the ocean

Last weekend Ian and I babysat for our nephew Jack while my sister went to a work event. It did not go what one would call well. Jack is going through a phase of extreme attachment to his mother, and also apparently decided not to sleep at all the night before. So the minute he got in the door, he was clinging to her like a Real Housewife to a grudge over an offhand comment at a dinner party. Every time she put him down, he started screaming, like a Real Housewife at anything. And when she left, he literally choked on his own rage, crying and screaming until he threw up on me. It was a scene unlikely to be featured in an ad for The Honest Company any time soon.

We decided the only thing to do was to put him down for a nap, with the help of his beloved white noise YouTube videos. There was a catch, however, in that he wanted to actually watch the videos, and every time I pulled my phone back to rest my arm, he started screaming again. Luckily, Ian set me up with a selfie stick, so I could just hold the stick on my lap and do other things while Jack alternated between drifting off to sleep and awaking with a start and screaming "mommy!" I crushed a lot of candy that day, my friends. But eventually he did go to sleep, and when he woke up, he was utterly cheerful.

At least until his mother got back, at which point he acted like I was trying to force him to watch home videos of my community theatre production of Brigadoon or something. Mom is still number one. But we made it several hours without fatality or injury, which I understand from the parents I know is about the best one can hope for.

My work recently moved to the Willis Tower, or Sears Tower, for those of you who have trouble letting go of our corduroyed past. This was sort of a concern for me, as I haven't been known to be the best with heights. In fact, when my mom convinced us to take her to the Signature Room at the top of the Hancock, I spent most of our visit feeling like I was going to pass out. And also eating french fries, but that's another matter. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm down with seeing three states or whatever the deal is, but I'm less enthused about picturing my own untimely death from plunging into the awning of the Cheesecake Factory below. Rationally, I know there's no way I'm going to fall out, but emotionally it feels like I should maybe be packing a parachute and/or zipline.

But anyway, it's turned out to be pretty great! I've gotten used to the height pretty quickly, and don't even mind having to switch elevators midway to get up there. My view is downright spectacular, and the design of the office is actually quite pretty. Oh, and there's a gym for the building tenants that has some of the softest towels I have ever encountered. And I'm not even a towel person; I've always been more of a sheets person myself.

I do sometimes find myself feeling like it's maybe not worth the effort to venture outside during the day, but I'm guessing that may have been part of the plan. What's a little social engineering among friends?

Ian and I got married yesterday. It was a glamorous affair, conducted in the basement of City Hall, where there was a constant sound of running water for some reason and everyone else in the room looked like they were getting ready for a Quinceanera. Our parents were there, because they insisted, along with a judge who had some sort of open wound on his face and made no secret of his intense desire to get started with his weekend. Afterwards, we were offered the opportunity to take photos in a non-descript, windowless office with two flags and a motivational poster with an eagle on it. And then we all went back to our place for Olive Garden catering, which cost next to nothing and will end up feeding us for an entire weekend. It was amazing!

No really, it was amazing. We both really wanted it to be casual and low key. We've been together for so long that making a big deal out of it just seemed wrong. For fuck's sake, we spend the majority of our time together in sweatpants watching Murder, She Wrote and eating Lay's Do Me a Flavor contest potato chips; getting dressed up and making big speeches about our transcendent love would just seem like fake news.

I'm not going to sugarcoat this: I've started watching Vanderpump Rules. There was a time when I swore off all things housewife-related, viewing them as a sign of the downfall of civilization. Then I realized that civilization is toast no matter what, so we might as well enjoy laughing at rich drunk old ladies. It started with New York, because I really thought Countess Luann had a future as a singles artist, and soon expanded into Beverly Hills, because I remember Eileen Davidson from when she was playing six characters (including a man) and rocking a Mariah Carey perm on Days of Our Lives in the nineties. Then I found myself dipping into Atlanta occasionally because, well, those women have better one liners than your average episode of Kevin Can Wait. And now, well, Vanderpump.

It's insane. It's legitimately insane. All fucking and fighting, basically. There's a lot of time spent in a dirty alley behind the restaurant where everyone smokes and screams at each other. This is a workplace where the phrase "can I talk to you for a minute" is always a terrifying harbringer of things to come. And Lisa Vanderpump, who has to be in her sixties judging by the amount of gauze they put over the camera when they film her, presides over staff meetings where she resolved disputes about who is a ghetto-ass bitch and who is a slut. You know, business stuff.

Jax is possibly the worst person in the world, and yet he somehow plays it off as charming. I'm pretty sure Stassi is genuinely evil incarnate, and yet also somehow my spirit animal. Tom is kind of gross and sweaty, Kristin looks like a cartoon seahorse, and Katie never should have done that to her hair. That about covers it. Oh, and Ariana. I'm only on season two, so she's only just entered our lives, but already I think I love her. Clearly, I am a sick person.