Dr. Valenlove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Work Life In-balance

When you are as busy and important (no) as Mr. Train and I are, you get used to making decisions on the fly usually sacrificing self for the benefit of others…and by others I mean work which is the ultimate benefactor. You make do with the cards that you are dealt with and adjust plans accordingly to guarantee as much of a full house that you can get even though you are one card short.*

Thus began our three-day marathon in the attempt to celebrate our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple despite a crazy workload on a three-day weekend.

Day 1:
Saturday began with Xtain making me breakfast in couch** that consisted of oatmeal and apple juice while watching a romantic comedy of my choice. His first gift to me was a day pass off…which meant no cooking or cleaning for me all day. YAY.

Although I eventually had to clean and cook in the days that followed that may have been a con…whatevs. Xtian had to go and run a series of errands while I worked, primped and opted out of picking up the mess that is my life loft. I spent the day alternating between competitive analysis reading, facebooking and applying make-up. Lovely. Xtian came home with a beautiful bouquet of v-day flowers that he helped designed that included two pink and puffy carnations despite the fact that he hates the flower but I love them.

The rest of the day was spent working and working and perhaps more working then we heading down to San Jose to have Valentine’s Day dinner with my parents, my family visiting from Mexico and my two nephews. We had great food, great conversation, and great moments with the laptop as Xtain had to retire to the family room to continue his work while I entertained. Good times were had by all and at the end of the night we decided to retire back to SF while listening to girl rock (that man really does indulge my every whim) and chatting about what a great valentine’s day we had.

When we got home Xtain decided to spruce up the place a bit by taking out the recycling and pouring me a glass of wine…then he comes back in with this:

And inside is this Valentine's gift #2:

Despite the fact of our $50-$100 limit on v-day gifts, he breached the embargo and bought me a gold bag I had originally eyed in Dubai but was too busy shopping for actual gold care.


Day 2:
We both have an early start as Xtian needed to go into the office and I had a new biz deck and press release to finnish all with Sunday deadlines (which begs the question: since when did my office start to implement Sunday deadlines?). I spend the time working whilst talking to Vickie B on the phone for hours because she is so fantastic and gets all of my jokes.


We both work and work and work and then finally get together at 8ish to head out to Bacar for our romantic night out. I find it hard to settle into the conversation as I still have strategy swirling in my head all the while Xtian serves as my sounding board for my barrage of wine induced ideas.

We decide to pack it in kinda early and I come home to find this…part duex:

Day 3:

Trying to take a break from work we decide to go to Mel's for a calorie fest and perhaps some wandering around the union square area. We walk to borders because books rule and Xtian gets me this, my third gift:

I have a mild (total) obsession with Rick Bayless and, even though it sounds cheesy, he inspires me to be a better cook. I have been drooling over this book for months and now it is in my arsenal of books I will rarely use. YAY!!!

We closed out the night by my cooking my spicy shrimp pasta and then obsessive ironing all of my sheets (on the lowest setting possible with a hankie on top so as to not burn the thread count) while watching Big Love as Xtian...you guessed it...worked.

Despite all the work and whatnots I have to say this was Valentine's day was one for the books. All in all I made out like a bandit and I have to say this whole spreading things out was actually kind of fun.

This post is dedicated to smart phones

* I have no idea the accuracy of this card analogy as I only play blackjack because you get to rapidly add in your head and figure out odds…which is increasingly simple when slightly intoxicated

**I DESPISE eating in bed, I think it is a vile practice and will go so far as to request new bed linens and mattresses be flipped over if someone comes anywhere near a bed with food. Just ask Vickie B and Pistol who have had to shame many hotel rooms with me…actually don’t ask them.

The Best Things in Life Are Sometimes Free

• Laughing really hard with someone who gets you and creating inside jokes that only you guys will get for years to come.
• Rocking out at a concert, especially small ones, where you can disappear into the music and for only a moment you are not you but the lyrics of the music
• The inflection point between buzzed and drunk and facing the ultimate Robert Frost question.
• The smell of a new pair of shoes when you open the box for the first time at home
• Cooking with the nephews while they share the antics of their day.
• My parent’s house
• The strokes of a make-up brush on your face; the taste of lipgloss
• Freshly pressed high-thread count sheets shared with the person you adore
• Warm summer nights that allow for summer dresses, cocktails and good friends
• Being surprised…in a good way

Happy Valentine's Day

Since this is the holiday of friendship and love I wanted to take some time to wish you all dear readers a happy Valentine's day. May your lives always be filled with incredible people who love you dearly.

xoxo,
Gravy Train

Sponge Gravy Judgy Pants

I don’t know what is wrong with me. Maybe it is a severe case of the Mondays that has extended itself for an additional 12 days but I have been on a limited bullshit tolerance like you wouldn’t believe and apparently find it very appropriate to call everyone out at a moment’s notice…via this blog, and other passive aggressive means, of course that nobody reads. Whatevs.

At some point, when this barrage of hysterics of mine is over, I will have to inevitably apologize to someone for being a complete asshole by not censoring myself. Ugh, I hate apologizing. I hate it almost as much as I hate the sight of blood which is the thing I hate the most (aside from creepy crawly things and being disappointed which is the WORST). It makes me want to vom and faint all at the same time while being totally disgusted. Where was I going with this? Ah yes, this is why I have decided that if I don’t have anything nice to say that I should keep that shiz to myself and not be so quick to judge people.*

Case in point: At a work 1:1 strategy session on Wednesday, that turned into happy hour, I may or may not have been mean to a boy that I found annoying for no apparent reason than the fact that he kinda looked and talked like my frat brothers…that and he was rooting for the US to win the football match…I heart the USA team (TEAM BEASLEY) as well but OBVI I was rooting for Mexico and did not appreciate the gauntlets from an unknown dude.

Okay, well to be fair, it was not obvi to anyone but myself that I was in fact rooting for Mexico as I was wearing work clothes and did not have any of my football riot gear on. And the only gauntlet really thrown was that when he asked for the score I said 0-1 US and he said “yeah!” like any normal American. To which I informed him he could sit somewhere else, to which he didn’t but tried to make amends by agreeing with me that American Football should be called handball.

Sidebar rant: I seriously don’t get WHY American Football is called football, seriously it should be throwball or carryball or something else since they don’t really play with their feet now do they? Then again they don’t really play at all…I mean what is the point? 30 seconds of action, 2 minutes of reviewing plays and measuring stuff, then 20 minutes of commercial…what is the opposite of awesome…ah yes American football…I digress.

Anyway after the football incident he kept up his incessant babble of nonsense to which I had to be completely disagreeable and snarky…you know because I could and all. Annoyed I finally turned to D and asked “who the f*** is this guy and why is he here?” To which she turns, laughs hysterically, and informs me that said guy is Tom and he works with us. Oh. Shiz. I am AWESOME!!!

In typical Gravy mode, I had managed to be incessantly mean for no apparent reason other than the fact that he kinda annoyed me for kinda being a little on the insecure side and thus compensating by being loud and agreeable with the mean girl in front of him chugging beers. Ugh, raise your hand if you are an asshole.

I mean I am not saying being mean to people is okay if you don’t know them. That’s not it at all, but a little tact goes a long way in work place situations. So then I decide that it would be in my best interest to be nice since I will eventually run into this guy again at some point and being the work bitch is never a good thing. Turns out Tom actually really enjoys football but prefers the premiership (a little cliché yes but who can blame him). He is an artist, a painter with a post-modernist approach, but works in PR to pay bills (I am an art freak, in particular in post modern work, Dale…are you kidding me?!?! BRILL!!! I even got married in an art museum). He lives in the South Bay by choice which I can appreciate since I heart the South Bay.

Also turns out that once he is not worried about what people think of him and acting a part he seems like he would be very nice. So maybe we had more in common that I thought. Had I taken a chance on an unknown kid from the beginning we could have been watching the game together instead of me rolling my eyes and making a poor chap uncomfortable. Sigh.

Queue in sappy music…So moral of the story: I will be open-minded and nice when I meet new people and hope it does not bite me in the ass.

This post is dedicated Lindsey Lohan

* For those who clicked the link, you are welcome.

Boy Culture

You know, girls always get the bad rap…like ALWAYS. We talk too long on the phone with our friends, we read into things that are not there, we are clingy, we hog the bathroom, we gossip, we freak out, we watch “lame” TV, take forever to get ready…get my drift? Well you know what?!?! I just described about 99.9% if the boys I know and I am sick and tired of getting the bad rap. I am sticking up the proverbial middle finger to the girl stereotype and stomping my foot down…enough!

Yes you may try to play hard with your little friends as you watch “Universal Solider” (ahem, LAME) talking a big game, but then your hard game quickly converts to a gossip fest of the latest girl you are dating and what it all means: does she really like you? will she sleep with you? Will she take heed on your advances? Sound familiar? Yeah next time you wonder go straight to the source…we won’t lie about it…trust us.

You put out the hints…“oh we should hang out” “we should do this” “we should do that” and as soon as we reciprocate or say “yeah lets” you freak the eff out that things may or may not be going too fast…sound familiar?

Bathroom…DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED. Magazine racks were invented for men. Is there something wrong with the couch that you can’t read the latest issue of Playboy there? Yes, we must blow dry and do make-up in the most crucial lighting possible but net-net we equally hog son. So go project elsewhere.

As for clingy? Really? Do we really want to go there?!?! I have dated more men than I care to count before I got married and ALL of them were clingy…like all. Maybe it is because I preferred spending time with my friends or family than be all couple like but still. ALL OF THEM DUDES. God forbid you can’t make a quick visit/dinner/movies/couch snogging/chinging when they want you to; all of a sudden there is an issue. Puh-lease.

So sorry I sound like a bitter hater but before you boys start throwing your stones, realize that you live in a glass house. Steps off soapbox.

This post is dedicated to all the ladies that truly feel me, throw your hands up at me.

Typical Tuesday Lament

I see the dozens of cable from the EKG, hooked to my mom like a science experiment, and it seems like I have been in this position dozens of times before. Maybe it is because I have.

And I hate these walls. Dingy and yellow littered with posters advertising emergency response queues and vital call signs, I feel trapped. I want to take a sledge hammer and pound away against these walls until nothing is left but the ruble of the ER and us: my mom and her regularly paced beating heart, my dad in the getaway car and me with callused hands and a battered soul but with the knowledge that we would never have to go back because everything would be okay. Alas we are trapped.

Instead the florescent lights flicker above and the mixed scent of bleach, hospital beds and medicine fill my lungs. We make our way out of triage to the back where the beds are. Needles, vials of blood, wires surround my mom. My head spins. I touch nothing, germs abound in this place, and try to keep from passing out by starting at the floor. White.

My mom looks up towards me from the hospital hopeful but apologetic as she knows in 10 hours I will be boarding a plane for a very important work meeting if everything turns out okay. I could care less. I just want someone to tell me everything will be okay. My dad stands next to me in silence as I grill the surprisingly young doctor on his skill set and what exactly does he mean by “momentarily stopping mothers heart to start it again.” I silently panic.

Numbers, something I have loved my entire life, I have now grown to hate. 172, 169, 155, 170, 175. I stare at the heart rate monitor praying for solid double digits as the medical team tries to shock my mom’s heart into submission. It doesn’t work. They try again. 170, 169, 150, 88, 122, 88, 80, 80, 80, 80. It works.

I stand there fighting back tears, that I can latter shed in privacy, because I must be strong. I am no longer the youngest child in a family of four but the head of the family, responsible for dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s so that my parents medical treatment runs smoothly.

Quiet ensues. The yelling of the medical orders and decisions to make are confined to the other 30 beds in ER. The only ones left are my mom, my dad, the beating machines and me. We have small talk, I tell them about my day and how we all need to work out more. They agree, if only for tonight. The nurse comes back in to give me a strip of paper. My mom’s heart rhythm, she thinks I might find it cool. We go home.

Phew, we were able to make it out again and I look back to the hospital as we drive away and hope that I never have to go back. Deep down I know better. We make the very familiar drive home and I worry. I really hope everything is okay. Although blessed with young looking skin and pretty good curly hair, I curse my genes for making most of the women in my family susceptible to this nonsense...especially my mom. I wonder if and when it will be Xtian standing over my bed in silence as I stare at the monitor wishing for double digits. Sigh.

We go back home and my mom sits on my bed as she helps me pick out my outfit for my big presentation the next day as my dad tells me of the latest Netflix movie I ordered for him. I love these moments and want to relish in it forever. But it is late and I need to be on a plane. We go to bed.

I am in my room and everything overwhelms me. I grab my laptop and start to write.