Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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What I do remember is that somehow, as conversation sometimes allows, I found  cause to speak aloud the words I’ve said to others, but hadn’t yet said to him.

“I really think you may just be the perfect person for me.”

We’re really not that couple. The kind who writes flowery love letters or gets all googly-eyed about our oh-my-god-I’m-so-in-love-with-you affection. We rarely hold hands as we walk down the sidewalk. We don’t see each other every day. We don’t say “I love you” every time we hang up the phone. And even though we kiss each other good night, we’re not close sleepers. We keep our own, and respect each other’s, space and individuality.

So when moments like the one happening that night on the couch spring forward, they’re memorable and genuine and ever so meaningful. Moments like reaching for the refrigerator door handle and having him grab my hand instead, slow dancing with me in our pajamas on the tiled kitchen floor. Or how we send one sentence cards in the mail to one another even though we’re only a block away. And the way we rush to take each other’s side with our standard declaration of hate no matter the alleged offense or offender- “Fuck those motherfuckers! We’ll burn this fucking place to the ground!”

For the first time ever in The History of Me Dating, I feel that I have found someone who sees me for exactly who I am, understands me, and loves me. In spite of. Because of. Someone who came along at the right time with the right intentions. Who gives the right amount and with whom I feel safe. With him, I see so much that is uncertain, undecided, may never be. And yet, I see just enough to feel that it is right. I can only hope that he does or will feel the same.

But for now,  I have the memory of that moment, the certainty of his hand resting on my leg as he looked at me, of the words he spoke in return.

“I think you are too.”

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MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.

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Nothing.

In a flurry of spontaneity, I reached for a stubby, unkempt notebook and my giraffe pen (very good for the tapping of one’s forehead while thinking). I prepared a list, pressing each letter into the paper fibers.

Things That Make Me Happy.

I sat back and chewed the inside of my cheek. I tapped my forehead. I looked out at the courtyard flowers through the windowpane. Begin small, I thought at last. I closed the laptop and pursued the idea, pen in hand. I gave myself over to its honest, if inconsequential, whimsy: When did/ do I feel happy?

Something.

Hastily, I filled the scrap of paper with whatever came, bulleting along the way. And when my writing slowed, I ran a finger over each, hoping to absorb their sentiment, their meaning. They are my secrets, my keepsakes, my one-of-a-kind treasures. They are poetic and beautiful, perhaps meaningful only to me. Places I have been and return to often in my mind, words that were once breathed and remain tucked away, a memory as clear as day though in a dream.

I took my list, imperfectly scrawled, and taped it to my mirror; a place to remember my happinesses as I begin each day. Singing along to old Christmas music, reading a really good book, picking out the perfect gift for someone, being inspired to write, hearing the ocean carried on a warm breeze, sleeping the whole night through, petting one of those sweet Little Faces.

Others too:  the sunrise spot on that beach; the first time I ever saw a whale; the cards of support my mother still sends me; the warm sunlight that poured through those windows at Westminster; the memory of my grandfather’s voice, laughing and calling my name; and most recently, the belief that I may never feel so alone again because.

With a half smile, I realized that even my list of happinesses is bittersweet. Mostly intangible and fleeting, they live only in memory, carried along in the words that I keep close. Each bullet seems merely a sentence, hardly a phrase even.

Nothing. Something. So much more.

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I knew it was silly bothering to wear them as I rushed to shut the windows and turn on the air conditioning; knew it was sillier to continue wearing them while putting food in the fridge, pouring a glass of lemonade, then a glass of chardonnay, sifting through the mail and magazines, even removing my nail polish.

Task for task, I watched the minutes tick past and the temperature finally achieve a more apathetic attitude. I wasn’t “in” for the night; not yet. I was waiting to meet you.

I’ve known you for nearly a year and a half and yet I still want you to want me. I want to be the girl in the heels to you, the girl you look up and down, the girl you want to touch and smell and taste.

But I’ve already shown myself to be the girl without enough make-up on, the girl who swears at washing machines and double-wide strollers, the girl who is perhaps too “down-to-earth” in her more-often-than-not-these-days sensible flats.

Just five minutes together at most; that’s what we cobbled together today. Less a complaint than an opportunity seized, I met you on the sidewalk as planned; a logistical exchange of a file requiring printing. I kissed you under downcast eyelashes, kicked wood-chips, and generally played it “cool.” Sometimes I can’t help approaching time spent with you with the same anticipation of a bright-eyed girl in a burgeoning relationship. I hope he likes me. Still.

Straight away you teased, “Where are you headed all gussied up with your heels on and everything?” You noticed, despite my feigned laziness: what, these old things? You leaned in and kissed my neck, told me that I smelled pretty. You lingered.

I’ve always loved talking to you; loved your wit and humor and insight, even those old-man curmudgeonly capacities. I grasp at even small moments like these with you because you’re my best friend and confidante, my champion and boyfriend. You’re the first and last person I want to talk to each and every day.

But these are all the things I didn’t tell you. Instead, merely perhaps and much later, I texted a confession.

I kept my heels on…for you.

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But I haven’t done a very good job of pointing out the kickassness of the world of late. See, I sort of got promoted recently (Oh, I didn’t tell you? Well, I did!) and thusly have had limited time to blog these days (poo!). So, in lieu, of the post I wanted to write today (it was about gushy love stuff), I’ve simply gathered a few things I’m loving right now in honor of I Salute You Friday #2. Commence with the kickassery!

Levi's Low Skinny 531 Jeans

I love these jeans so much that I practically live in them right now. After FINALLY being properly fitted for jeans (sorry, Gap, but you guys didn’t really cut it), I bought this style in grey and have been kicking myself for not buying them in other colors too. Well, problem solved, these jeans are on sale for $39.90 (regular price $68-$69.50) online and I just ordered them in black (pictured) and the “clean air” wash. If you sign up on their site for their mailing list, they’ll instantly send you an email for free shipping on anything for a week.

Milkmaid Butter Dish

Now, I realize that a butter dish is all kinds of “incidental” and serves to promote a condiment that modern cooking would just as soon eradicate…BUT, how freaking cute is this? I got mine in red from Anthropologie and I adore it. In fact, it’s been sitting on my kitchen table since I bought it in January. No, I haven’t used it. I just like to look at it.

katiekutthroat on etsy

I was first introduced to katiekutthroat’s cross stitching magic on the Regretsy site and I have to say, this gal is gifted. It’s like hearing Betty White call someone a cockblocker or something. It’s just…all kinds of wrong. And perfect for my sensibilities. Especially the beautifully crafted reference above to Whore Island. Fantastic.

Avington Slipper Chair

So I have this old brown chair in my living room. It’s a hand-me-down from my parents and was in our family room when I was growing up. This chair is eponymously known in my family as “Old Brown” and is revered as a thing of legend (it started smoking once because the fireplace was nearby and apparently it got too hot). It obviously made it out okay, but the chair is old and is a dark bottomless shade of brown and…just no. It needs to goesky. The boyfriend already has this chair from Target, but it would look much better in my apartment. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me taking it. Muwahahahahaha….

Clinique Even Better Clinical

Has anyone actually tried this? I’m dying to pick it up from Sephora (Ulta doesn’t carry it) and set it to work on a dark spot I have on my upper right cheekbone just below my eye. It’s received really good reviews online and in magazines. Also, and this makes ALL the difference in the world, I like the packaging and that they used green on the tube. Best argument for a purchase ever.

Trek Wasabi Surf Rider

According to the product description on the Village Cycle site, this bike (in Canary Yellow because the other color is grody) is a “spicy, low-cal treat.” I don’t know about that, but I do know that if I see another indie hoochie riding around the neighborhood on her colorfully cute vintage-esque cruiser, I’m going to throw rocks into her spokes. Also, she can go back to the aforementioned “Whore Island.” The end.

Nine West "Tadie"

I almost didn’t post these shoes because a) I want them and b) they’re only available from Nordstrom for some inexplicable reason. It’s absurd! Search the WHOLE Internet; you won’t find them except on Nordstrom’s site. I’ve decided that they’re the perfect summer wedge with tasteful but fierce! grommet detailing. I like them in olive, but so help me google, if the size 6 winds up sold out, I may never post another shoe again. You have been warned.

Kelty Redstart Daypack

I ordered this daypack for my trip to Alaska (19 DAYS!). I figured I needed something other than Julianne or Varuca Maplethorpe (that’s what I call my Longchamp Le Pliage) when I’m hiking around glaciers and whale watching and mountain biking. Hence the daypack, which is probably more than I need but the color is great, the straps are comfortable, there’s ample storage, and it came with free shipping in a box that smelled like pine trees. All in all, delightful.

What are you loving right now?

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You’re likely to have seen them before (and given their nature, embedding is unfortunately disabled), but as they say, sharing is caring! So click the links and watch them anyway dammit. I hope they brighten your day too…

• The Jam Wedding. It’s still on my Tivo, and yes, I still watch it. The part at the end when they’re on the boat: it gives me chills and makes me tear up. Every. Single. Time. 
• Yes, indeed. What do tigers dream of when they take a little tiger snooze? The boyfriend and I were singing this song in bed before we went to sleep last night. He gets it. We’re silly and still make each other laugh a lot. 
• Speaking of my boyfriend, he tells me that Kristin Chenoweth is like a “singing pocket gnome” because, you know, “she sings and she’s tiny and could fit in your pocket” or something like that. So, um yeah, there’s that. Anyway, even though I’m no Twi-hard I still saw the movies (yes, really) and am thus “in” on the joke and find this entertaining. 
• Rock the fuck out, Madagascar! Found this and tweeted about it over the holidays. It’s cheesy, yes. But there’s something about it that I just, well, I just love. You’ll find Haiti singing at 2:52, which gives me the opportunity to add that (for anyone in the U.S.) any donations made by the end of February can be deducted from your 2009 tax filing.

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