Category Archives: dan

The X and the Squiggly Thing

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I’ve been Jewish my whole life. I had a naming ceremony, a Bat Mitzvah, a confirmation. I took Hebrew in high school. I went to Israel in college. And though Judaism and I have had a few years in there where we were not quite two peas in a pod, I have never not loved my religion, its history, and its community.

But I’ve also never seen my religion as anything but the status quo. It’s comfortable for me because it’s what I grew up with. I love it because it’s what I know. I’ve never looked at it as an outsider, or experienced the traditions as someone with no background in them. I will never have the opportunity to look at Judaism as something new and novel.

Dan and I went to services on Sunday night, and again yesterday, in observance of Rosh Hashana, the Jewish new year. I should clearly state here that Dan is not Jewish and has no intentions of converting, but one of the [many] reasons I married him was because he agreed to participate, in spite of this, in Jewish holidays and events, and to help raise our [future] children Jewish.

But this was the first time he had come with me to synagogue. And first timers come with a lot of questions. And I found that I didn’t know how to explain ANYTHING to someone who hadn’t grown up Jewish.

Our synagogue has the ten commandments posted in Hebrew above the bima (aka. “pulpit” in Christian circles). Dan, obviously not being able to read them, asked me what they were. I told him they were the ten commandments, and then, in an effort to give him more information, continued: “You see how most of them start with ‘lo?’ Lamed, aleph?”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Is that the X next to the squiggly thing?”

[via Matthews International]

It was the first time I realized that my husband, unlike everyone else around me, can’t read Hebrew.

It’s a strange sensation to realize that something that seems to natural to you, something that seems obvious and that you’ve known your whole life, isn’t the same for someone else – especially someone close to you. And for the first time, as Dan learned more about what it was to be Jewish, I had the opportunity to truly see what it was like to not be.

Are you ready to feel old?

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Today, Dan and I celebrate our first wedding anniversary.

You heard that right. It’s been a YEAR. So we did what any couple would: We high-tailed it to Santa Cruz for a romantic overnight stay.

We had made reservations at Oswald, which is basically the fanciest restaurant in Santa Cruz. I wore a dress, Dan wore slacks and a button-down shirt, and when we got there, we were completely overdressed. When Yelp says “dressy,” I assume that means DRESSY, and not “You can get dressed up if you want to, but a t-shirt and jeans are fine, too.” So we pretended that we were at Morton’s instead, and plowed through our (delicious) dinner of mussels and steak and seared tuna.

Why were we in such a hurry? Because Marini’s closes at 9:00.

Dan’s sundae (right) had Motor Cop Crunch (whatever that is) with hot fudge and peanuts. My sundae (left) had Horchata and Mexican Chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and almonds.

YOU GUYS, IT WAS SO DELICIOUS, I DIED A LITTLE.

(Okay, not really.)

But you can clearly see by our faces that we’re having a tastegasm.

We spent the remainder of the evening snuggling and watching Mermaids: The Body Found, which was such a delight, because we NEVER get to do that, thanks to Dan’s insane work schedule. Things better than laying in bed discussing conspiracy theories about the US Navy’s cover-up of the existence of mermaids with the dude you love? NOTHING.

On Monday morning, we headed down the wharf to go kayaking. I was thoroughly amused to find that the job of seaweed cleaner-upper does actually exist, though the dude driving gave up after three hours of shuttling seaweed back and forth. (For the record, there was probably another twelve hours of work ahead of him. Job security, I guess?)

So kayaking may not have been the best idea, given that I’m terrified of water, but it turned out to be AMAZING. We spent two hours paddling around Monterey Bay, where we determined that Leela is a long lost relative of the sea lions that live under the wharf (they bark almost as much as she does), and I fell a little bit more in love with otters. I wasn’t allowed to get close enough to them to take a picture, but believe me when I say that they were swimming and playing and squeaking and it was the CUTEST.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since our wedding. Mostly because I can’t believe we made it this far without killing each other, but I also can’t believe how much we dealt with and survived – unemployment, a semi-long distance relationship, depression and anxiety, three moves. People say the first year is the hardest, and given how much I’ve learned in the last twelve months alone, I can’t argue. But even if things get easier from here (which I hope they do), I’m glad I got to experience all of this with Dan.

Making Plans

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Dan and I had been together for about a month when he boldly announced that he wanted to have kids within the next two years.

I laughed in his face.

I was twenty-four at the time, and nowhere near ready to have children. I told him it would be AT LEAST another five to ten years before children would even be an option, and he scoffed.

“What if we get married? I don’t want to be one of those super old dads.”

So I did the math for him. At twenty-eight, he was just four years my senior. So if we waited five years to have kids, he’d be thirty-three. When our kids were in college, he’d be in his early fifties. And since your fifties are your new thirties (or so I hear), he would hardly be considered “one of those super old dads.”

He found this explanation acceptable. Two years later, we got married. And now, a year after our wedding, I find myself with babies on the brain. But Dan and I had set a timeline – the same timeline that I gave him a month after we started dating – and I don’t see any reason to change that.

What does need to change, though, is Dan’s work situation. He currently works ten (or more) hour night-shifts, four days a week. He likes the work and his company, and he makes decent money. But working opposite schedules is hard on our marriage, and will be impossible when we start seriously looking at having children.

If there were room for him to move up (or even around) in the company, it wouldn’t be such an issue. But the company has demonstrated that it’s unlikely that will happen. The reality of the situation is that two or three years will pass, and Dan will still be working the night shift while I spend my Wednesday through Saturday nights home alone, falling asleep as I spoon my dog.

I want my husband home, but more importantly, if we’re going to have kids, he needs to be present as a parent. The minimal baby-sitting kind of parenting that would occur if he continued to work nights (where I would be home with the kid at night while I slept, and he would be home with the kid during the day while he slept) is not going to cut it if we want to raise productive, intelligent, engaged members of society.

Because Dan is hesitant to leave his current job (especially after four years of nightmarish employers and seven months of unemployment), I’ve found myself doing much of the work on his behalf. I dressed up his resume and cover letter, and have begun the arduous process of applying for jobs on his behalf.

I occasionally feel resentful that Dan isn’t doing this work himself. After all, when he finally found a job last year, and I had to job hunt as well so that we could move to the Bay Area together, I did all of that work myself. I know that I’m the one making the request that he change his schedule – a schedule that he’s otherwise fine with – but he’s the one that wants to have kids like, TOMORROW. So shouldn’t he be more engaged in finding a job that will keep him busy, pay the bills, and allow the flexibility necessary for raising a family?

But there’s the old adage that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I can cajole and pressure and nag Dan to apply for jobs to my heart’s content, but there’s no guarantee that he’s actually going to do it. And in fact, over the past six months, my nagging has only served as an annoyance to him rather than the encouragement it was intended to be.

So I’m just going to take matters into my own hands, and pray that everything turns out the way I want it to.

The Man Who Won’t Eat Sushi

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I knew that Dan and I were different when I married him. Hell, that’s part of the reason I married him – our differences help us balance each other out. But there is one difference I just can’t get behind: His aversion to sushi.

Sushi has been one of my favorite foods for as long as I can remember. The first time I ate sushi, I must have been three or four years old. My dad bought me tekka maki (tuna roll), and sliced the pieces in half so they were more child-friendly. I scarfed down the entire plate so quickly, it came back up almost immediately. I was in love.

Since then, I’ve branched out to other variations. Futomaki. Tobiko. Unagi. And the latest love of my life, tako.

I love sushi. I can’t get enough of it. I will eat the fancy nigiri from a four-star restaurant as quickly as I will eat the hastily prepared rainbow roll from Safeway. And the more exotic you can make it, the better. Rarely do I find myself ordering California rolls, spider rolls, or any of the other basics. Instead, put some fruit in it. Set it on fire. Serve me food that has a face. I’m down for whatever.

I will eat like, three of these platters. In one sitting. DON’T JUDGE ME. (image source)

Dan is naturally adventurous. The cross-country road trip we went on was his idea. He has no problem picking up and driving three hours for the day just to check out a town we’ve never been to before. He’ll take the long way just for the view.

But when it comes to food, he’s a meat and potatoes kind of guy. He lives on a combination of Kraft macaroni and cheese, ground beef, and hot dogs. He drinks nothing but beer and whiskey. In short, he has the palate of a seventy-year-old Midwesterner.

And that’s fine, but I’m a little bit more adventurous when it comes to food. In spite of the fact that I’m allergic to everything, I still love to taste and try and experiment with food. And sushi is one of the best arenas in which to do that, because you’re dealing with fresh, minimal ingredients. You want to throw some salmon on top of my tuna? Sure, why not? Add some avocado? Maybe that sweet unagi sauce? Done.

But Dan isn’t interested. He “doesn’t like sushi.” Which I think is bullshit, because there are SO MANY different kinds of sushi and there’s no way he’s tried all of them. You don’t like the raw stuff? No problem – try the cooked. You don’t like the fish? No problem – try the veggie rolls or something with chicken. THERE ARE SO MANY OPTIONS. WHY CAN’T YOU JUST HUMOR ME?!!

But this is yet another marital compromise. He will take me to sushi, and I can have sushi while he has chicken teriyaki. He will not share with me. He will not try anything. He will not so much as look at my plate. But he will be there, keeping me company, dreaming of potatoes.

That’s probably as good as it’s going to get, and I love him anyway. Most of the time.

#worldsworsthusband

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I’ve started employing the #worldsworsthusband hashtag on Twitter for shit that Dan does that annoys me endlessly. (There is also a #worldsbesthusband hashtag, but it doesn’t get used nearly as often.)

Monday was one of the #worldsworsthusband days. I realized upon my arrival at work that morning that I was locked out of my office, because my keys were in the backpack I brought to work on Friday. Now, my building unlocks automatically at 7:00 AM, and I have more of a nook than an office, so I was still technically able to get to my desk, turn on my computer, and perform basic tasks. But I don’t have access to any of my cabinets – not the one with my post-it stash, not the ones with student records and transcripts, and not the one with my emergency candy.

EMERGENCY CANDY, GUYS. THIS IS A SERIOUS PROBLEM.

So what did I do? I called Dan. At [barely] 8:30 AM. And woke his ass up. Because I’m the world’s best wife.

I told him I needed my keys, and asked him to swing by around lunch time with them and then we could go to lunch! It would be just like a regular day-date, except at the end of it, instead of having to awkwardly make out with him or fake stomach pains so he’d leave me alone, I’d go back to work and my beloved (and newly accessible) emergency candy stash! PERFECT!

I met him outside my office building at 12:30. He pulled right up, I hopped in, and off we went for some delicious diner magic.

“Can I have my keys?” I asked.

His response? “OH, CRAP.”

That’s right, you guys. My husband drove thirty minutes to bring me my keys, and then didn’t even bring them. Which means that not only did I have to tolerate him for an entire hour, I had to do it with no access to my emergency candy stash as a reward.

All I have to say is that he’d better find a way to make it up to me. And it should probably involve chocolate.

Let’s gnome, Giants!

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Yesterday was the amalgamation of all that is insane in San Francisco. You have, on one hand, a BEAUTIFUL San Francisco day – temperatures in the mid-seventies, not a cloud in the sky, and a sweet sea breeze blowing through. On the other hand, you have the Bay to Breakers, an annual race which couples serious runners with drunk people in ridiculous costumes. (Case in point: Some drunk girl in Ke$ha-style face paint and a hot pink leotard threw up all over some poor guy on our Bart train that very morning.) And as if those two things combined weren’t going to make the city ridiculous enough, the Giants were having a promotional giveaway – the much-coveted Brian Wilson gnome.

[via Sons of Johnnie LeMaster]

Brian Wilson is arguably the most popular player on our team. He’s basically insane, has a disgusting beard that he refuses to shave, and constantly loads the bases before closing out a game and earning a save. But people love him, and we knew we’d need to get there early if we wanted gnomes. The ballpark holds around 43,000 people, but they only had 20,000 of these babies to give away. So we agreed to meet my friend Vicki and her boyfriend Kevin at the King Street Gate at 11:00, in hopes that showing up two hours prior to game time would reduce our wait time and ensure gnome procurement.

Dan and I were on the ballpark shuttle train when we first saw the line. Or rather, the end of the line – AT PIER 36. At first I thought, there’s no way that can be the line! We’re like five blocks from the ballpark! These people must be lined up for something else. (Isn’t denial the first stage of grief?) But as our train continued along the Embarcadero, I realized that all of these people were in Giants gear. And the line wasn’t ending. And they were all walking towards the ballpark. And OH MY GOD WHY DIDN’T WE GET HERE AT NINE.

For those of you who need a map to understand just how insanely long this line was. Point A is the King Street Gate; Point B is where the end of the line was.

We met Vicki and Kevin at the gate, as promised, and started walking back, back, back towards the end of the line. But we lucked out – the line had to stop at a cross-street to allow traffic through, and we snuck in behind the last people on our side of the street, just two blocks from the park, rather than five. The line was pretty fast-moving, and I don’t think it took more than fifteen minutes for us to move through the gates and secure gnomes.

Also awesome: Even though our tickets were for View Reserve (aka. nosebleed heaven), Kevin is a season ticket holder on the Club Level. So he brought passes with him that let us into the Virgin America Flight Deck, where there’s a bar that makes some of the best Bloody Marys I’ve ever had in my life.

Oh, and I got to spend a few minutes hanging out with the World Series trophy, too. No big deal.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Vicki, Kevin and I had a blast watching the game (Especially Vicki, since her team won) …

Kevin isn’t pictured because he was probably busy checking in on FourSquare or something.

… while Dan napped quietly in his seat next to me.

I guess I can’t really talk shit, though. I fell asleep on Bart on the way home, all but face-planted into my sweet potato fries at Red Robin, and then came home and promptly went to bed …

… at 7:00 PM.

That aside, I’d call it a very successful (and VERY fun!) day.

What happens in Vegas …

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… gets posted to this blog.

(Come on. You guys knew that already, didn’t you?)

Dan and I went to Vegas in March to celebrate his thirty-first birthday. (Dude is getting old.) His birthday happens to be on St. Patrick’s Day, which means our birthday weekend happened to coincide with every-college-ever’s spring break, as well as lots of people who just showed up to wear green and get drunk.

(The people watching was PHENOMENAL.)

We stayed at the Monte Carlo, right on the Strip. The neat thing about Las Vegas is that all the major hotels have themes: Excalibur is medieval. The Luxor is Egyptian. The Venetian is a little indoor Venice. But the Monte Carlo? Fuck if I know what the theme was. I mean, the first thing everyone thinks when they think “Monte Carlo” is “casino,” right? But if every single hotel has a gigantic casino, what differentiates the Monte Carlo from the rest of them?

Oh, right. NOTHING.

With that said, it was a really nice hotel. We just ended up spending more time over at New York New York, which was way more interesting. They even had a decent U2 cover band (you know, for as decent as any U2 cover band could be) performing on the “Brooklyn Bridge” on St. Patrick’s Night. Dan and I stopped to take a picture with them, because we love celebrities. Even the fake ones.

We also stopped by the Paris for a showing of Jersey Boys, which was fantastic. Also fantastic? The Paris itself. This place, much like the Venetian, emulates a tiny, indoor version of the city it’s named for. If it weren’t for the crazy dragon over the giant mahjong section, you’d almost think you were really in France.

The best part of the Paris is the faux Eiffel Tower. It’s smaller than the original, but the view from the top is still incredible.

(I felt terrible for the dude in front of us in line, though. His girlfriend wanted to go to the top so badly, and he was kind enough to oblige her, only to get to the top and have a complete meltdown because he was afraid of heights. Oopsies!)

We spent almost the entire weekend walking. So when Monday night rolled around and we had a Penn and Teller show at the Rio to attend, we figured it would be no different.

Of course, we failed to look at a map.

The walk from the Monte Carlo to the Rio is almost a mile and a half. And that’s assuming you don’t get lost, which we did. We somehow up back at the Flamingo, walking around in circles and down alleys that I don’t want to be in during the day, much less at dusk. Around the Bellagio, I asked Dan if we could just take a cab, to which he responded, “No, look! It’s not that much father. It’s right there.”

A word to the wise: Nothing in Las Vegas is “right there.” It just looks like it is because it’s SO FUCKING HUGE. And if you have to cross a FREEWAY?? Just give in and take a cab.

We eventually got there. I was hot and tired and dehydrated and grouchy beyond belief. But we made it. And the show was great. So great that Dan is still trying to figure out how they did some of their tricks six weeks later. SO GREAT, in fact, that Dan was in a good enough mood at the end of it to hail us a cab for the ride back to the hotel.

Little victories, my friends. Little victories.

Adoptation

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I must have been nine or ten years old when I first asked my mom about what it was like to have a baby. We had already had “the talk,” so I knew how babies were made. But no one talks about the physical toll it takes on the woman, and I was curious.

My mom, who only has one child (me) and never had to deal with traditional labor (I was a C-section), didn’t really know how to respond. She told me that yes, it can be painful, and yes, it can take a long time, but it isn’t at scary as it sounds – people do it all the time!

My response? “I’m never having kids. I’ll just adopt.”

And that’s been my plan for the last two decades. I fully assumed that I was never going to get married, and had accepted that I was just going to wait until I was thirty and then adopt a cute little ray of biracial sunshine and live happily ever after.

Beyonce, Imma steal your baby. (via helloblueivycarter.tumblr.com)

And then Dan came along and fucked everything up.

Don’t get me wrong – I love Dan, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world (no matter how progressive that world might be). But he threw a wrench into my plans of single motherhood and adoption when he announced his intent to have children, biological children, with me.

That all sounded fine and dandy, until I realized I didn’t really want biological kids. The idea of being pregnant terrifies me. Maternal mortality rates have been on the rise over the last two decades. And God forbid we find out that our child has some sort of severe genetic deformity or disability, termination is out of the question.

But then, Dan did something unexpected: He offered to adopt instead of having biological children. It was an offer made in the heat of an argument, and I wasn’t sure if he meant it. But he said he had been thinking about it for some time, and several weeks later, the offer still stands.

I’m going to sound like a total sap for saying this, but I realized in that moment how much Dan loves me. And suddenly, I didn’t want to take away the opportunity for him to have his own biological children. I felt tremendously guilty for even suggesting it. And I wondered if, even though the offer to adopt was on the table now, he might not regret it ten, twenty, thirty years down the road.

So now, I feel stuck. I’m between an option that terrifies me, and one that makes me feel guilty. Even if Dan says it’s okay, how do I know if it’s really okay? And even if he doesn’t regret it later on, will I? Will I look back and say “I wish we had had just one of our own?” Or will I be content in the idea that the babies we bring home will become our own?

My heart is confused.

Giving Up

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I’ve blogged and tweeted and Facebooked incessantly about the war on women’s rights for the last several months, especially with this being an election year and major decisions being made in that arena.

And now, sadly, I think that has to come to an end.

When I married Dan, I knew his thoughts and feelings on abortion. And he knew mine. And after we discussed at length the hypothetical situations in which abortion might be necessary – ie. a pregnancy threatened my life, or our teenage daughter became pregnant by consensual means or otherwise – I felt that I was comfortable enough with his proposed actions in those circumstances to move forward with our relationship.

But in recent weeks, it’s come to my attention that I can’t be both politically engaged and happy in my relationship. Yes, I disagree with Dan’s views on a fundamental level. But assuming we never have to encounter the aforementioned situations, it’s not a fight that needs to be fought. And yet, the current political climate leaves me feeling like I have to fight that fight all the time, because his views are misogynistic, or paternalistic, or blatantly ignorant, or all of the above.

Could I have gone running for the hills after that first date where I realized Dan was a legit Republican? Definitely. Did I? No. Why? Because political views aside, Dan was and is a good person. He is gentle and kind and respectful. He is responsible and hard-working. And he is going to be an amazing father when we finally get around to having kids. (Though in the meantime, he’s an amazing father to our four furbabies.)

Could I have dated and eventually married some other guy who would have agreed with me on all things political? Sure. But would he have shared the TV with me when baseball season and football season overlapped? Would he have given me foot massages even though it had been weeks since my last pedicure? Would he have taken me out for sushi on date night even though all things fishy made him gag? I honestly don’t know.

The man I married, like the relationship we share, is special. I don’t want to see him or our marriage hurt because we can’t see eye to eye on political issues that ultimately don’t – and may never – affect us. And so as much as it pains me to do this, I am going to disengage myself from political issues involving women’s reproductive health.

This means that I have to say goodbye to the dream of someday working for Planned Parenthood, goodbye to the dream of someday finishing all the books on abortion that currently litter our living room, and goodbye to following Feministing on Twitter. (Seriously, do they post about anything else?)

This may seem severe, but for me, this is the only way to handle this situation. My compulsive nature requires that I am consumed by my interests (puppies, baseball, Chinese food, etc.), so there is no way for me to have a relationship with politics and a relationship with my husband. I have to pick one or the other.

And I pick Dan.

Back to Baysics

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Once upon a time, I wanted to move to Chicago. And I almost did, until my parents told me that if I went out of state for college, I’d have to take out loans and be in debt forever and ever. So with my acceptance letter to UIC weighing heavily on my mind, I instead accepted admission at UC Santa Cruz, about an hour and a half from my childhood home in San Francisco, for which my way would be paid in full without my accruing debt.

I spent the next three years being homesick, every single day. Not so much for my family, but for the city of San Francisco. I came home at every opportunity, revisiting the places I had loved growing up and wishing I could make them a part of my daily routine.

When I graduated from UCSC in 2006, I was determined to move back to San Francisco. I had my heart set on becoming a journalist, and applied to every newspaper and magazine within city limits. But of course, with journalism dying off in favor of online print formats like blogs, none of them even called me back. So I instead took a staff job with the online education program I had worked for as a student in Santa Cruz, and then eventually my job in Merced, all the while wishing and wondering how I was ever going to make it back to San Francisco.

I was convinced for a long time that no one could leave San Francisco and ever make it back. Between the city’s expensive living and competitive job market, it seemed the only way to spend both your childhood and adulthood in the city was never to leave at all. I kicked myself for leaving in the first place, wishing I had just gone to San Francisco State like so many of my peers.

Then I met Dan, and two years later, he got a job that would move us back to the Bay Area. I was sad about leaving my house and my friends in Merced, but ecstatic at the chance to get back to my hometown. Of course, we wouldn’t be able to move there at first – the change in housing prices from what we were paying in Merced was too huge a jump to make suddenly, and Dan’s job required that he live in the East Bay – but it was definitely progress.

But now that we’re here, within striking distance, I’m finding that my husband is unwilling to strike. He “hates San Francisco,” he says. He doesn’t want to live there. And I just can’t wrap my head around that.

IMAGE COURTESY OF DIGITALSIGHT.COM

I read Tina Fey’s Bossypants last month, and she has a great line in there about city folk vs. country folk:

Trying to force Country Folk to love the Big City is like telling your gay cousin, “You just haven’t met the right girl yet.” They just don’t like big cities. It’s okay. It’s natural. They were born that way.

What this leads me to conclude is that Dan is gay. For the country. (Or at least the suburbs.)

But I need my husband to learn to at least tolerate San Francisco, if not like or love it. Because I want to raise my kids there. I want them to learn to use chopsticks before they can use a fork. I want them to attend one of the top high schools in the nation, against their will, just like I did. I want them to not learn to drive until they’re forced to by the God-forsaken town they attend college in because why would they need a car when they have Muni?

In short, I want my kids to have the same opportunities and experiences that I did growing up in the city. Public school in one of the most diverse cities in the world taught me about different races, cultures, and religions. Riding public transit taught me responsibility and made me independent. Shopping on Haight Street taught me not to give money to runaway teenagers from Nebraska just because they harass you for it. And by the time I started college, I was better prepared to balance my schoolwork, part-time job, and underage drinking than any of my peers from suburban or rural backgrounds.

I know Dan’s frustrated, because we’ve moved three times in five months. And I’m not talking about moving any time soon. I’m committed to what I said after our last move, which is that I didn’t want to move again until we bought something. And I don’t want to have kids until we buy something. So doesn’t it make sense to buy in San Francisco?

I need to figure out a way to convince Dan that San Francisco is the right girl.