One of my friends chided me a while back, “Make your blog private again.  You’re not as honest as you used to be.”  That really stuck with me.  So I try to dismiss those second thoughts about whether or not my boss is reading.  Or whether or not my family members are dying to tell my mom and dad about my lifestyle.  I just want to voice my truth.  So even though I know some of my friends are reading this, I’m just going to get it out there because it truly hurts my feelings.

I know it’s a recession.  Shit, my fiance lost his job, alright?  I’m pinching pennies.  I’m scoping out all the happy hours in the city.  We’re eating in instead of eating out.  I know what it’s like to cut back.  But I never blinked an eye when my friends asked me to spend hundreds of dollars on never-to-be-worn-again bridesmaid attire.  I never complained when I had to shell out money for bachelorette weekends on top of bridal showers.  I was there–friggin asian manual labor–crafting stupid favors for hours and hours, running around to hotels dropping off gift bags for out-of-town guests, shuttling guests around to where they needed to be because they didn’t have cars.

But when it comes to me, suddenly, no one wants to spend money.  No one wants to consider what I want to do.  First of all, no one seems to consider that unlike any wedding that I’ve been a part of, I asked no one in my bridal party to pony up a single penny for wedding attire.  Black dress and red shoes for women.  Black pants and white shirts for men.  Simple, go into your closet and pick something.  Cost to be in the wedding party?  Airfare and hotel in Palm Springs for the wedding weekend.  That’s it.

I was thinking it would be fun to go away for a weekend with my bridal party.  The one thing I ask for is a cheap weekend getaway (i.e., cabin / camping, local, inexpensive) and next thing you know, a weekend gets planned that’s completely different than what I (I am the bride, yes?) ask for.

Two weeks ago, I was at a nail salon getting my quarterly much-needed mani/pedi and the girl sitting next to me was having a meltdown.  She was freaking out because she’d ordered all these custom-made bridesmaid dresses from Hong Kong and one of her bridesmaids was refusing to pay.  God forbid, I wonder what other expenses they had to fork over for her prissy wedding! I sat there, smirking beside her.  At least I don’t have to go through that kind of anxiety.

Now here I am, having the same anxiety because my friends are reluctant to spend more than $200 for a whole weekend.  And I’m chipping in, too.  I actually had to throw myself into the financial mix so people wouldn’t back out.  Totally disheartening.

I try to remember that these are trying times.  There are people I thought for sure would be at my side on my wedding day who shrug when I ask them if they’re coming. Really?  I mean, really?  I organized your engagement party.  I flew to your wedding cross-country when I was still in grad school and riddled in debt.  Really?  And you’re having second-thoughts about coming to my wedding?  Absolutely no sense of loyalty.

As long as Dean shows up, that’s all that matters!

I’m reading Kathy Griffin’s autobiography.  That woman has crossed paths, worked with, or dated every single person you know in comedy.  But besides all the celebrities, she talks very openly about her personal and family life.  It’s raw and refreshing.  I thought my life was crazy, but damn does she have some skeletons in the closet.  I was reading her book last night before bed and probably brought it into my dreams because I woke up still thinking about it.

I used to believe that if I wrote an autobiography, it would be filled with salacious details.  Not compared to Kathy.  Not even compared to most people.  The difference is that I write about it.  The worst thing I think I’ve done was tell some guy’s girlfriend that I’d been sleeping with him for the past several years.  I just lost it when I found out he had a girlfriend.  I immediately sent her an email.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t eat.  Heart racing, I called a friend, “I just did the most horrible thing.  It’s awful, so awful.  I’m going to hell.”

“What?  What is it?  It can’t be that bad.”  She comforted.  ”Did you kill someone?”

Isn’t it interesting the personal details people try to hide.  And who you disclose your darkest secrets to.  I thought about the following skeletons.  I know all of these people personally.

One of my therapists in Chicago had been in and out of prison!  I didn’t realize it until I did a google search on him after one of our sessions.

Molested by a teacher.

Had a sexual relationship with her father.

Had two abortions by the time she was 20.

Dad is a polygamist.

I know more than a handful of people who say they graduated from Cal and put it on their resume when they never finished their coursework.

Sister is on the street, homeless.

Had an affair with a priest.

Three babies, three different baby daddies.

Slept with his brother’s wife.

Had an affair with her married boss when she was engaged.

I know two separate people whose brothers committed suicide.

Had two DUIs.

Raised a child as his own until he found out the kid really wasn’t his.

Dean and I watched Up in the Air last night.  I practically called the ending.  Ouch!  I watch all this drama on the big screen and on TV, thinking that stuff like that never goes on in real life, but then I got to thinking of the list above, the people I know, and their past.  So very real.

Dear Catherine,

For some reason, I scrolled through my gchat list just now and saw your name poking out of the over-long string of contacts, some vibrantly active in my life, others long dormant. I thought to myself: “I wonder what’s happening with Catherine?” And I remembered that you had blog so I went to check it out.

I hope you believe me when I say that I’m really happy for you. I realize that I just disappeared but I knew after our second (and final date) that it would never work between us. Not that I didn’t admire you. Not that I wasn’t attracted to your intelligence and passion for life. Not that I didn’t think that you have more than most people have to offer. None of that. At a certain point, you’ve been in enough relationships to just know. And I knew.

It wasn’t easy to just stop writing to you. While we didn’t manage to get a blaze going, there was certainly enough kindling around to warrant at least another date. I was tempted, believe me. But I knew there was someone better for you out there, and someone better for me.  And I was right.

I send you all my warmest wishes Catherine, for a lovely start to the new decade, and, when it happens, for a beautiful beginning to the marriage that you wanted so badly. Your man is very lucky.

Take care of yourself. If you don’t mind, I’ll check in to read your blog every once in a while. It’s definitely a great read.

Cheers,

Jeff

I think the ideal woman, upon hearing that her husband is laid off, would offer words of encouragement, insist everything will be ok, cook up a roast beef, and bake an apple pie.  I ain’t no June Cleaver and certainly no ideal woman.  My uncontrollable sobs were probably the last thing Dean wanted to deal with.  I couldn’t help it.  The emotions just poured out. 

Recently we had gotten into a fight about the timeframe on when to have kids.  I was a late bloomer.  I don’t want kids until I’m in my late thirties and please don’t comment on the risk I’ll be taking.  If I can’t have ‘em, I can’t have ‘em.  There’s this process called adoption, ever heard of it?  So Dean was on my case about having kids fairly soon after we get married.  We really did get into a bit of a row over it.

Then I come home to the news of a layoff.  I was laughing and crying at the same time.  “So you want to have kids on one salary with all of us living in a studio?  What a joke!  And you have the nerve to yell at me about having babies right away?”  It was a tense conversation and I have to say Dean took the verbal lashing in stride. 

But I had to plead with him to sign up for unemployment.  He shrugged, “Unemployment’s the last resort.  I’ll find a job in no time.”  I had to sit him down in front of my laptop and insist he fill out the forms. 

“How are you going to pay for rent without an income coming in?”  I was thoroughly exasperated.  “Get your ass on the dole!”

Since day one, Dean has been up every morning, working on leads, interviewing, following-up.  The other day he didn’t feel well.  I told him he should sleep in, but he persevered.  “Nope, I gotta work.”

I truly believe you get a job through your network so I’ve been posting it online, writing about it in my blog.  I let anyone and everyone know.  A friend of mine asked yesterday, “Does Dean like it that you make his job search public? It would bother me (guys like to pretend to be strong and do not need help).”  You know what?  I don’t care.  No, Dean doesn’t like it.  But he better like the fact that I’ve given him several solid leads.  Yeah, through me! 

Maybe the way that I stand up for my man isn’t what’s acceptable, but neither is being unemployed and whatever I can do to help, I’ll do it—whether he likes it or not.

Everyone’s got their vices.  Heidi Montag–plastic surgery. Andre Agassi–crystal meth. Tiger Woods–sex.  My vice is facial products.  More an obsession than a vice, I guess, I’m obsessed with my face.  I think it stems from having had severe acne as a teenager and into my early twenties. Nothing seemed to help–not even weekly visits to the dermatologist.  Even though I was taking

antibiotics, that didn’t stop me from also spending my limited funds on Noxema, Oxy Clear, Benzoyl Peroxide.  Since early on, I’ve been surrounded by ointments for my face.

I don’t do facial Botox.  I don’t even wear makeup.  But my bathroom cabinet is full of serums, night creams, and lotions that have fooled me into buying them.  Take one look at my mom’s face and you’ll understand my obsession.  She’s got freckles, moles, and all sorts of hyperpigmentation around her face and neck.  I’ve got all natural argan oil, SK II facial treatment essence, Clinician Complex 6% skin bleaching cream, MD Skincare hydra-pure vitamin C serum, Skinceuticals emollience.  Those are just lotions. Don’t get me started on my cleansers and sunscreen.

I clip out recommendations from magazines, too.  Happy to take readers’ suggestions on their favorite products.

Next week, the Bachelor (and his bimbos) come to San Francisco.  Hooray! 

As a local city girl, I thought I’d share my thoughts on things to do, places to go.  I’m also inspired by friends who put their friends in touch with me when they plan a trip out here.  I love playing tour guide.  So here goes.

San Francisco in a Weekend

Friday

Happy Hour: Get your ass on over to Americano at the Hotel Vitale for the happiest happy hour in town.  It’s always a vibrant scene abuzz with locals, bridge-and-tunnel, the employed, the unemployed.  Don’t miss it.

Dinner: Walk across the Embarcadero, wander around the Ferry Building, then on to enjoy a meal overlooking the water at the Plant Café.  There are lots of good options in this area, but I like the Plant Café because it’s so distinctly Bay Area with its natural ingredients and green technology for cooking and recycyling.

Nightlife: If you can’t make it to wine country, the next best option is Press Club–a unique concept of various wineries housed under one store front.  Make it an early night and sleep well for a full weekend schedule.

Saturday

Breakfast: Start your day early with a heart breakfast.  Take your pick and stand in line at either of the following two beloved breakfast nooks: Dottie’s or Brenda’s.  The food will make up for the bad neighborhoods.

Explore Like the Locals: Hop on a cable car without waiting in line.  Simply hop on at any stop.  Pay when the gripman asks.  Make sure to see Chinatown, Lombard—the crookedest street, Crissy Field and the Golden Gate Bridge.

Lunch: In-n-Out at Fisherman’s Wharf.  Make sure to order your burger Animal Style and get your fries Well Done.

Tea Time: Crown & Crumpet

Dinner: So many restaurants to choose, but my pick is Foreign Cinema.  Fantastic food with a foreign film playing in the background.  Very chic!  Always a good locals scene.  Afterwards, walk around the Mission and Valencia.

Nightlife: Mission pub crawl: Bruno’s, Elbo Room, Cassanova, Skylark—all very hip.

Sunday

Explore Like the Locals: If I had to pick one museum, it would be the DeYoung.  Explore and make sure not to miss the Observation Tower with 360-degree views of the city. 

Brunch: Cross the main park pathway and have brunch at the upscale Moss Room in the Academy of Sciences.

Continue to explore Golden Gate Park after brunch: Japanese Tea Garden, Conservatory of Flowers.

Leave the city, venture over the Golden Gate Bridge, and spend the rest of your time at Cavallo Point.  Have a drink or early dinner at Murray Circle. 

Extended San Francisco Stay

Wine country is a must.  I prefer the Sonoma side.  Restaurants: Ad Hoc and Redd.

Attractions: Exploratorium Tactile Dome (feel your way around a maze in complete darkness), Alcatraz

Outdoors: Muir Woods

Restaurants: Nopa, R&G Lounge, Presidio Social Club, Amber India

Nightlife: Minna, Bourbon and Branch

A decade ago, I had this saying, “Why work out when you look this good?”  Every morning, I stood in line at Starbucks for a grande hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant.  I ordered a BLT and bag of potato chips for lunch.  And every night, I snacked on plates of Bagel Bites.  It didn’t matter what I ate.  I never step foot in a gym.  I was skinny and happy.

That happiness came crashing down when I peaked at 20 pounds of weight gain during grad school.  Daily binge drinking, the late night munchies, and never-ending partying had taken its toll.  I became obsessed with losing the weight.  I counted calories.  I stepped on a scale a dozen times a day.  I started working out to exhaustion.  The pounds held firm.  Step on scale.  Go to work.  Count calories.  Run for an hour.  Count calories.  Step on scale.  That was my routine.  I talked about dieting constantly.  I was disgusted with myself.  Friends were frustrated with me. 

It took me several years to feel good about my body and happy again.  I needed a caring professional to help me get there, but I finally figured it out.  I told myself, “Fuck it.  I’m tired of starving myself.  I am so tired of this damn mental calorie counter.  I’m tired of living this hollow life and being scared to eat.  I don’t care if I balloon up like a fat lady.  I cannot live this life anymore.”  I stopped dieting.  I quit my gym membership.  I stopped exercising.  I started eating again—cautiously at first, but then more and more robustly.  Jack-in-the-Box?  Bring it on. 

The metabolism that had eluded me finally returned to normal.  I really can eat whatever I want and not gain weight.  Ironically, when I overeat, I lose weight.  My metabolism speeds up and processes it quickly.  I could spend an hour on the toilet, dripping poo. 

Here’s the dilemma.  I’m now fucking with my perfect metabolism.  How?  By running.  In a rash moment, I signed up for a half marathon and the running is screwing my metabolism.  I’m gaining weight.  No, it’s not muscle.  Unless muscle suddenly gives you a muffin top around your belly button…no it’s not muscle.  Because I’m running, I’m eating more.  I don’t run lightly.  I pound hard and fast and so on the many days I don’t run, my weight ticks up because my body is telling itself it needs to run to lose the weight.  It’s driving me batty. 

People exercise to feel good, to lose weight.  Exercise doesn’t help me.  I’m aching.  My leg muscles spasm in the middle of the night.  I have to schedule sports massages to help with the pain.  So stupid.  I wish I hadn’t registered.

10:30am Brunch with Brian at Serpentine (over-easy eggs, crispy bacon, french fries, and hot chocolate)

1:30pm Jets vs Colts Playoff Game at R Bar (spicy bloodies)

3:30pm High Tea with Dean at Crown & Crumpet (crownberry tea, sausage rolls with hot english mustard, assortment of tea sandwiches)

7:30pm Home-Cooked Dinner at Marc’s (chicory salad with watermelon radishes, salt cod brandade toasts, saffron and fennel fish stew with garlic aoli, panacotta drizzled with raspberry sauce, and lots of wine)

Less than five months away until the wedding and we are ramping back up.  The DJ sent us a mix of his latest favorites.  In homage to Dean’s paternal heritage (but more so a shout out to the show Jersey Shore), we decided on an Italian Wedding Theme for the welcome dinner. Think wife beaters, gold chains, hairspray.  We found a local British pub to watch the world cup (England vs. USA) the morning of our wedding. Dean updated the website.  I need to work with a designer on the invitations. One of my clients found out I was getting married and he mailed me a copy of an invitation for his personal trainer’s wedding.  It was so cute! What I liked about it was how personalized it was…several pictures of the couple throughout the invitation.  A formal invitation is just not consistent with our vibe.  Hip and fun is what we’re going for.  I need to research Italian food for the wedding.  Figure out who’s going to do my hair and makeup.  I’m looking for babysitters, too.  Let me know if you have any referrals for childcare, stylists, or caterers.

For those of you thinking about buying property, don’t do it.  I don’t recommend it.

Owning my place has been a nightmare.  The water heater broke.  The garage door won’t close.  The neighbors don’t pick up the dog shit that litters our front pavement. It’s been an endless list of problems.  The biggest of which is my ceiling.  My ceiling leaks when it rains.  Why?  Because the upstairs deck wasn’t constructed properly. I’ve had two contractors try to fix the problem–both of whom tried more than once.

I currently rent my place out.  As a landlord, it’s not pleasant getting jolted out of bed because my tenants are getting rained on. The most recent contractor asked for another chance.  I don’t trust anyone anymore.  I want the best in the business.  I want a professional opinion from a roofing specialist.  How hard can this be?

I’m seriously considering putting my place on the market.  I can’t deal with these problems when I’m in a meeting with executives.  ”Ummm, excuse me, I need to attend to my tenants.”  Totally fucking ridiculous.  The stress is killing me.

Learn from my mistakes.  I only know one person who’s happy with her home purchase. I don’t think the rest of us homeowners feel the same way.  And I have a kick-ass mortgage rate.  Sure, I get a very significant tax refund, but all of that goes to significant property taxes.  I just don’t see any upside anymore.  I’d make a profit with the sale, but I’m not sure it was worth all the stress.