One Year of Us: The Good and Bad Moments

Congratulations today to Jaron for sticking with me for 365 days! Please direct all gifts to him.

I’ve never celebrated a date-iversary before since in the past I’ve mastered the amorphous friendlationship types that begin ambiguously and end suddenly after an extended amount of time (not recommended). So I feel kinda happy and proud right now.

Since I’ve already vomited here about the greatness that is my boyfriend, I’ll (try to) chain the mush back for this one. Even last night while I was on one of my too-often rants about how awesomely cool he is, he sputtered, “Jen, you’re so cheesy.”

Cheesy? At 22?? My future offspring will despise me, especially when they’re teenagers, is all I have to say about that.

So I’ve changed the title of this post from “99 Reasons Jaron is the Ultimate Boyfriend” to what it is now so I sound more like an actual girlfriend and less like a stalker. Good and bad moments, here we go:

Good: Inspired by the enormity of the tree adjacent to us, he told me he liked me.

Bad: I eloquently responded with, “Crap.”

Good: Art and science museums in SD, SF, and LA; home grilled lamb shoulder with Indonesian soy sauce and ultra garlic-y shrimp scampi; forcing five straight hours of laughter as the audience at a live taping of TV show Gary Unmarried (‘twas very difficult actually, even for me); playing his melodica and air-drumming to Kanye West albums; deep conversations in his Camry or at a grassy park with minimal mosquitoes.

Bad: Every time I cry randomly and neither of us know why. Way to stump everyone, hormones.

Good: Getting utterly drunk on the soulful vibrations from live performances of The Roots, Zap Mama, Passion and Gabe Bondoc. No alcohol needed.

Our anniversary gift to ourselves includes sushi tonight and tickets to see MAXWELL, CHRISETTE MICHELE, and COMMON at the Hollywood Bowl in a couple weeks. Wow, seriously. If given a diaper, I’d crap on myself right now.

In summary, I made a collage called Keys to a Successful Dating Relationship. I own the rights to this graphic, so if you are part of a major publication, please ask for permission before reposting. Thank you.

Caption: Big tree, a bronze sculpture at the Getty, meat, the TV show we wished we were at instead of "Gary Unmarried", and lots of black people

I’m Gonna Try to Write More

I suddenly decided over the weekend to take myself more seriously as a writer. This a big deal. Like, it was the most shocking, slap-in-the-face revelation I’ve had in awhile since my conversion to morning showers. The conversation with Jaron while on our way to a late lunch of steamed mussels by the beach (noteworthy details) went something like this:

Jen: I think I want to write for the rest of my life! I’ve found my calling! Screw selling my soul to expensive business school to learn things I don’t want to learn so I can barely increase my chances of getting into a job that I don’t want! Screw 9-5s, elevators, short lunch breaks, bloody heels and bleeding ankles! I will write masterpieces that will be consumed like french fries by the general public while on my couch, at home, nearby my refrigerator and 2.5 children!

Jaron: Nice! And what do you want to write about? Like, what do you have to offer to your readers?

Jen:

So that was as far as my vision went. But I’m open for suggestions (like “Start an Asian-American blog on cross-bred bunnies and exotic bugs!”) and critical warnings (like “Jen, I can barely make it to the end of any of your posts so please reserve all words and rants for your diary or boyfriend–whichever is less sick of you”) in which case I will smile kindly and then run home crying.

I am grateful, though, that I have readers at all. So genuine spanks to everyone who stops by when Google or Caroline alert them to, and an extra credit for those who comment.

By the way, wordpress sucks in that it doesn’t let me reply to people’s comments. So you guys say stuff like,

“Yo Jen! What are you up to these days? Let’s meet up!”

and I won’t be able to answer it because there isn’t a function to, but mostly also because it would be mean and unwise to answer like this on the internet:

“OMG hey you! So how have I been doing? Well, [copy/paste the entry above]. But yeah, let’s meet up at the Coffee Bean on Wilshire and Beverly Glen at 8:00PM tomorrow evening to talk juicy details. Comment again on my blog entry about nannying and rich people to confirm our date! By the way, my social security number is…”

But really, I appreciate every comment I get because at the end of the day, whether the commenter made it evident or not that they actually read my post, proof of visitation encourages me to churn out the next post. Without you guys, there would be no blog, and then what would I do? Focus at work?

My Nanny Diary

Looking like Scarlett doesn't automatically come with the job. What a rip.

In case if in the near future you are presented with the option of either nannying for a wealthy family for free.99 housing, or living in an overly priced crapshack eating discounted shrimp chips for breakfast, lunch and dinner, go with the shrimp chips.

Because if you take the first option, you will quake and sob everyday (and only sometimes in your boyfriend’s arms), dreaming of a 24-hours free of panic attacks. But shrimp chips mean you won’t have to worry about the scratches you would inflict on their spare Lexus. You won’t fail to fill the pool to the exact center of the third line, nor lock yourself out of the thoroughly alarmed house when they are on vacation and need to call their relatives to rescue you, nor have a 6 year-old throw the most terrifying tantrums, accusing you of starving little girls because you won’t let her take off her seatbelt and jump into the trunk of the moving car to grab a bag of almonds.

And most of all, shrimp chips mean you won’t feel lonely because even if you won’t be able to afford anything else, you can afford time to be with people who think you aren’t too shabby or incompetent of a person (read: friends).

But in case you don’t take my advice and still opt for the panic attacks, make sure you believe in an amazing God who bails you out of your mess every other hour, and still thinks you’re lovely despite it all. He will be your Lifeline, your Hope, and Savior (in ways you never thought were needed).