my dad on his birthday? feeling. The something-ain't-right feeling. Not a half hour later, I paused the TV to the sound of Kyle throwing up over the side of his crib. When I walked into his room, his soft, little still-a-baby-but-there's-a-boy-on-the-horizon face looked both relieved to see me and totally unenthusiastic about being awake and covered in his own vomit.
It was the start of a very shitty, very long, very puke-and-scream-filled week.
We think (WE HOPE) we're through the worst of it. Just today our little guy was somewhat back to his old, smiling, bouncing-off-the-walls self. He's a fun kid to be around. We're glad to have him back.
Look at that sick little face! We basically had to skip Halloween this year (yuck), but Mike's work had a nice little trick-or-treat thing on Friday, and Kyle put on a brave face (and a spider costume) in the name of free candy. (He'd like the record to show he did not get to eat a single piece of that free candy. Babyhood is so unfair.)
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Thank you for all the reassuring words on Sunday's post. I was in a very bad place that day (and yesterday too) and your comments helped like you wouldn't believe. I'm lucky to know you.
They say kids get sick a lot. They are very smart indeed.
Kyle is sick this week with a stomach virus, an infected bellybutton (I just don't know) and he's also teething. And, hey, did I mention he fell on his head last weekend? I don't think Kyle would vote this Best! Week! Ever! He spent all last night screaming instead of sleeping and my child doesn't scream that often. When he's really excited about something he's found or when he's on the changing table and Very Not Pleased by that, but endless, pained screaming? No, not Kyle. It's not that the screaming really bothers me -- kids regularly scream and cry and make all sorts of other noises too -- but when you have gotten to know a little kid pretty well, it sucks when they're feeling bad enough, for whatever reason, they throw their personality and normal behaviors clear out the window. I wish he'd feel better. Like yesterday.
When kids get sick, germs and lack of sleep descend upon the house but so does much stress. There are doctor's appointments that need to be made, schedules that need to be rearranged, and this week, in our little home, the stress level has reached very high levels indeed. I've also been thrown up on three times this week. I'm sorry, but show me a person who wouldn't be stressed out by that much vomit ON THEIR PERSON and I'll show you someone who is dead. In addition to all the chaos our own lives melt into when there's a sick baby, we've had to ask a lot of favors this week of the people we love. I believe it takes a village, yes, but that doesn't make it any easier to call in favors from people who aren't Kyle's parents and therefore have no real obligation to his well-being. Our friends and family don't have to step up, but they usually do, because we are surrounded by very good people. There aren't enough mimosa brunches in the world to properly thank the people who deserve to be thanked. (But thank you.)
Cross your fingers Kyle feels better in no time. Tonight, perhaps. Hey, right now would even work for me. Not so much because the screaming sucks (ALTHOUGH, OH YES, IT DOES) and not even because we're all really, REALLY, REALLY tired but because I miss seeing this smile. It's a smile I've gotten rather used to.
Come on, buds, let's kick this virus' ass and get back to life and fun and bananas.
This weekend, we took Kyle to his first pumpkin patch.
We also took him to the park, for the first time as a family.
He waved at us for the first time, as well, after weeks of annoyingly waving at him like loons while chanting, "Hi, Kyle! Hiya Kyle! Can you wave, buddy?"
At Target, we took him out of his car seat and let him ride in the cart like a big boy for the first time. He was captivated by all the cheap, lovely things. That's my boy.
To round out this weekend of firsts, I turned my back for a quick second Saturday night, and he face-planted off the couch. Taking my heart along for the plunge. He was fine just moments later, albeit fine with a small bruise on his head and a bloody lip, but no injuries some hugs and a bedtime story didn't fix. We're still hoping he's fine and that his vomit episode 24-hours later was merely coincidental. Go ahead and think good thoughts for our little man, just in case.
No one prepares you for the constant blood pressure spikes parenthood brings. Along with stretch marks and really unflattering clothes, I wish pregnancy had given me nerves of steel. They'd come in handy on a daily basis.
I need to find a sense of calm amidst the storm of motherhood. Sometimes I wonder what on earth to do other than shooting Xanax straight into my eyeballs. Yoga? Reading more often? Sleep more? (Yeah right.) Then the irony of all ironies hits me: the one who causes the heart-stopping moments, gives me the greatest peace I could ever imagine.
Sorry about the fall, Ky. I can't promise it won't ever happen again, but, buds, I'll snuggle you after each and every one. If you'll let me.
More pictures from the park, the pumpkin patch and, randomly, Vegas.
When Kyle was a wee little guy, and I was having an especially hard day, the kind of day where he woke up screaming and then continued to scream until he collapsed in his bouncer for a furrowed-brow nap (no, really, that child's brow was furrowed for the first two months of his life, see below), I walked out of his bedroom, into the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle off the counter and threw it across the living room.
So furrowed!
Sometimes, when I get frustrated or angry or fed up with the business of being an adult, I throw things. Hey, listen, I'm not proud of this, but you should know I rarely throw sharp or dangerous things, and I also rarely throw things at another living creature unless Mike has deleted Gossip Girl off the DVR. AGAIN.
Kyle has recently started hating the changing table with every fiber of his being. I think this has something to do with being forced to lie down when he wants to be up! and army crawling! and eating power cords!, but for whatever reason the act of changing his diaper and putting him in clean clothes is equivalent to tossing acid on him. He writhes and screams and squawks. He kicks. He gets so wiggly that I have to literally pin him down with one arm while the other arm changes his diaper by itself. I should put this talent on my resume because if you think one-handed diaper-changing isn't a worthy skill to brag about, you've never done it. So, yes, the changing table portion of the day is the angriest my child ever gets other than the few minutes he can see the made bottle but can't actually get his grubby hands on the made bottle because I'm across the room taunting him with it.
The other morning, I walked in to get him out of his crib, and he was jabbering and smiling and holding his pacifier and eager to get up, and we had such a sweet 15 seconds while I walked him from his crib to the changing table.
As soon as I laid him flat to get him out of his diaper and pjs, though, he scrunched that brow of his and hollered, loudly and angrily. I then said very sternly, "Child, you will stop this instant. We do not act like that when other people are nice enough to wipe our butts for us." I really said that, too, because I think it's just ridiculous that anyone, eight months old or otherwise, would act outraged at not having to sit in their own poop. As soon as I took the "stern mama voice," he stopped crying, looked at me, picked up his pacifier from beside him and threw it with much force onto the ground.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt -- assumed he thought I handed him a hot coal and not his beloved pacifier that I rarely give him outside of his crib these days -- and handed it back to him. (Another skill: holding the baby with one hand while leaning down to retrieve the discarded pacifier with the other.)
He looked at me, even more angry and determined, and threw it across the room again.
I was, uh, rightfully stunned. This is a baby. He can't even say "mama" yet, so where on earth did he learn to express his anger in such a....ooooh. Yeeeeeeah.
That's my boy.
I sat him up soon after that and said to him what Mike and I say to him a lot, the parenting mantra that we've come to embrace, the one that will get us ridiculed and judged by everyone on our PTA committees. "Baby, only mama throws things out of anger." (Or, "Baby, only daddy uses words like that." Or, "Baby, only mama eats this many cookies in one sitting.")
He laughed at me, and I laughed right back.
Oh, you thought I was done gabbing about my fun weekend escape to Sacramento, didn't you? Well, it would seem you thought wrong! Hey, if food gets an entire post devoted to it, some of the coolest ladies I've ever met deserve at least the same.
I wish there was a real way to do this post justice without 1) making the entire Internet roll its eyes in unison and 2) using plenty of adverbs and adjectives and EXCLAMATION! POINTS! And, look, you're rolling your eyes again.
We all blog because we enjoy the outlet, we enjoy the community, we really enjoy putting something somewhat vulnerable and personal into the abyss of CSS code and hearing back, "Yes, I feel the exact same way." It's downright cool to meet someone who lives in Sacramento or Vermont or even the same small Texas town you live in solely because of a wireless connection and a URL address. It's beautiful to have your son go through something pretty scary and be met with resounding support from people who care about your kid. That's ... that's really something.
It's also really something to sit around a moonlit tablescape with a dozen or more bloggers, most of whom you've never met, throwing back wine like its water and realizing, Yeah, it's pretty warm out right now, but I have goosebumps. And I'm laughing so hard, I can't breathe.
The Blathering was magical, and not because we all clicked and became instant friends -- although that was cool, yes -- but because we all walked through Elizabeth's front door feeling welcome and wanted. We didn't feel silly about being there or like we walked in on someone else's inside joke. We felt like we were all invited, no matter how many comments we bring in on our blog or how many Twitter followers we've racked up. There were no pretensions. We were ourselves and it was enough. Yes, it was magical.
Saturday night we had a fancy dinner, then drinks and then a stop in a gay bar. Now, we all come from different walks of life and we all properly warned each other that some ladies were raging liberals and some were, um, not raging liberals, but each woman got out on that dance floor and shook their ass to Michael Jackson's "Bad" and no one felt self-conscious or silly or judged. We all threw our arms up together, and we danced like we were friends.
By then, we all were.
Let me show you:
The day I got home, I was already thinking about where we'd meet up next year. The day I got home, I texted and twittered and e-mailed and missed those women.
We will be meeting up next year, oh yes, and I hope you'll come, too. I can promise, we're all excited to meet you.
Mike's birthday was over the weekend, and even though we're headed to Vegas next weekend to properly celebrate, we hosted a party this past Friday night also. Something you should know about us, we love a good party, and we are of the mindset that the more is always the merrier.
Here's a picture of me line dancing in the garage toward the end of the night -- after my sweet boy was fast asleep at his grandparent's house, rest assured.
Here's Kristie and me, too.
And, here's one of Mike's best friends, Trent, and he's also one of my favorite people. He's hilarious, and, what's more, he loves my kid (and my kid loves him). That's about all it takes for me to be your biggest fan, you should know.
Ooh, that's definitely water in that shot glass. I like to rehydrate in small doses. Uh-huh, yeah.
Before Kyle headed out, he partied as best he could. He even wore his rock 'n' roll hat for the occasion:
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The day after the party, we celebrated Mike's birthday as a family at one of his favorite area restaurants. It was Kyle's first time in a high chair! Well, an out-of-the-house high chair, and I know that seems odd -- he's 8 months old already -- but there just hadn't been a need until now, funny enough.
I was very proud, like the pathetic mom I am.
We had a great weekend, and the only damper on the whole birthday celebration has been that now we're both sick. Kyle's in quarantine at his grandparent's, so he doesn't get what we both have, and Mike is laid out on the couch whining about a long list of things, including the weather, his aches, Cheez-Its and poker.
But, look, pantsless soccer!
That cheers me up a little, definitely.
Dear Kyle,
You're just across the room as I write this. You're tossing your pacifier off your exersaucer and then looking at me as if to say, "Well, come on now, fetch that." I smile and say, "No, love. Mama hates that game." So you go on to something else, smiling even. I'm relishing in how easy-to-please you are this month, how quick to distract and how without-effort it is to turn your attention on a new toy or gadget or hair ball. I know one day the stubbornness that is programmed into your DNA will take over, and it won't be so easy.
Oh, but for now. For now you are the greatest delight and the most fun you've ever been. I've been saying this awhile now, yes I know, but this month, more than any month since I first met you, something has shifted in me. I've begun feeling desperate to see you, spend time with you, hold tightly to this time. When I leave you now, it hurts more than it ever has before.
Forgive me, Ky, but the fact that you're actually going to grow up and become a real person with opinions and thoughts and the ability to move away from me and never call to check in hit me like a semi-truck this month, and I find myself -- more than ever -- longing to press pause, to go back and slap that woman who wished away your newbornness because, my god, it's all over so soon, and all we have are words and pictures and memories to cling to in the wake of time. Those are lovely, don't get me wrong, but you can't snuggle with any of them. You can't take in the scent of memories. You can't get intoxicated over the belly laugh of a word. I miss you every moment I'm with you because I finally understand that just as soon as I drink that moment in, it will be gone. It's over just like that.
I left you this month, for five long-but-lovely days. I had an incredible time, and I dedicated post after post to how much fun I had with friends I hope I still have when you read this. I call it my soul-healing vacation. When I was driving home after my trip, I thought about having to work the next day and how unfair it is that I can't be with you all the time, how I sometimes hate being the kind of person who thrives when working outside the home, and who needs a circle of friends that extends past your dad and Molly. I sometimes hate I'm this person, this person with a desire to live beyond our front door. When it comes down to it, what's inside our house is all that matters, yet I leave sometimes, and I want to try to explain to you why. When I was driving home from this trip, I got stuck by a train, and I was livid! I wanted to be with you, and I was just miles from you, and how dare a TRAIN prevent me from holding you! When I finally got home, you were fast asleep, but I tiptoed into your room and began sobbing before I even saw you. I could sense you, breathing in-and-out, and it broke my heart like it always does. That gentle, natural, beautiful breathing of a sleeping baby. It's enough to fix all the world's problems. I picked you up and out of your crib while your dad shook his head from the couch because he sometimes can't believe he married someone so damn girlie. I can't ever remember a moment so perfect, me holding you after five days of only seeing you in blurry, bad cell-phone pictures. And I thought, if I had never left, I would never have known how incredible it felt to come home to you. I leave sometimes because nothing reminds me how much I love you like being apart from you, and sometimes the most beautiful moments of parenthood come from the perspective that distance brings.
Kyle, I know it's with the help of rose-colored-parent-glasses and the ease of hindsight that I say this, but you are such a damn joy. You are an incredibly happy and delightful baby. You scream, sure, and when we don't hand you your bottles RIGHT AS WE MAKE THEM you freak out like a boy who very obviously got his love of food from his mother. You've also been on a very frustrating nap strike the last month or so. You've decided real napping sucks it big time but cat napping, well, that's really where it's at. Who cares what your mother thinks of that. (Note: she thinks it blows.) You will not stay still to save your life, and although every parent understands this, how hard it is to contain mobile babies, you are ever-so-slightly different, I suspect. You deserve to be on the cast of Nitro Circus Junior. You don't just try to get away, you try to HURL YOURSELF AWAY. You actually climbed out of your exersaucer the other day, and, ha, I wish I were exaggerating for comedic effect when I say that, but you actually worked like hell to get out of a contraption that's sole purpose is to contain and entertain babies. YOU DEFIED FISHER PRICE, CHILD. I also found you just this morning with a bloody lip. You were smiling like a fool with blood all over you, and, yeah, MAMA DOES NOT LIKE TO BE GREETED LIKE THAT FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. We think you were probably chewing on your crib and fell, your lip getting caught in the crossfire. Or, possibly a troll crawled into your crib and you got into a fist-fight. Regardless, I am seeing glimpses this month of what parenting a boy is going to be like and on the one hand, man, it's going to be a ridiculously wild adventure but on the other hand, holy shit, my heart and nerves were not made for this. But, aside from all that exhaustion and blood-pressure raising, Buds, you are the sweetest, happiest, most fun baby I could have ever hoped for. You are just amazing, kid. Simple as that.
You will hold a rock and study it for 18 straight minutes because, whoa, what the hell is THIS, I must figure it out, and then you will try to WALK WHEN YOU CANNOT WALK and you will bruise your head from that attempt, and when I think back to our first night in the hospital when your dad and I stared at each other and asked, in all seriousness, "WHO MADE THIS CHILD? HE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE EITHER OF US?" I laugh because, oh baby, you are so your dad's kid. Your dad, the man who will stand in Fry's for TWO DAMN HOURS when choosing a modem cable but who will then attempt a flip on his snowboard just to see if he can do it. You are his boy, his buddy, his buds. I'm so glad you remind me of him. It's heartwarming, it's comforting, it's all I ever wanted, but I'm starting to get a little selfish this month. I'm starting to look for anything that will remind me of, well, me. I know I had a part in making you, I REMEMBER LABOR FAIRLY VIVIDLY, but when I look deep into your eyes, I have to really search for traces of myself.
So, you can imagine my sort of selfish joy when it started to become very apparent that you don't give a damn how messy you are. Your grandma has said so many times how your dad hated getting dirty as a kid. He'd FREAK OUT whenever he got wet or messy, and would rather play cleanly and orderly thank you very much, but I was the exact opposite of this. I was a dirty, messy kid who turned into an adult who still spills food down the front of her shirt.
And look at you:
A beautiful mess. Just like your mama.
Eight months. Buds, how did this happen? How are we already here? How can such a contradiction even exist, the deep desire to see who you'll become and the deep desire to go back, for just a moment, to who you were. I don't know how it's possible, but it is. It's the one thing I'm sure of. That the gift of time is also a curse. That I long, equally, for the past and the future. You are eight months old, baby boy, and I am both stunned and humbled. I'm both terrified and ecstatic. I spend every day eager to see what lies ahead while grieving what came before. If being a mother has taught me anything it's that life is ridiculous. It's a nonsensical ride, and we do our best to hold on and enjoy ourselves while we can. We forever try to live in the moment because it really is all we have.
I had a book shower when I was pregnant, and so you have a bookcase full of books already. There is one I read you a lot because it's my favorite, and it's not even a classic or that well-illustrated, but it's a story of a busy mom, you can tell, and sometimes she's at work and sometimes she's at the grocery store and sometimes she's upset and sometimes she's in the sandbox with her baby boy, but no matter what, no matter what she's doing, she loves her son. The name of the book is "I Love You All The Time." And this is how I feel, as I sit in traffic and talk to the Terminix guy very sternly about why there are ANTS IN OUR KITCHEN and when I am in a meeting and when I am at dinner with the girls. When I am blogging and when I'm doing the dishes and when I'm feeding you your dinner -- my favorite time of my day -- and when I'm folding your little-but-so-much-bigger-than-before clothes into their drawers and when I'm cooking dinner. Whenever, wherever.
Oh, Kyle, I love you all the time.
Love,
Your Mama
The entire time I was traveling across the great state of California, one constant thought kept playing on a loop in my mind: I am so lucky to have my husband. I am the luckiest. Not just because he physically stayed home to watch Kyle while I sipped champagne and slept in, although, yeah, that was important, but because he encouraged me to go, repeatedly told me to enjoy myself, urged me to forget about our money woes for at least the five days I was gone. When I talked to him throughout my trip, he'd say, "I hope you're having fun, baby." When I called him hungover on Saturday morning, apologizing for the drunken phone call the night before -- the "I'm not drunk, baby, I'm just drinking" phone call -- he laughed, nothing else.
I am not an easy person to live with, and although I do the dishes and the laundry and always get up to make Kyle's bottles in the morning, I also sigh and act put-upon and demand lots of attention and reassurance. I know my even-tempered, level-headed, funny husband wishes I'd just BRING IT DOWN A NOTCH EVERY NOW AND THEN, WOMAN.
But instead of saying that, he kisses me every morning when I leave for work and every evening when I get home. He pauses the TV when I want to tweet something hilarious. He eats whatever I cook and says things like, "Yeah, this isn't too bad," WHEN IT IS IN FACT INEDIBLE. He thanks me, every day, for the things I do for him and Kyle.
Kyle likes Mike more than me, and I don't even blame him. Mike is fun! And funny! And he never furrows his brow over our cell phone bill or the roach in the laundry room or dropping a glass. I've been saying "no" to Kyle since the very beginning, to get him used to the word, and Mike hasn't said "no" once. He doesn't flinch when Kyle bangs his head or pukes. He rolls with parenthood like a pro, like he was made to be this kid's dad, like he's been a father forever and ever. People who know Mike laugh and say, "I can't believe someone as childish as Mike HAS HIS OWN CHILD," and they shake their heads while I say whole-heartedly, "Oh, no! You've got it all wrong! He's a great dad. He's the very best dad there is."
I am so proud I chose that man to be my kid's father.
Mike is the least competitive, least jealous man I've ever known. He is genuinely happy for everyone's successes and genuinely down for everyone's bumps and bruises. Nothing about life really startles him or rattles him. When I left last week, multiple people said, "God, how is Mike going to handle it? Is he freaked out?" Oh god no. When it comes to taking care of Kyle, Mike feels only one thing: honored. He's never upset or stressed or bothered. He rolls with it. He soaks it up. When I got home he said, "We had a freaking blast together." He meant it.
My husband drives me crazy. He does. I roll my eyes and raise my voice and WOULD IT KILL YOU TO WASH A SOCK EVERY NOW AND THEN? As he snoozes on Saturday mornings, I curse him from the couch. He can be unromantic and slightly clueless and he doesn't play any mind games, which is annoying when I really want to play one. He drives me crazy, you should really know that. We fight. We've had some doozies in our day, fights that would make you really uncomfortable if you witnessed them. We've gone to bed angry more than once, and I holler across the house, "YOU ARE DRIVING ME INSANE!" at least once a week. And he does drive me insane. I have rolled my eyes more in the last six years than I ever did as a teenager, and I rolled my eyes a lot back then. He's stubborn and frustrating and he snores very loudly. He also hogs the DVR like you wouldn't believe, and when he says to me, "Can we delete Oprah?" even though 80% of the used space is because of his boring Discovery channel shows, I want to kick him. Hard and repeatedly. But, on this day, the day before his birthday, you should also know this:
My husband is the kind of person I'd like to be one day.
Happy 32nd birthday, babe. Every year that I get to celebrate this day with you is another year I've gotten to spend with you. So, I'd say we both get gifts.
{If you feel so inclined, tell Mike happy birthday in the comments. He loves my readers just as much as I do.}
First, I must say, I was rather terrified about taking a vacation in the middle of a serious attempt at shedding these lingering kajillion pounds. I am overweight, and I know this. If you see me and you know me, and you think to yourself, I wonder if she knows she's put on some weight, the answer is OH HELLS YEAH I KNOW. It's not like I'm defying gravity and fitting into old skinny clothes. But unlike college, where pounds just melted off if I even thought about skipping breakfast, it's tough to lose the weight this time. Combine a girl's vacation focused on relaxing and indulging with an already molasses-like metabolism, and, well, my waistline was scared about this trip. I wish I could tell you I maintained my weight loss or even lost more pounds, but I didn't. I gained a couple pounds, pounds I've already lost since returning Sunday, thank god, but I also enjoyed myself, walked and danced a lot and didn't give a damn about guilt or calories. I only cared about enjoying myself, and it wasn't a bad way to mentally go about my little trip away.
If you're ever traipsing across California and you'd like to enjoy yourself, may I suggest:
Los Angeles:
Lunch: The Farm, in Beverly Hills. It was very moderately priced, which was a pleasant surprise first thing off the plane from Texas. I ordered half a delicious BLTA (bacon, lettuce, oven-roasted tomatoes and avocado) sandwich with a side of black bean turkey chili. (Also, there was bubbly.) Oh, you'd like to see a picture? Well, I just so happen...
From there we split a squiggle cupcake from Crumbs. I watched a skinny little thing walk by me as I was devouring my half, and I thought instead of God, I shouldn't be eating this, God, this tastes incredible. I could use some milk.
After a quick hotel power nap, we enjoyed a tasty drink at Melrose Bar & Grill. I just had a measly beer, which I look back and scoff at. Don't get me wrong, I love a frosty beer, but on vacation? No! Beers are for parties at home and ball games, not for a girl's vacation!
We had a late dinner with my author, and he took us to Ketchup on Sunset. You should know that the very first thing I said upon walking in was OH MY GOD, BRODY AND LAUREN CAME HERE ON THE HILLS. Nothing gives an author confidence in his publicist like squealing over MTV reality shows. I had a delicious Caesar salad with a side of the lobster bisque, which is one thing I wouldn't recommend. The table shared the Threesome, a trio of fries and sauces. The table also shared some bubbly (much better than BEER).
After dinner, Kristie begged us to take her to Millions of Milkshakes, which, we found out, is apparently a publicity stunt disguised as a milkshake shop. I felt weird just sitting out front. But, for what it's worth, I got the 90210 shake. CAP'N CRUNCH BABY, which ironically appeared under the "healthy" column.
The next morning, before hitting the road, we stopped at a great little coffee shop, Euro Caffe. I got a mocha with whipped cream. IT WAS VACATION, LET ME REMIND YOU.
Malibu:
We stopped for breakfast at Marmalade in Malibu, and this place was incredible. Great waiter, great food, great atmosphere. Seriously, perfect. Along with a mimosa (sense the trend), I got a Gilson's Scramble. Now that I type this all out, I apparently ate a lot of avocado and drank a lot of champagne on this trip. Now the inching-up-on-the-scale thing is making some sense.
Santa Barbara:
I ate the most delicious chocolate croissant, but I can't recall where. Good luck!
Carmel:
Dinner was at Merlot Bistro, which just sounds lovely, doesn't it? And it was! This was a very low-key joint, and most of the patrons were, um, quieter and more reserved than we were, but it was delicious and cozy and perfect. I got a filet mignon and Gorgonzola pizza, and I've decided I really like this steak paired with this cheese. You probably already KNEW this and UNDERSTOOD this pairing, but I'm 87 steps behind when it comes to adult cuisine. Regardless, yum. We also shared two half-bottles (uh-huh, I know) of the Ventana Sauvignon Blanc, which was the cheapest thing on the menu, but also tasty, too. Love when that happens.
After-dinner Long Island Ice Teas were at Sade's. The nightlife isn't hopping in Carmel, but if you do need an after-dinner spot, this was nice.
The next morning, we ate breakfast at The Cottage Restaurant, and I hate to do this because if YOU go to Carmel, you may love this place, and it was recommended to us, but I didn't like the food. I ate the food, sure, but it wasn't remarkable or noteworthy at all. I may have wished I were at IHOP instead. I got a choose-your-own-ingredients omelet.
San Francisco:
We had a very quick yet delicious lunch at La Mar on the water, an incredible Peruvian seafood joint. I ignored all the ceviche on the menu because nothing sort of grosses me out more than thinking of seafood marinating in citrus juice. I know it's technically cooking, but, yeah, I'm of the old traditional camp that thinks COOKING SHOULD REQUIRE FIRE. I got the pan con lomo, basically a steak sandwich, which was good, but Kristie got the most incredible risotto, the risotto de calabaz, that I actually thought about at various times throughout the weekend. Sorry, Kristie, for all those bites I stole. And then you paid for lunch. You're too to me.
Sacramento:
Dinner was at Elizabeth's house, and there are no words for the awesomeness of both the dinner and the wine tasting courtesy of Astrale e Terra. Seriously, if you want to take in a little wine tasting in Napa, AND WHY WOULDN'T YOU?, stop in this winery. The tasting was casual, laid-back and with no pressure to buy anything. I will be buying a bottle, but not because I felt I had to.
Lunch the next day was at Cafe Bernardo, and I got something that will stun you. SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW. A roasted turkey sandwich with avocado.
Dinner was at Zocalo, and it was so trendy and fun, I assumed dinner was going to be, well, EXPENSIVE. It wasn't! It was reasonable! The drinks were pricey, but for the most incredible blackberry margarita, I would have paid well more than the $10 I did pay. I got the queso fundido, mostly because FUN! was in the name, and I also love chorizo regardless how disgusting I know all sausage is.
After dinner, we stopped at Lounge on 20 for drinks, and I got brave and drank champagne from a can. AND IT WAS GOOD. So good, in fact, I'm stopping in my local specialty store tomorrow to try and buy some for a party we're throwing this weekend. I want people to ask me where I heard of it just so I can talk more about my fun trip.
Oh, it was such a good food trip, and if all those avocados and glasses of champagne don't convince you, you're just plain crazy.
When Elizabeth visits Texas, she's going to be stunned when all I offer her is cheap beer and Quizno's.
