essentially married…

I’m a bit backlogged on the blogging, but I’m catching up the best I can.

KJ and I traveled to Honduras together for a Habitat for Humanity trip.

It was KJ’s idea to go, and I was on board with it until about a day or two out from leaving… when I looked up some fun facts about the country of Honduras.  First, it’s the murder capital of the world.  A little factoid that they fail to mention in the Habitat brochure.  More murders per capita than any other country in the world, including Iraq and Afghanistan.

Also, the airport we were flying into had a shooting spree go down not but 6 days prior to our arrival.  6 dead, 10 wounded.  Again, this was at the airport.  In the States, this would have been major news.  In Honduras, this was a Tuesday.

To be honest, we both had a feeling that it would be an amazing trip, but that something may go wrong.  We were on guard at the airport.  No problems there.  Smooth sailing on the 3 hour bus ride through the mountains to the hotel.  The first two days went off without a hitch…

… Then, at 4:45am on the 3^rd morning, something happened.  Something horrible.  I got sick.  Like, the type of sick you don’t want to ever know, especially when you’re in a foreign country.  In a cold hotel room, with 1 fluorescent bulb and a bathroom door so thin, it might as well not be there at all.  I was in Puke City and Diarrhea Ville for the next 24 hours.

And KJ got it too.  Not the vomiting, but yes the diarrhea.  Very much so the diarrhea.  Nowhere to hide.  All we could do was let loose.

Sorry.  Graphic, I know.  But the serious question is this… how do you keep things romantic, exciting, and fresh when you’ve been privileged to the other side?  The dark side.

Again.  Sorry.  Here’s a photo of our bedside table while we were sick. 

This was taken after the doctor gave me a shot, in my butt, of some medicine KJ was desperately trying to look up on the internet.  The hotel’s very spotty internet.

At the end of the day though, the shots worked, we regained our strength, and were able to help build a pretty crappy little house.  🙂

First, sorry for the delay in posting something new.  KJ and I were on the east coast traveling.  She was only there for about a week and a half, but I was there for about a month.

While on the east coast, we both attended the wedding of my childhood best friend, Dave.  During the wedding weekend, I started thinking about a statistic I had recently read.  It said the divorce rate in America for a first marriage is 50%, for a 2^nd marriage, it’s 67%, and for a 3^rd, it’s 74%.  This is according to Jennifer Baker of the Forest Institute of Professional Psychology in Springfield, Missouri.

Now, I wasn’t thinking about these stats because of the people getting married.  I have a very good feeling they’re going to make it.  Here’s a video of their 1^st dance to show you why I’m so confident:

I was thinking about my parents, and KJ’s parents, who both fall into that 50% 1^st marriage divorce column.

Dave and Kerry’s parents, however, are both still married.

My question is this: What contributes to a marriage that doesn’t work out?  Specifically, how much of what happened to your own parents, good or bad, contributes to what will happen in your marriage?

*By the way, my favorite part in the video above is when they high five at the end.

Last week I flew back to LA from my mom’s place on the east coast for a very important meeting.  It was a meeting regarding a project that I’ve been working on for 4 years now.  I would have to fly right back to DC the day after the meeting for my best friend’s bachelor party… so, essentially, I flew to LA for this one, very important, ultra-crucial meeting.  The reason I stress the importance of this meeting is because I want you to know how terrible it would be to miss it… Here’s what happened:

The meeting was set for 11:30am at the Soho House in West Hollywood.  I woke up with plenty of time to shower, eat breakfast, prepare, etc.  Around 10:00am, KJ decided to tag along with her sister to a yoga class in the park.  We kissed goodbye and off she went, jumping in her sister’s car…

10:45am rolls around, and I’m ready to go to the meeting.  Head down in the elevator of our new place, to the parking garage, where I find KJ’s car PARKED BEHIND MINE.

I immediately panic, performing the equivilent of crapping my pants inside my brain.  I then go into survival mode.  Race upstairs.  Keys… where are her keys????  Search everywhere.  No keys.  She took her keys.  Of course she took her keys.  She would get back from yoga before I got back from my meeting, so she would need her keys…

Call her.  Voicemail.  She’s in the middle of yoga.  She’s not the type to have her phone on her while doing yoga.  SHIT!!!  I’m panicking.  I flew back JUST FOR THIS MEETING!!!

Here’s the 1^st of 3 voicemails I left on her cell.  I warn you now, I was freaking out…

The way I saw it, I was not only going to miss a meeting that I flew back across the country for, but I was also throwing away 4 years of work.  Of course, that’s extreme, but clearly, after listening to that message, you can tell I was in “extreme mode.”

Finally, I stop calling her and her sister, and call a cab company.  At this point, it’s 11am.  Meeting in 30 mins.  Across town.

Here’s the convo between me and the cab company lady:

Cab Company Lady: Independent Cab…
Me: Hi, yes, I need a cab immediately!  I’m at (I give her my address)
Cab Company Lady: Is that an apartment or—
Me: Apartment!  I’ll be waiting out front.  Please, it’d be great if the guy could hurry!
Cab Company Lady: Someone will be there in between 5 and 15 minutes.
Me: Could it please be 5?
Cab Company Lady: They’ll be there between 5 and 15 minutes.
Me: Great, thank you!  Hopefully it’s 5.

I hang up.  Grab my bag.  Race back down to the garage.  At this point, I’ve decided to try to pivot my car out from in front of KJ’s by doing a series of 3-point turns, not unlike Austin Powers in the 1st movie where he’s stuck in the hallway…

This fails.

I run outside after attempting this for 5 minutes or so, to find the cab waiting for me!!!  I jump in, exaggerating my movements to let this stranger know that I’m in a serious hurry.  I tell him where I’m going.  “It’s for a very important meeting,” I add, “so if there’s any way to get me there faster, that’d be great.”  “Okay.”  He is a man of few words…

I glance at my phone.  At this point it’s 11:12am.  Freaking out.  No way I make it.  I call the producer’s office and tell his assistant to let him know I’m going to be late.

After I hang up, the cabbie asks me, “You Hollywood?”  “No, Franklin’s faster I think,” is my reply.  “No.  You are Hollywood?  Movies?”  I realize he’s asking me if I’m a major player in Hollywood, to which I answer, “Yes.  Yeah.  I’m in Hollywood.”  He says, “Cool,” and FLOORS IT.  This guy must love major players in Hollywood, I think to myself.  I just hope he doesn’t start pitching me a movie idea about how his cousin is really funny and should be in a movie about a soccer playing ghost (this was really pitched to me once).

Back to the panic.  It’s about this time that I leave voicemail 2 of 3 on KJ’s phone.  Here it is:

Voicemail #2

After that, I check my phone.  11:17am.  We’re making AMAZING time.  I use the maps tool on my iPhone to give me an estimate of my arrival time.  11:31am WITH traffic.  According to my iPhone Map, I’m going to make it on time!!

This is when I left the 3^rd of 3 voicemails on KJ’s phone (takes a few seconds to play)…

Voicemail #3

Much calmer.  I text the producer letting him know that I’m actually going to be on time.  Due to some traffic on Sunset, I end up getting there at 11:34am, just a few minutes late.  I give the cabbie a nice tip for his amazing driving skills and lack of movie ideas…

Crises averted.  I’d ask everyone for advice on what they do in tandem parking situations, but we now have a drawer with each other’s spare car keys, so I think we’re good.  If you have any other advice though, please let me know!  Or just tell me about your day… 🙂

The owner’s brother of the house we were renting got relocated to LA… so this past weekend, KJ and I had to move out.  We went to Home Depot and bought about $70 worth of boxes, tape, bubble wrap, etc.  We were on fire during the packing process.  A little team.  I would toss some stuff into a box, she would take it all out and reorganize it.  I would wrap a lamp in newspaper, she would rip off the paper, re-wrap it in bubble wrap.  I would take a break to watch TV, she would stare at me and ask, “when are you going to pack up the TV?”  Quite the duo.  We had a system, and it was working.  Obviously, moving is a lot of hard work.  Here’s a video of us tirelessly packing our towels and linens…

At the end of the day, the only casualties lost in the move were 2 plates, 2 glasses, and a lamp that’s still semi-functional (not the one she re-wrapped in bubble wrap).  KJ took this picture of me after we got everything into our new place.

Pathetic, yes, I know.

KJ and I were out at a bar celebrating a friend’s birthday recently. KJ got tired and wanted to go, but I had just ordered a drink, and wanted to stay longer. She then whispered (yelled over the music) in my ear, “If we go home, we can have some sexy time…” I took a last sip and left the bar with her immediately.

On the way home, we drove past a billboard advertising McDonald’s new deal on chicken McNuggets. 20 pieces for $4.99. With all new sauces to choose from. “That sounds really good right now,” she said, and I agreed. But, of course, we continued on… “Sexy Time” awaited our arrival…

However, then we came across an actual McDonald’s. Not just a billboard advertisement, but a full restaurant, equipped with late-night drive-thru. We both looked at each other. I think I let out a casual, “Oh, there’s a McDonalds…” “Yeah. Cool. They got that nugget deal, huh?” Finally, after a few more precious seconds, she asked, “Should we…?” “I guess,” was my response, as she yanked the wheel hard to the right to just barely make the drive-thru entrance.

Needless to say, no sexy time was had that night. It was replaced by 10 nuggets each, washed down by their elaborate line of new sauces. Which are amazing.

KJ prefers to drink warm water. Or “room temperature” as she likes to put it. But I like cold water. So, I’ll fill the Brita, put it in the fridge. She’ll come home, take the Brita out, leave it out on the counter, sometimes directly in front of the window, as if asking the sunlight to heat it up… I’ll come home, the hot summer sun beating down on my poor little soul, to find a Brita full of warm sunlight water. I’ll take the Brita, put it back in the fridge. She’ll take it out, let it sit to get warm again… A never-ending cycle. I don’t like putting ice in the warm water because the ice just melts quickly. And melted ice tastes weird. So, what’s the solution? What happens in your home? As I type this, the Battle for the Brita rages on…

Last week, my parents came to town for a visit. We’ve got a 2bed/1bath scenario, so it was a snug fit. The reason it was a bit tighter than usual is… my parents are divorced. Have been since I was 7 years old. Yes, they traveled together, my dad picking up my mom and driving both of them to the airport. Yes, they sat next to each other on the plane, trading magazines for neck pillows. And yes, they both stayed with us, one on the couch in my office, and one on the couch in our living room. If they were still married, we would’ve easily given them the master bedroom, but, as you can imagine, that was not an option in this particular scenario.

In fact, we decided to get out of town to go to Santa Barbara for the weekend. Many of the hotels were booked however, due to a half-marathon. So, we ended up having to stay in a 1-bedroom suite at a hotel… 1 bed, 1 sofa bed. That’s where the fun began. KJ and I opted to sleep on the floor, giving my father the sofa bed, and my mother the queen bed. They would not accept that arrangement and insisted that KJ and I take the bed. After a LOOOONG back and forth, we said okay to the bed, and they settled on the sofa bed. Yes, “they,” meaning the both of them. But my mom had two very clear conditions for my father… 1) “We must sleep head-to-toe.” And 2) “We must build some kind of little wall of pillows and blankets to act as a barrier.”

Well, as you can imagine, my father’s reply was something to the effect of, “Are you kidding? What’s the big deal? What do you think, I’m going to attack you in the middle of the night???” My mom replied simply, “We haven’t slept in the same bed in 22 years. Those are my terms, take them or the floor. Your choice.”
Here’s a picture KJ snuck of their settled sleeping arrangement and the “wall”:

It’s hard to imagine that these two people were once married. They’ve gone from married and in love to building a little wall to make sure that there’s absolutely no chance of skin on skin contact. And this is a better scenario than most divorces. Many parents don’t even speak to each other or see each other anymore.

So, is it worth it? I know they say the divorce rate is about 50%. You’ve got a 50/50 shot of making it.
What’s the case with your parents? Are they still married? Happy? Or are they divorced and building little bedding walls? (I have a feeling my parents are a unique scenario, but could be wrong??) Or are they divorced and not speaking?

I do really feel lucky that my parents, although divorced, are as close as they are. It gives me hope for the future, any future. Here’s a video of their stay here, just to give you a sense of their relationship…

Sorry for the long post. Next week I’ll just post another banana video or something ☺

These super freakish, crazy green bananas, are still nowhere close to ripe… the waiting game continues, my friends… the game continues…

Apparently KJ raided the prop closet of the new “Green Lantern” movie and got these bananas.  Thanks to my previous encounter with these things, I now know to eat the yellowish ones first because I’ve come to know the meaning of “ripe” versus “unripe.” We both look forward to eating these in a few years when they ripen…

KJ was leaving for church yesterday when she asked me advice on her outfit.  A simple question, “Is this skirt too short?”  I decided to take the advice of many readers of this blog and gave her my honest opinion, “No, looks good to me.”  I thought this would be a safe testing ground, because she wasn’t going out to some party or some fancy event.  It was just church… what could go wrong?

Well, she was propositioned.  As a prostitute.

Here’s what happened… As she walked towards the church, an older Russian gentleman walking his dog said, “Hi.”  She said “hi” back and commented on how cute his dog was…

He responded with, “Are you working?”  “I’m sorry, what?”  “Are you working today?”

She then realized the man was asking if she was a prostitute, and if she was ‘on duty’ to ‘work’ today.  “Uh, no…” as she quickly dashed for the church.

Aaaaaaaand, that’s why it’s probably not a good idea for me to give KJ fashion advice.

She called me and told me the story on her way home.  So naturally, I took a picture as she walked through the door.  You judge for yourself… Too short?

KJ always asks me advice on what she’s wearing before we go out. “Do these shoes match this top?” “How do these pants look?” “Belt or no belt?” And every time, I literally respond the same way, “I don’t know.” I honestly have no clue what to say.

I am not a follower of fashion. My “look” has consisted of a T-shirt and jeans scenario since I can remember and my haircut hasn’t changed since the 8th grade (the year I did away with my bowl cut).
She tells me to just look at her, and answer this simple question, “do these match or not???” Here’s the problem… it always matches.  And always looks good to my eye. She can’t look bad in anything to me.

The reason I stick with my, “I don’t know” answer is because I don’t want to send her out into the world looking like a freak. I have a fear that we’ll be out and she’ll turn to me and say something like, “people are giving me looks, I knew this top didn’t match these shoes, why did you say they looked good???” I can’t do that to her. So, I just say, “I don’t know” to everything.  She’ll reply, “but you’re an artist (of sorts), you have opinions on EVERYTHING. Why can’t you just tell me if this looks good???” “I don’t know.”

Is that fair? Should I know more about women’s fashion? Or give her more of an opinion? How does it work with you? Do you ask your mate how you look?

Here’s the worst part, and I hate to admit this, but before we go out, I ALWAYS ask her how I look. If my shirt fits right, my hair, etc. Is it fair for me to ask her, and for her to always respond, but for her to ask me, and for me to always say, “I don’t know”?

When KJ and I decided to move in together, we made a deal:  One of us pays ¾ rent, the other pays ¼.  The same person that pays ¾ rent also pays utilities and 1/2 groceries, while the person who pays ¼ the rent, cooks, cleans, does laundry and pays the other 1/2 of the groceries.

Here are the questions I pose to you:  Who has the better deal?  Or is it even?  And does it matter? Should there be a deal like this in place at all when moving in together?

What’s the deal between you and your significant other?

(keep in mind, due to financial reasons, all costs cannot be split down the middle 50/50)

KJ works out every morning in tight booty shorts, in front of our big dining room windows, for all the world’s dog-walkers to see. In my mind, our neighbors across the street are throwing daily viewing parties of the event. Part of me is possessive of KJ and her booty and the shorts that encapsulate it, preferring her to workout in a room without windows… the bathroom, maybe? But another part of me wants to yell down to the street, “Ha! Look! Look what I got!” How would you feel if your lady (or guy) was flaunting their goods for everyone to enjoy? Here’s a video to give you a sense of what the neighborhood is experiencing on a daily basis…

My girlfriend bought 6 bananas, for 19cents each.  3 were slightly green and 3 were slightly brownish/yellow.  For the next few days, I proceeded to eat the slightly green ones.  This led to a fight about me not eating the ripe bananas first.  It was at that point that I learned, 29 years into my life, that a ripe banana is a yellow/brown banana and a green one is not.  The only thing I could think of was to give her 57 cents for the 3 bananas that went bad.  She did not accept my offer.