The first cohabitation debacle: PEANUT BUTTER

"I brought you your favorite peanut butter hunny!"

.....er....I stare at the peanut butter, it says JIF. Jif? No. No, I'm a Creamy Skippy girl, always have been and always will be. Not the little jar, the BIG jar of Skippy.

Buying the little jar is like slapping the peanut butter God's directly in the face and saying, "I will use you in moderation."

Horrible.

....he can see it on my face, "Isn't this your favorite peanut butter?"

Oh hell. Do I tell the sweet man he made a mistake, or do I live for the rest of our life as a couple hating the peanut butter that he buys, while he celebrates inside for doing such a good deed and being so observant, or so he thinks. Motherfucker. I'll tell him. .....let the wounded puppy face ensue. He took the news better than expected, but dear God, breaking it to him felt like punching a baby in the mouth.

Since we moved in together almost two weeks ago, we've had to adjust to; sharing covers, sharing food, compromising on brands and deciding whether we should be a Shoes-on, or shoes-off sort of house?

Luckily we haven't even had the toilet paper argument yet. We've been stealing it from public bathrooms. Actually, I don't know if that's true. But, a roll at a time miraculously appears on the dispenser, just when we're almost out.... toilet paper angels, I'm convinced. Especially during the holidays, when bathroom trips are more frequent thanks to copious amounts of Eggnog running through my bladder, or holiday party hangovers running liquids up various orifices. It's the angels. Or, My Love and I are running an underground "steal toiletries operation" unbeknownst to each other. Ah, communication- damn you again. We could turn this poaching into a business if we'd just put our heads together.

I've also had to adjust to his INTENSE NEED TO SCRAPE HIS TEETH AGAINST THE FORK ANYTIME HE EATS A PIECE OF EFFING. FOOD. Every time.

"Do you NEED to do that when you eat?"

....My Love, "Do what?"

"MAKE THAT FUCKING NOISE."

....My Love, "ARE YOU SERIOUS? That bothers you?....."

"Yes, yes it bothers me. You sound like a caveman. You know making that noise actually requires EXTRA EFFORT, why exert yourself ? It's totally unnecessary. "

Then the conversation turns into something like; "you want me to eat like a Nun in a convent." Or,"you're totally fucking crazy"....then I spew into a monologue about how I'd rather him eat everything with the delicacy of placing a communion wafer in his mouth, than hear his mad eating skills in my presence. Communion. Wafer. Just let is dissolve, suck on that chip until it's liquid. Don't blame me, blame the people who taught me manners.

Being in love means that it isn't always warm fuzzies and polite, adoring words. Sometimes we're insensitive towards each other and we say things that are brash and untactful. We say things that hurt, or seem callous but when expressed we mean it with the best intentions. It's not to be mean for the sake of being mean, at least not in my case. My Love certainly hasn't held back some of the truths about myself I'd rather not hear and Lord knows I haven't had a hard time pointing at the unfavorable qualities he posses.

Having someone look over your flaws with a magnifying glass isn't something we'd volunteer for if it were written out so blatantly when we made the choice to stamp a title on our relationship status. That isn't the fun part, but it IS the part that makes it REAL.

It isn't fun to be told you need to "take it down about a thousand notches," or that what you're toiling away at, isn't WORKING. Sometimes, as someones love, spouse, etc. you're the only one who gets to SEE the parts that are messy and disastrous and you're probably the only person who's allowed to have an opinion on it, without being a total ass. The things we don't always want to hear are often the things that are the most important for us to recognize, or GASP, CHANGE. That's the part makes all the gritty stuff and the times when we want to choke each other with a Christmas garland, totally worth it.

WHAT ARE YOUR PET PEEVES?

I'm that chick that FALLS at the finish line. During the Olympics.

I've never been particularly good at finishing things. Unless someone offers me treats, one for each hand.

I have sort of the "get rich quick" mentality, but with actions. The faster I can get something done, the better. The shortcut, hell yes-step on it! If the project seems endless, I'd rather not even start, so that I don't give myself an aneurysm, or end up feeling like a failure and resort to binge eating Little Debbie cakes in an attempt to "stuff my feelings" of self loathing. Or something equally dramatic and superfluous. If the project doesn't have an end date, or an outcome that it's in my favor, I'd rather put it off. The problem is, half of what I DO doesn't have an end, a start, a timeline or a predictable conclusion.

So when I come home and my entire house looks like an episode of Hoarders, I'd rather sleep in my car than begin the never ending project, that has somehow caused our inheritance of a little mouse....which, for all you people that say "Aw, Stuart" I'd like you to understand that I'd rather have a snake chase me around my home, EVERYDAY, for the rest of my life with venom dripping off of it's teeth.....than have a mouse.... OR, have a tarantula take a swan dive at my face. Those two things would be better, than a fucking mouse.

....I digress. Let me finish my thought since this is after all about FINISHING (anyone thinking sexual thoughts yet? No? just me?). The point is;

If it makes me even the slightest bit uncomfortable, I JUST WON'T FINISH IT.

And when not finishing isn't an option, I throw a tantrum. Or I find a loophole. Since I'm all crafty and determined. Our home is in shambles, there's drapes hanging from strange places, there's furniture balanced like a game of Jenga all over our living room, we have a colony of little people living in our walls (I'll let you decide which of those things is true- the little people thing is totally a possibility; they steal socks and trip people, and live in walls)........so, I sit. I sit and I stare at all the things falling apart and that require nails, measuring tape, more money, or heavy lifting and I think....we're doomed. Totally. fucking. doomed.

But it isn't just my house.....and that's what really bothers me. It isn't just the "things." If the things were all that needed finishing, I'd work around it. You hire people for that shit. loophole, holllla.

The things that I need to finish are the things that MATTER the most to me. They often get the least amount of attention, because I've busied myself with a million other things, or back episodes of Bad Girls Club and coffee dates mid-workday to avoid facing the fear of finishing and failing. Or finishing and realizing that the responsibility of doing GREAT, or not doing anything at all, all falls on my shoulders. All I need are those few extra strides to get there. Having to admit fault to ourselves for not having the things we want is a hard pill to swallow. Or a hard small-sharp-jagged-object-covered in cayenne pepper to swallow.

In the homestretch when everything is just a decision short of being DONE, is when I putter out. It's almost like that burden that weighs you down has become part of the costume, it's easier to keep it, than feel naked without it.

The songs that are half-written, the to-do list of things that could, if achieved, meld the balance between the dream and the reality. The Christmas cards (send me your address if you want one! I'll only show up on your doorstep if there's free booze and cable) the thank you notes, the package sitting by the door ready to send, but without a stamp. The budget plan, the PLAN at all. It isn't the initiative that I lack, or the drive- or even the belief for that matter, but the CLOSE. The touchdown. The home run....and all those other sighs of relief and triumph.

Today, I'm going to FINISH what I START. Even if it's a painfully awkward conversation that I initiate with the checkout girl wearing reindeer antlers. I'm going to wrap up the ends....make them a pretty little bow of holiday cheer and GET 'ER DONE.

What do you need to FINISH?

Fix This Shit Up- A Coldplay Remix

Remember how me and My Love were moving in together? Ya know cohabitation, peeing with the door open, picking paint swatches and burning grilled cheese together? All that lovey shit.

Well, we finally did. Initially after that blog post, we put it off for a few months due to finances, fears, confusion, etc. etc. Then, with a little push from recent events and a dire need for independence and spending money on cleaning supplies and Pinot Grigio- we just said, fuck it (since that's my favorite phrase; When in doubt, say Fuck it!)- let's do it. Here's the catch....we moved into my Granny's apartment, that's attached to her house. It's completely separate from where she lives; it's own entry, kitchen, etc. etc. However, her things, were still in it. Until we came in and performed Operation Fix This Shit Up.

My Grandpa Jerry smokes a few packs a day and has for years, so the smoke, and the former furry Dog that lived there when my Cousin inhabited the place gave the whole apartment a nice blanket of.......grime? and well, fur.

I don't do grime. Let me tell you what I also don't do; WOLF ART. Native American sculptures. Western....anything (unless they're vintage cowboy boots or salsa), dog hair, mess, or sports paraphernalia. I've only acted like a gave a fuck about sports very few times in my life and I believe it was motivated by a reward in beer and jalapeno poppers.

When we moved all of our things in I thought- well, at least I know I'm dying of second hand smoke and not decapitation from a car crash, or melanoma. We've got that covered. Then, because I'm unreasonably impatient, we went to Home Depot painted, shampooed the carpets, washed the walls, put in crown molding, spent a gross amount of money at Hobby Lobby, replaced the curtains, the air filters and spruced the place up like we were Ty Pennington and that irritating team of cry babies with tool belts.

There's something about FIXING things with your love that's incredibly gratifying. Look what we did! It makes you feel like your team effort could certainly win the finale of Amazing Race, or you could make a kick ass winning Trivial Pursuit team. Or find a way to make a multi-room fort. Why we don't these things more often, I have no idea?

It's my first time living with a man, ya know one that isn't related, or temporarily crashing on my couch disguising himself as my friend and thinking of me as his hotel/maid. I've already told him to put down the toilet seat, a million times. He's already told me I'm annoying as "shit" and that I "never take his suggestions" to which I replied, "well, make better suggestions." And all of this....is out of love.

The mundane, the bickering and the feeling of can-you-not-cuddle-me-I'm-trying-to-sleep, are all just truths when someone becomes a part of your life, through and through.

After four days of "Operation Fix This Shit Up" while sitting on our vintage, newly shampooed couch, watching wedding cake show marathons on WEtv, I realized our home is finally a reflection of what we've gone through internally. Peeling back the layers, scrapping clean the tarnished ideas and scars that we've allowed to gather dust and sit there, permeating through every inch of our belief systems about ourselves, love, men, women....life.

When you meet that other person they help, "FIX YOU", they pull out their emotional Clorox wipes and help dust off the parts of you that over time shined a little less....they just needed a little assistance to reveal the natural sparkle. It isn't just carpet and cushions that need a good date with scrubbing bubbles.

We FIXED this home- together. We've fixed each other sometimes together, and other times completely solo, pulling the weight while the other floundered (or went to jail). Our house, our spirit, our love- sparkles and all it needed was a little deep cleaning.

WHO HAS HELPED "FIX" YOU????

Remember that time you got ARRESTED? God, this screams CLASSY.

"What do you mean you don't know where he is??"

"Well, we were recording and he just never came back........we think he got arrested."

I don't generally wake up thinking, where is my boyfriend? Who got arrested? and I wonder if this outfit is appropriate for jail visits? It usually goes something like, yogurt or cereal and do I feel skinny today?

The past 48 hours have been pure madness. I wake up to find a Facebook status update from my boyfriends roommate that says, "blah blah, arrested? blah." Since these men have absolutely no way of knowing how to communicate, no one called to fill me in?! that there was a possibility I now had a boyfriend who was an INMATE? WHAT. THE. FUCK. is my life.

At around 3am, my classy man left the recording to studio to run and grab some beer and cigarettes, you know in true rockstar form you don't drink Yerba Matte mid-recording session. 2 minutes out into the drive, he sees the sirens- OH HERE WE GO.........

To say that My Love isn't "good" at remembering "little details" like; court dates, not leaving the house without a cell phone, closing cabinets, or what he's supposed to do for the day- is a massive understatement. He's the definition of, if-my-head-wasn't-screwed-on-I'd-be-headless, he's that guy.

Since The Man is not generally a fan of poor people (us artists, or ahem, delinquents?) My Love hasn't been able to fix this pesky tail light that almost ALWAYS gets him pulled over, but that's just minor- he also hasn't been able to pay his car insurance (insert note where readers start making judgements like, "Girl you better get yo'self a man who has his finances straight." Then you start singing Bills, Bills, Bills. Here here, don't mention it-separate blog entirely)....fast forward, beerless boyfriend is getting thrown in the clinker for missing a previous court date that involved driving without proof of insurance.

I had no knowledge of any of this when I woke up, so Chelsea Talks Smack i.e. Sherlock Holmes drove around looking down ally ways for dead bodies (since, we didn't know for sure if he was arrested or just missing) simultaneously calling jails, "Um, hi- did you arrest a Ryan.....no not Brian, RYAN,.....No not B, RRRRR....the computer crashed? You don't know? What do you mean you don't know? HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO IS IN CUSTODY?" The entire time thinking; I don't do this. This isn't my life. I go to champagne bars.

Not only did I learn that we have an incredibly inefficient system-what the fuck is this, computers crashing? your "One phone calls" not going through? One minute he's shown as an inmate in custody, the next, there's NO SIGN OF HIM!? Ridiculous. We have iPhones that can do everything but bake a cake and vacuum, but we don't have adequate computer systems in detention facilities?! And we make people call COLLECT? It's jail, it isn't the Stone Age.

After talking to about 60 people, running around in my pajamas through various courthouses, Sheriffs offices and jails, avoiding eye contact with the sketchy folks (who could kick my ass) and wondering if I shouldn't have been "repping" blue or red- all the while wearing my NYPD HOODIE from the night before (IRONIC) and getting asked multiple times for my Cadet badge. (I told you I'm a bad ass. Or look like a lesbian. Or a boy.) I found him.

I waited for his trial curled on the bench, all twitchy, shaky and WHY THE FUCK AM I SITTING IN A COURT ROOMy, all I want is a flippin' latte and a boyfriend who pays his bills. The line up looked like this; Wife beater. Robber. Illegal. Definitely on drugs. Drunk Guy. WTF is that sweet innocent baby face doing up there. Another drunk guy. Runaway. Wife Beater. Prostitute. Wife Beater/Shoplifter.

Sweet innocent Love gets up, pleads his case; the outcome- FOUR MORE NIGHTS IN JAIL and a second trial, with a maximum of a year in jail and fines, unless he posts bail. THIS is where I begin to... LOSE MY SHIT COMPLETELY!!!! Long story short....I find myself calling his brother in a panic, sobbing, naturally, since there always has to be one crying person in court rooms, haven't you seen tv? ....the next thing I know, fast forward nearly 10 hours- we're in a bail bonds office.

My bail bondsmen???? DOG THE BOUNTY HUNTERS SISTER. No lie. True-fucking-story. To make it even better, I call my Granny to tell her what's going on and she says, "OHHHHH,.....I know Dog....I used to be his bartender." CLASSIC. Classic. Only I would have a one degree separation from a bail bondsmen.

Nearly 48 hours have gone by and My Love is finally out of the CAN. By the end of the day I had an entire new GARDEN OF STRESS ZITS, the guards knew me and were calling me "Baby" and "Honey Love" which was oddly comforting and I had enough empty I.O.U.'S for My Love to fill out he could make a fucking Bible, in which I would star as the Jesus character, but her name would be, "Best Fucking Woman on the Planet, she will live in a land of getting eternal foot massages without asking."

Needless to say, Jail doesn't look good on me. I mean, I wear floral prints, I have enough glitter eyeliner to paint Colorado and babies smile at me. Strangely enough that makes me sound like a hooker, but on the contrary, jail is not my scene. Or My Love's- he looked like a puppy who got kicked in the face......not cute. Sad. and never happening again.

Now I can say; Remember that time you got thrown in jail? Or, Remember when we went to that bail bonds office and they had a bucket of Tootsie Rolls? Or, Remember when you were in lockdown? Or, At least (insert horrible situation here, i.e. flaming diarhhea or being out of Garlic) isn't as bad as the slammer. Or, baby I kinda wish I left you in the pen.

Any jail stories worth sharing? Bail....or no bail....?!

Dinner with my family is like visiting the mental ward.

It's a short drive to crazy with my family. You couldn't even find a detour if there was construction, it's that short. It's arms reach. Crazy just is with my family.

The holidays are obviously the perfect magnifying glass to shine a little more clarity on the madness. Let me sum up some of my family to paint a nice family Christmas card for ya:

Granny-Italian/recovered breast cancer/thyroid problems/diseases that don't even have names/multiple ex-husbands/longtime dancer and amazing bartender. She chipped a tooth once- her solution? Why, a Lee Press-On of course, a nice french manicured fake nail is a good substitute for tooth enamel! Uncle #1-Gay Buddhist. Uncle #2- Cop/biker. Uncle #3- Writer of screenplays/Works for the government his drunk name is "Salty."....can't talk about his job, literally, it's all underground and lie detectors and spies and shit. Aunt #1- dance teacher/Irish/fiery as fuck. She'll kick a bitch. Aunt #2- Formerly single mom, slightly out of control, turned put together Martha Stewart type. Nana- Former court secretary, turned traveler; African safaris, Europe, the Amazon River and so on. She pulls pans out of the oven with her bare hands. BARE. HANDS. Bampa- bless is heart, passed away a few years ago, Gay, the father of my mother. It was the 50's. Granddad-There's a laundry list here of issues. Grandpa Jerry-Best story teller, chain smoker and cherry pie giver known to man.

....then there's a sprinkling of serious Italian Soprano types, crazy cousins, lesbian aunts, Christians, Rebublicans, Canadians, Democrats, and ex-wives, who are boxers. In rings, not the pants.

They're ALL characters. Brilliant, VIBRANT, CERTIFIED, characters. Then of course, there's the biggest characters of all; my Mother and my Father, who joined together in a rage of hormones and unprotected sex and created another burst of spirited existence. i.e. slightly insane little person named me!

My Father and I got into a massive blowout the other night over a birthday party (I cried if I wanted to, don't you worry) a few glasses of champagne, a gigantic restaurant tab and some low blows. Thrown, initially, by him and rebuffed by my quick tongue and shrill screaming. This was the kind of fight I thought we wouldn't recover from..... my Dad, is easily one of my best friends, I admire and look up to him....and I didn't want to look him in the eye ever again.

....after nearly 48 hours a part, some frantic/cry/scream calls to friends to come get me before I "drove my car through the living room!!! and CRUSHED EVERYTHING." My little sister reasoned with us, that we both had "crazy emotions" and needed to apologize. So we did. I told him he was a "out of line and had problems" and and he told me I was "ungrateful and naive" then we hugged it out and I pointed out his new gray hairs.

When you put together the family dynamics we have there's the opportunity for fatal blowouts, and the same opportunity to break seemingly impossible barriers and learn better compassion and understanding for your differences. When people are so vastly different, but their blood is the same, you have two choices; to embrace them, or create a greater wedge by denying them and allowing your differences to determine your relationship, instead of the opposite. Anger happens, it's how you deal with it that's the part that either breaks the family apart, or makes you closer.

Sentences like, "your ignorance astounds me!" have been thrown across our tables and so have, "I'll pray for you." That last one didn't come from my immediate family, oh hellll no and so on......but the truth is, at the end of the day, THESE PEOPLE ARE THE PEOPLE I LOVE. I love their off-color comments and tempers. I love their opinions, their cluelessness, their intelligence. I love that they're geniunly, above all people, the ones that I WANT to spend my time with.

My Dad is the best man in the World and also the person you don't want to fuck with, ever. He's hot headed. He screams from time to time, and thank God I was born with good lungs- cause I'm the only person brave enough to scream back. He's the only human being who I actually believe has the ability to STEAM. Like a cartoon bull, or an iron.....that burns.

But....we all can burn and too often we burn the people we love the most, cause they're the only ones willing to reach out and touch the fire. We're all steaming, flames of ridiculous bursts of light that are both blinding and beautiful in the same glance. The holidays are always such a reminder that we can learn to exist with each other, without judging each other's life choices, spouses, financial decisions, religions, sexual orientation, or career paths. Or heinous holiday earrings. Learning to LOVE it all, even if it's foreign to you is what makes you family, it isn't just the title of sister, or cousin, or the bloodline. We can scream and disagree, but we are family. And you know how Italians feel about family....

WHAT'S YOUR FAMILY LIKE????

What AREN'T you thankful for? Me: motherfuckers that don't return emails.

I've written four separate blogs and deleted all of them. I have a feeling that it's the shitty one that stuck.

Not inspired. Not inspired. BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Still feel like reading?!

It's almost Thanksgiving, it's also almost my birthday.... which just so happens to fall on Thanksgiving this year. Like, what the fuck is that? I'm not down with sharing the spotlight for thankfulness. I mean, gratitude and pilgrims definitely trump "Look at me it's my birthday!! Jazz hands!"

I have to bake two...three? (I should check up on that) pies tomorrow. I have 5 articles to finish. I'm waiting on four checks. I can barely fit yoga into my schedule, so my toxins are all fucking curled up into places they shouldnt be and they're derailing my CHI. Fuck.

I need a haircut. I need about 40 people to respond to my emails that aren't. I need 10 extra hours in my day. I need my scale to not tell me that it's physically possible to gain four pounds in a day when I've eaten virtually nothing but yogurt, powerbars and coffee. I need a new phone, a chill pill, a manicure and a pedicure, a new computer (did I ever mention that I have to use my sister's computer, since mine crashed on me a few months ago? AND I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO BUY A NEW ONE??? Which in turn makes her feel like it's ok to go through my underwear drawer and borrow ones that apparently, "I don't ever wear", and undermine me by kindly giving me her old bras, since she's too busty to fit into them anymore. Holla tiny titties for me!)

OH, I know WAHHH me, there's people dying in Africa Chelsea stop crying. I get it. But let me stomp around a little bit before we get all McJudgey, I care about Africa too. Sometimes we're granted the right to throw a self-involved baby fit. Especially during my birthday week (boyfriend inserts, "AND DURING YOUR PMS....") k? k.

I went through old emails and deleted about 200 that I've sent out to potential freelancing opportunities, music opportunities, etc. in the last MONTH. 200 that haven't responded! grrrr. In my mind, I'm that person that gets whatever she wants, in reality, that's only true some of the time. But who I am in my head, is who I am. So fuck, Universe, work with me! Which is part of the problem....

There's days when I feel like throwing in the towel and then I get even more angry because I know I'll never do that.

I don't feel like opening another rejection letter. I don't feel like trying to find anymore openings through a tiny crack in some random window, hypothetically.

I can't focus today. I can't decide what I want. Other than a gigantic chocolate chip cookie, but lately, I've been losing weight. I mean rapidly and a lot of it. I'm a small person, in general, but when you start getting positive affirmation for "how thin" and "great" you look all of a sudden you start to think, well fuck, was I really Jabba the Hutt before or something? So then every fucking cookie you look at resembles old "fat you." Even though old you wasn't fat?

I'm thankful that tomorrow and Thanksgiving, I can just RE-FUCKING-LAX, because I won't have to refresh my inbox, or worry that I'm "missing something" because most everyone are sitting behind a big fat turkey, just like me.

I'm done throwing a fit now. Thanks.

What AREN'T you thankful for this THANKSGIVING?!

I've been having consistent sex for a year- Yay me.

It was a year ago last week, that My Love and I decided to "make it official" to stamp a label on it and stop drunkenly (er, desperately?) kissing strangers and flirting with fuglies for a little admiration.

...we met, I say, "accidentally." I had a little "Glee" in my step, had just returned aimlessly from Europe and thought next I'd be India bound, or sipping caipirinha's in Brazil, or living in Santa Barbara with "Luca" who I'd met on a train ride (he could've been a figment of my imagination, he looked like an Italian Jude Law, 6'4 and was a personal chef- why we didn't bone, I have no idea?)- that is, after the holidays. So, WTF would I do until my next "big adventure," i'd sing in a show!! Genius.

One evening, my Europe-inspired-cockiness and I went unprepared to an audition- that, if I booked, would keep me occupied for the winter and give me the chance to flex the golden pipes three times a week in public. No music, no appointment- I showed up, I booked the gig. I booked the lead character, get this; an impregnated, Catholic school girl- knocked up by a gay boy. Brilliance right? There was even a sex scene. Very Spring Awakening, just less awesome.

Turns out, my wayward Love needed something to do for the holidays too- he accepted the gig through a friend and played guitar in the show.....the rest, as they say- is history, i.e. an amazing year of unparalleled orgasms, life-changing conversation and someone to watch The Kardashians with.

I knew that first night, as he fumbled with my bracelets across the table, finding an excuse to touch my skin and mustered up the courage to ask if I'd want to go "grab a bite," which latter turned into "makeout like horny 16 year kids in my car" fest, that he'd be my boyfriend, that I could stare at those brilliant curls and sparkly eyes everyday. Fuck, going to India! I'm in LOOOOVE!

A little over a year ago- I was convincing myself I'd be "ok" semi-dating potential suitors, who would prove to be less than charming and fantastic, and that at the end of the night I wouldn't cry in bed, wishing there was a warm body next to me. I would be that Single Girl who wore lingerie just because and picked up men who wore nice suits, then leave their high-rise with heels dangling from my hand, before they woke up to take my-satisfied-self for french toast and a mimosa. I didn't need their company, I was confident- people wanted me. I had a bevy of admirers. I would talk about, how "I'd just adopt" if I never got married, or knocked up. I'd take long bubble baths alone and live in my bathrobe like it were a pair of his boxer shorts. I'd impress my relatives at the holidays when they asked why I didn't have a "man," with my audacious self assurance and wit, then like a snake charmer I'd weave stories they'd live vicariously through as they lapped up spinach dip and tall tales, only to go home wishing to be single for one. more. day. I would star as the Eva Mendas in my own life......

...this of course, was what I thought- I could be. But a year ago, I wasn't that. I wanted kisses and snuggles, someone to tell me they loved the baby hairs around my temples. Single Girl wasn't having fun cooking single-serve dinners (hi, I'm not good at math, try changing recipes) and Single Girl certainly didn't dig on the awkward front-door-kiss. What the hell Eva Mendes movie is this? One where she's fucking 16 and going to prom. FUCK. THAT. I'll be a spinster.

I'd given up. My white flag was raised. And I applied coats of Mac Lip Glass to make that plastered smile SHINE, betch. Then he was there.....

He listened. He wanted to be there for every moment, good and bad to toast a glass with me, or let me scream like a lunatic while he "shhhed" me quietly, like a baby, back to sanity. He watched me when I slept...and I didn't think that'd happen again unless someone was checking to see if I was dead. He calmed me, centered me- made me present. He made me feel weightless, talented, validated- dare I say, perfect even?

This year we've grown in love with each other and I knew from the first date where we downed truffle oil fries, that I could be happy with him. We've created music together, toured, recorded, sold out shows and bombed others. We've hiked mountains (literally), confessed the worst of secrets, panicked and overcome together. We've built on dreams and created new ones. We've jaunted all over New York, New Mexico, Washinton, Oregon, Vail, Breckenridge and Colorado. We've tried walking out, then walked back out of guilt and fortitude. We've consumed too much PBR and even more walnut pizza (if you haven't had it, do it- add walnuts.) We tried hot tub sex, not worth it, but we tried and I even have a sex scar. Call me, hardcore.

Daggers have been thrown, but never more than "I love you's." I know, you're gagging. What it all comes down to, is; I love his fucking face. I admire his spirit. I'm awed by his intelligence. I am lucky.....that he found me. And I like his penis. The end.

Stop throwing up on your keyboards now. Happy Anniversary Baby.