The last time I posted on my blog it was 2019 and I reminisced about a 30th birthday celebration in Mexico. In my story, I took you snorkeling with Tim and I in the Sea of Cortez in Cabo Pulmo. Yellow fish, fat fish, crabs, corals, blue fish, big fish. I took you to a secret beach where Tim and I marveled at the spectacular aerobatic display performed by hundreds of manta rays jumping out of the water in a frenzy just offshore. Afterwards, we ate halibut tacos and drank mango margaritas. Then I invited you to hike with us to Cañon De La Zorra, a cascading 50-foot waterfall where the water from the falls collected in pools that were deep and green and warm enough for swimming. Following a refreshing dip, I took you to a no-name roadside taco stand where we pulled over for carne asada tacos and Tecate beers.
Do you remember? No? I know! Me neither! Because it was almost three years ago!
And then there was so much more I was going to write about.
In my drafts I have some notes about one summer weekend in Sedona with my mother. They read:
“Lots of red hats and red signs. This is a red state, after all. But I’m here for the red rocks. The red hot sauce and the red skies.
A good place to roll out my yoga mat and breathe into mountain pose.
At Oak Creek the water was cold and clear. I braided my hair and wore a polka dot bikini.
Arizona is cowboy things and snake bites and cottontail bunnies and horse hooves.
In Cottonwood there is a bar called Kactus Kate's and a coffee shop that makes creamy cappuccinos.
One night was humid and stormy. Thunder and lightening that cracked prompting pours.
You came here for big skies of big dippers and bright moons and desert quiet nights. Is that what you found?”
And then, guess what?
I never wrote about Sedona. Or any of the things I kind of wanted to write: A recipe for the perfect springtime pasta, how to make your own rosemary bath salts, where to get the best Caesar salad in Santa Barbara. I could have written a great story for you about a trip we took to Big Bear last summer for Tim’s 36th birthday where I booked us two nights at a catfish hotel called the Honey Bear Lodge and it was all so hilariously disappointing that all Tim wanted to do for his birthday was get in the car and drive himself 2.5 hours home.
But then life got in the way, as it does, and I didn't write.
I've been working too much, if you must know. On top of working full-time as the PR Coordinator at the art museum in Santa Barbara, I was also hostessing at a tapas bar, baking a million cakes for my side-hustle business, freelance writing, and managing social media accounts for small businesses in town.
Work. Work. Work. Work. Work. (But how am I still living paycheck to paycheck, tho?)
And when Tim and I find a mutual moment, we really like to get away.
Since I last left you tequila-tipsy in Cabo Pulmo, Tim and I took trips to Palm Springs, cruises up and down the coast to Big Sur with stops at the little Central Coast towns in between. In Vermont, a few falls ago, Tim and I got hopped up on too much hops at a dive bar in Montpelier. I ordered us late night plates of mozzarella sticks and in the morning we soaked up our hangovers with maple bars and soft scrambled eggs at the now closed Down Home Kitchen. We went to Walla Walla to see Tim’s parents last winter and when my nephew Henry was born in Austin, Texas in September 2019, we went to meet him shortly after.
We also went International!
In the spring of 2019, Tim and I spent two weeks vacationing in France and Italy. In Paris, we admired Corot paintings at the Musée d'Orsay, drank creamy cappuccinos at Saint Pearl near Saint-Germain-des-Prés at 38 Rue des Saints-Pères. At La Résistance, we ordered the fresh catch and washed it down with a very fine bottle of red wine. We sipped on expensive cocktails in the hard-to-find bar of Hotel Particulier and at midnight, under the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower, Tim and I kissed, champagne drunk. After, in Italy, we drank more creamy cappuccinos. We ate fresh shaves of prosciutto, plates of pasta, anchovies, fresh melons, and olives. We rented a house nestled in the olive groves of a small Umbrian town called Pacino. There, we spent our days reading books on the sun-warmed terrace, sipping on spritz, a house cat napping nearby. Tim and I didn’t care for Rome. We enjoyed Florence slightly more, particularly the sweeping views of the city from Piazzale Michelangelo, the pizza and Peroni lunch at Gustapizza, and the mezcal cocktails poured for us at a secret speakeasy that was hard to find (the website simply lists the address as: "Somewhere in Santo Spirito") and required a "password" (reservation) to enter.
And then, oh yeah! This past September I asked Tim to marry me and he said yes. So we picked out my ring together at Everett in Venice and afterwards we celebrated with a glass of champagne at Gjusta and then a light salad lunch at the Eataly rooftop restaurant called Terra. I ordered a dress online at Revolve, Tim went to Macy's and bought a fine ass Calvin Klein suit, and we drove to Las Vegas and did the damn thing with Elvis himself on October 19, 2020. After we tied the knot at the kitschy Graceland Chapel, we honeymooned in camp grounds and Best Westerns and mountain ranches across the American southwest. It snowed at the north rim of the Grand Canyon and in Zion I hiked The Narrows, through waist deep water at points, and barely bitched at all. In Utah we drank 3% beers and in Arizona I got to eat Sonic mozzarella sticks.
And while I've been busy having a great time, it hasn’t all been shaved truffle flatbreads and poolside cocktails at Villa Royale. It's been a hard time, too.
On September 8, 2019, my sweet kitty Lars suddenly went missing. I got him the very day he was born and ever since that moment we were forever soulmates. I had never in my life imagined that there would be a day when we would not be together. He had been everywhere with me. From Santa Barbara, to Boston, to Seattle, and back to Santa Barbara. And I did everything I could think of to find him. And then even though I had a really great year, in the midst of the greatest loss I’ve ever known, I just forgot about all the good. I fell off my yoga mat. I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped making plans. I cried hysterically every, single, day for a really, really long time.
And then, as if a broken heart doesn’t hurt enough, on January 3, 2020 I was admitted to Cottage Hospital after a golf ball-sized mass swelled up in my cheek almost overnight. My five-day stay at the hospital was a blur of fear, pain, confusion, loneliness, and helplessness as the doctors tried to determine what was wrong with me. I took blood tests, x-rays, CT scans, allowed for all kinds of pokes and prods, and still, doctors were stumped. Slowly, however, with a constant flow of pain killers and antibiotics, the mass had reduced in size enough that I was able to be discharged.
I consequently spent all of 2020 in and out of doctors offices trying to determine the cause of the chronic face pain that I was left with after the swelling went down. I saw dentists, ENT’s, a neurologist, a chiropractor, an acupuncturist, and a therapist who were all unable to diagnose or treat me. I’m still dealing with face pain today, but, with a new primary care doctor (who AMEN, GOD BLESS, I LOVE!) we’re working on a treatment plan that I am really optimistic about.
And now here we are. It’s 2021 and most of us are still at home after a year of magnificently challenging circumstances. During this pandemic I, myself, am working from home, and Tim's job as a bartender has been uncertain under California's stay-at-home order. As you all did, we canceled trips, missed visits with family.
In the year of staying at home that 2020 was, I spent way too many hours playing Candy Crush on my phone, drinking too much beer/wine/vodka, and watching too many Dr. Phil episodes. Fine, did do some good reading (I read A Man in Full, Sister Carrie, The Body: A Guide for Occupants, to name a few titles, and now I'm working my way through War and Peace), but mostly my days at home could best be described as marathon campouts on my couch, punctuated by a walks on the beach or afternoon hangs in my backyard. At one point, I had a meltdown and bought boxed pink hair dye.
But despite all the really low moments (and weren’t there too many), I’d also be lying to you if I said I didn’t love a lot of the time at home this year. I got to take a million bubble baths, I baked some fun cakes, (god bless you all for supporting my @sbcakequeen biz!), and I hand-wrote a million letters to my friends and family to stay connected.
In staying close to home, Tim and I cooked new recipes in our kitchen, together- Thai basil beefs and citrusy fish tacos and beer steamed clams. I made a lot of new friends! On a hike to the hot springs in August, I found a rare ring-neck snake and in Cuyama in September, Chris, John, and I nearly stepped on a scorpion. I got to spend a lot of time with my family and my favorite nephew Henry learned how to kiss his crazy aunt Kate on the cheek.
I do miss writing for you.
It seems too late to write all these stories for you now, but I don’t know, maybe it’s not.
Do you miss reading?
Do you guys even want to read about the time me and Tim went to Moab? Should I get back on this blog and start writing about things like my favorite restaurants in Santa Barbara? Do you really want to know what I think about the pie at Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo? (It's god awful by the way). Do you guys even care to read about my wedding? Do you care about the dress I wore? The honeymoon we had?
Because, if you do, I’ll write for you. If you want, I'll tell you stories and share my recipes for bubble baths and reviews of restaurants in town. And I'll do my best to always write a story for you, too. I hate a blog that reads like a list. First we went here, then we went here, then we did this, then we did that. Anyone can recite their itineraries and recipes. The art of good (blog) writing is in transforming those recitations into a STORY that people actually want to read. So I promise I'll always do my best to whip up delicious descriptions with my words for you. And I’ll try and be funny, too. I’ll do my research and my pieces will be informed for you.
(But I won’t just always write a rave. I’m going to be honest in my writing. And that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m always going to be nice. Ultimately, though, I think it's more important for me to tell you the truth than to be nice. I think that my dedication to being honest, sometimes brutally so, is what will give this blog some authority.)
So what do you think, you guys?
Should I get back on this thing?
Should I write for you again?
Where should we go first?
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