Let me just say that Jesse and I have excellent timing. Case in point: When is a great time to argue about money? How about in the car, on the way to a marriage retreat in Myrtle Beach, on Valentine’s weekend? Seemed ideal to us, and so we fussed and griped and pouted and sulked our way out of Wilmington and right into the conference. Fortunately, our friends were there to distract us and give us some time to cool off. And then, I suppose our timing isn’t so bad after all—we had two days of nearly nonstop instruction and “homework” to make us think about our marriage and all the things that work well about it. By Saturday morning, things were suitably smoothed over and we were on our way back to grinny again.

However, as I was going to sleep on Friday night, I realized to my great horror that I had neglected to pack my makeup. Now, for some of my friends who have abundant natural beauty, this would not be a panic-inducing realization. Moi? I had nightmares (literally—dreamed all night about makeup) and resolved not to go to the Saturday sessions at all unless makeup could be procured. Yes, that is the extent of my vanity. I’d rather leave home without underwear, or clean socks, or even a hair dryer (okay, the hair dryer would be upsetting too).

This is how you know you have a true friend. You call her at 6:30 on a Saturday morning at a marriage retreat (which she’s also attending with her hubby) to tell her you’ve left your makeup at home, and the first thing out of her mouth is, “Do you want to use mine?” and the second thing she says is, “I’m packing it up right now for you.” Kara Shaw, I swear, is an angel. I promised her one of my kidneys, should she ever find herself in need. (And what’s even better is she does Mary Kay, so she has really awesome makeup.)

Sunday, I decided to put forth serious effort into the whole “day of rest” concept. I didn’t check my email once. I stayed in bed after I woke up, then I got out of bed to read and then fall asleep again. Jesse surprised me with a scavenger hunt with rhyming clues that led me to Jelly Belly jellybeans (my favorite), a dozen long-stemmed roses, and a sweet card. Fight? What fight? He’s the best.

Today was spent on errands and laundry and a Jamie Oliver recipe (my favorite) for dinner. Oh, and did you know? It snowed here Friday night. When we were in Myrtle Beach. Gah! The good news? It also snowed in Myrtle Beach. What a sight—to stand on a hotel balcony and look at the ocean, waves pounding a beach covered in a blanket of the purest snow. We couldn’t stay mad.

Today, I spent several hours at two different occasions on the phone with two of the smartest, kindest, most creative people I know. I feel charged up and inspired. Funny, it just struck me that they are both writers, and they’re both blonde. If there were any two women to slaughter the stereotypes of the ditzy blonde, it’s Simona and Visha.

Simona’s hair is light and wispy, wavy in just the right way, and it always looks perfect, like a halo. I once saw her after she’d spent the day at the beach, and her hair had taken on a windswept look that stylists spend hours creating for movie stars in movies about coastal romance. When I spend the day at the beach, my hair stands straight on end, the frizz propping up the rest of my hair in what I can only describe as Wind Tunnel Chic (well, without the “Chic” part). Simona speaks in an almost-whisper, with such a calming voice I always feel like everything will be just fine, if only because she is in the world. She talks about spirituality, about reality, about Congo and Darfur, and she quotes literature and tells me about philosophy, always having the decency to pretend that I already knew the complex concepts she’s outlining for me, listing off philosophers as if I know exactly who she’s talking about and might chime in with a reference to the philosopher’s third book, which I just happened to have read last week (when she talks about Kierkegaard, however, I do get rather animated). And in return for her brilliance, I tell her about my book, the fits and starts and endless rewrites, and she does not think my existence invalid because I don’t have a full-time job with benefits.

Visha’s hair is straight and strawberry blonde, and she’s got this wonderful radio voice, distinctive, a little husky, memorable. She’s spunky and fiery, but incredibly and unfailingly reasonable. She knows how many female directors have been nominated for Best Director in the Oscars, and she has trained two very large dogs into thinking that she—petite, adorable Visha—is bigger than they are. I think she’s magic. And funny, dear heavens, have I mentioned that Visha’s hilarious? If you know her, you already know she’s got a sharp wit, but you also know that she’s unendingly kind. Though I’ve given her plenty of ammunition, never once has she used that humor to make fun of me or to make me feel anything other than entirely good and happy. She cries for people with Alzheimer’s, and she pulls off the side of the road to care for dying dogs hit by cars that long ago sped off. She works at a bookstore, has read probably more books than said bookstore has in its inventory, knows all about experimental film, rails against injustice, defends the defenseless.

How lucky I feel today, not only to have such friends, but to have hours to run down my phone batteries with them, to listen to them and to talk about writing with them, to find out what they think about plot and beginnings and the plight of the MFA workshop. The three of us are trying to do the same thing, really, to struggle with the words on the page, to find the balance between art and life, to find where the line is and to cross it.

Dear December,

First, let me begin by saying how much I absolutely adore you. Really, I do. And this year doubly so, because I was so bummed at being all alone for Thanksgiving, and then you came along, December, with all your non-Thanksgiving-themed merchandise, music, and festivities—and, with the hope of seeing family at the end of the month. You showed up just in time.

I love how gaudy you are. None of those muted fall colors of Thanksgiving, the depressing browns and mustard yellows that only reminded me of how wrong it felt to be celebrating without our families. How I welcomed your candy-apple reds and neon greens! How I loved setting out the little dancing mouse Becki gave us one year, how adorable I found him, all red-scarfed and holding a string of flashing lights. I love our mismatched outdoor decorations, the kitschy joke ornaments indoors, the multiple nativity scenes.

And the TV! Movies and shows so bad we’d never dream of watching them at any other time of year. But during you, December, they’re lovely and make us think about being nine again. I even like your music; Jesse and I sing loudly and off-key whenever we’re driving, and it just lifts the mood. (Though I’ll admit to changing the station when anything resembling “The Christmas Shoes” comes on—even I have my limits.) I can’t forget the food, either. I’ve eaten my weight in your goodies, and my blood sugar complains, but do I listen? No, I think not.

But, December, it occurs to me that there is only so much celebrating one month can handle all on its own. And this year, we may have reached that limit.

Take the Christmas parties. For Jesse’s work alone, we will have attended three separate Christmas parties. Three! Now, if he were receiving three salaries, that would be something else entirely. Add the volunteer position he has, and that’s another party. Don’t forget the small group one next week, too.

Don’t get me wrong—I love parties. Especially those that involve overeating cheesy side dishes and visiting houses decorated in bold colors. Plus, I’ve gotten to trot out my leopard-print heels for at least one of the bashes. But…couldn’t we spread them out a bit? You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, December? Sharing some of your parties with, say, March? I know she has St. Patrick’s Day, but so far, North Carolinians don’t seem to be all about the green-without-red holidays. Except the college students, that is. And Easter’s so inconsistent. March one year. April the next. I’ve got my birthday in May, but there’s just this sad little lag between Valentine’s Day and summer. Those months could use some tinsel, wouldn’t you say? And August. Really? What is there to celebrate in August? As someone without school-aged children (or any children, for that matter), and who no longer pays tuition of any kind, August is just a dry, hot month with a whopping electric bill. I sure could use a gift exchange then.

At any rate, December, you’re still my favorite month of the year. And, yes, excess is part of your charm. So, I’ll go straighten my hair tonight and maybe experiment with purple tights and enjoy another evening of merrymaking with friends, all thanks to you. But, next year, let’s think about slowing it down just a bit, shall we? Thanks.

Love,
Erin

So, Wednesday and Thursday were rough, but the holiday weekend improved once the actual holiday was over and there were fewer reminders of all the family we weren’t seeing. The Thanksgiving dinner we had at John and Michelle’s was delicious, of course, and how’s this for random—one of their family friends who came over for dinner was none other than a former student of mine. To my great fortune, he had made an A in my class and was one of the best writers that semester, so the awkwardness was kept to a minimum. How horrifying it would have been if he’d been one of the ones who had failed…

Friday, we got up early and went Black Friday shopping. We were in desperate need of a new vacuum, and the one I wanted came with a Sears gift card that became my Christmas present (hence the outrageous heels, which I wore nearly all day Sunday). After shopping, we came home and fell fast asleep for several hours, waking up in time to eat lunch and string lights outside. Dinner was pizza and Coke from Papa John’s (the day after Thanksgiving is for leftovers, not for cooking! So, in the absence of leftovers, it was for ordering pizza). It was fun—we haven’t ordered pizza just the two of us in a while, and even though I started the holiday bemoaning the fact that we were all by ourselves, I was at this point beginning to enjoy just being with Jesse. It’s nice when ordering pizza can feel a bit adventurous, a bit rebellious.

After dinner Friday, we put up the tree while watching kids’ movies on TV. Oliver has only climbed the tree once so far and has not managed to take it down. Saturday, we had Brandon and Kara over for dinner and a movie (I snuck the green bean casserole in, though I spared them the turkey, but really only because it was still frozen).

Over the weekend, I continued my cleaning quest, and now I’ve vacuumed the whole house (except for Jesse’s office), including the baseboards and under the stove and refrigerator, as much as I could. I cleaned the ceiling fans and the bathrooms and got caught up on my filing (major undertaking there), organized my coupons, broke out the flannel sheets. Vacuumed again. And again. If we had holiday weekends at home every month, my house would sparkle it would be so clean.

Sunday, we had a big Southern lunch at Brandon and Kara’s—fried venison, cooked carrots, and rice and gravy. I never knew you could put gravy on top of rice, but apparently you can. It was all delicious. Oh, and Kara made chocolate sugar cookies that were absolutely addictive. I found myself craving them today, and I emailed her asking for the recipe.

After church Sunday night, we went over to the Paschals’ adorable new house and ate ham sandwiches and popcorn. I helped as Kirsten arranged her study, a lovely little room that has a half-library half-coffee shop feel to it. We all basked in the fact that they live just minutes down the road. On our way home, Jesse and I started timed the trip but forgot to look at the clock when we got home. Add to this the fact that Warren and Sharon (and Story!) will also be moving to our part of town in the near future (if the stars finally align), and we’re getting that much closer to the sitcom “everybody drops in and says witty things” ideal.

So, the holiday wasn’t what it usually is. But we weren’t as alone as we might have been, and there’s still a lot to be thankful for.

I’m still jonesing for some leftover turkey sandwiches, though…

We’re in DC!

I wasn’t going to blog until we got back, but I’ve changed my mind because I’m having such a great time. We got here late this afternoon, took the Metro into the city, and met up with Jarvis, one of the most down-to-earth and best-dressed guys we know. No, make that the most down-to-earth, best-dressed guy we know. Which cannot be an easy combination to pull off. He teaches and writes up here, has the Metro lines memorized, and generally spends his days being awesome, as far as we can tell.

We ate at Chipotle (because it’s Jesse’s all-time favorite—but he has agreed that all other meals will be new and exciting and decidedly not at restaurants we can eat at in North Carolina) in a neighborhood that made me just happy to be alive. The air was brisk but not too cold, and we were surrounded by Indian restaurants, Japanese restaurants, a shop selling breezy, floppy clothes and bellydancing skirts. We talked writing, Star Trek, politics, weather, beach towns. Then we walked the Mall, saw the monuments all lit up and gorgeous, and I felt a little surge of patriotism. How can you not, when walking up marble steps, a brightly lit Lincoln seated and serene looking down at you? I nearly wanted to cry, it was so lovely.

Now we’re back at the hotel, and I’m showered and ready to relax. Jesse is playing a little toy electric guitar. We can hear traffic outside the window, but it isn’t bothersome. It’s actually rather soothing, a constant hum, a reminder that we are in a place with unlimited possibilities, that the vacation is just beginning.

Yesterday afternoon, we drove to Bladen County to spend the day at Brandon’s parents’ place, having a “Peanut Boil.” For those not living in North Carolina, this is pronounced “Peanut Boll.” (Sometimes it sounds like “bowl,” and sometimes “bull,” depending on who’s speaking and how quickly it’s said.) We ate boiled peanuts and oatmeal raisin cookies and drank sweeeeeet tea and grape Crush. Brandon’s parents’ place is country, in all the loveliest ways. Driving there, we passed fields with rows of cotton, and we stopped at Bo’s grocery store for some hamburger buns, for the burgers we ended up not eating to save more room for peanuts.

I had never had boiled peanuts (whenever you see that, just say to yourself: bolled peanuts—it has to be one syllable, or it doesn’t count) before we moved to North Carolina. I’d seen the guys selling them on the side of the road, but that didn’t seem like something I’d want to try. But, these boiled peanuts are really something else. First of all, they’re huge. One peanut might be three or four inches long, and thick as a roll of nickels. You open the shell by biting the peanut’s “nose,” and if it’s a juicy one, there will be this heavenly salty, nutty broth first. Then, the peanuts, which are soft with a creamy texture. Mmmm, mmmm. We left with a gallon bag for us, and one for Warren and Sharon, who, sadly, couldn’t make it.

Next month is the North Carolina State Fair, which has, we’ve been told, fried anything (candy bars, pastries, fruit), ice-cold fresh milk, and things to watch: a demolition derby, a tractor pull (whatever that is), bluegrass, square dancing. Sometimes it strikes me that I am living in a place I am decidedly not from. I wasn’t technically from Florida either, but I lived there from age four on, so I might as well have been. I could say I wasn’t from there without actually feeling like it. And most of the time, I don’t think about it—I’m living in a beach town, and a beach town is where I feel I’m from. But then I drive a little west and I’m passing cotton and saying “peanut boll.” I wonder if I’ll live here long enough to forget I’m not from here. If I’ll stop feeling a little like a tourist (fried candy bars!) and more like a native. In a way, I don’t want to feel like a native. I feel Floridian with a bit of West Virginia thrown in. If I felt North Carolinian, who would I be?

If it happens, or if it doesn’t happen, if we stay or eventually move, if we end up with kids who have Southern accents, well, at least there’s always boiled peanuts.