I just saw an ad for a TV show on WE TV for a new show called The Locator. The premise of the show is that this guy named Troy Dunn “reunites loved ones and reconnects lives.” That’s all fine and good—especially because he helps connect organ donors with people who need them—but the commercial showed him at a woman’s front door telling her that the baby she gave up years ago is trying to find her.

Can I just tell you? That is my worst fucking nightmare. I am adopted. Back in the day, there was none of this open adoption stuff. The mother gave up her child and that was that. I was born and went home from the hospital with my parents. End of story.

Years ago I was talking to my husband about being adopted. He asked if I ever had any interest in finding my birth parents. I think he had a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that I had no interest in opening that door. By my parents are the only people I consider to be my parents. I don’t consider them my “adoptive parents.” Just parents. They raised me. They were there through everything from birth to now.

When I was in high school my parents told me that if I had any interest in finding anything out or even finding my birth mother, they would help me. I refused. I think they were relieved. They were always very open with me about being adopted. I don’t remember there ever being a big moment when I learned The Truth. I was never made to feel different or weird. It just was. In grammar school a friend of mine found out when we were 9 that she was adopted. It totally sent her over the edge. She felt betrayed, lied to, different. So I was always grateful for how my parents handled it with me.

I’m sure some people think it’s weird or cold that I have no interest in finding my birth mother. I’m sure if I had a crappy childhood and terrible parents I’d go searching. But that’s not the case. I don’t feel a deep void. I don’t feel like a huge piece of me is missing. Every so often I wish I had my medical records. Occasionally, I wonder where my thighs came from and I wonder if my birth parents are healthy (for my health reasons). Other than that, there’s nothing I need to know.

My worst nightmare would be to open the front door and have someone standing there telling me that my birth mother wanted to meet me.

When you hear stories of this happening, it never seems to turn out well. Someone always seems to have unreasonable expectations and someone always ends up disappointed. I’m not sure what someone would want other than to make sure I turned out okay.

I know the basic story—young girl, young boyfriend, made a mistake. She did what most girls did back then and gave me up for adoption. She was too young to take on the responsibility. I’m sure it was the most difficult decision she’s ever had to make, but it was the best gift she could have given my parents. And it was the best gift she could have given me.

Remember that Missing Persons song—”Nobody Walks In L.A.”? It’s so true and it’s a shame because there are too many drivers in L.A. And worse? Our surface streets and freeways are full of douche bag drivers. And I gotta tell ya, I’m sick and tired of taking my life into my hands every time I get in my car.

This morning on my way to work, as I was getting on the freeway on-ramp, I looked in my rear view mirror to see a corvette about a half inch off my bumper. He wasn’t even paying attention to me because he was wildly gesticulating and motherfucking the guy in the van next to him, who is yelling right back. I don’t know what lead up to that and frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I do care about the fact that this continued all the way down the on-ramp until the van cut me off so he could chase down the corvette, totally running me off the road. I was almost pushed up the hillside along the freeway. Of course, neither one of the douche bags slowed down and I doubt they even noticed.

That was Harrowing Experience Number 1 today.

Harrowing Experience Number 2 occurred on my way home from work. I was in a double left-hand turn lane in the right-side turn lane, patiently waiting to for the light to change. I was at a complete stop as was all the traffic in front of me. The light was red. Meanwhile, a total blonde ditz (Full Disclosure: I’m blonde, but not stupid) in a huge Hummer barreled down on me at full speed. Once she got her head out of her ass she realized she miscalculated the distance she was going to need to brake in time. She did one of those deals where she turned the steering wheel left and right trying to determine which direction would offer the least amount of damage. At THE very last second she decided to go to the left of me. But had I not scooted up and moved into the traffic lane to my right, I would not be able to type this post. She would have totally taken out the back end of my car.

I’ve noticed crap like this happening a lot. It’s like all of L.A. needs to go back to driver’s ed. Basic rules, like keeping a safe distance between cars (get off my bumper, dude), and making sure you have enough room to switch lanes, and even just turning on your God-damned turn signal just don’t exist. This area is full of soccer mom types who drive these massive Suburbans and Hummers even though they can’t steer them in a straight line or pull into ONE parking space, never mind knowing how to stop the damn thing.

We have an Avalanche, which is almost as big as a Suburban, and when I drive it, I’m aware of my surroundings. I have good spacial relationships, so I know how to stay in my own lane. I understand basic physics, so I know that it’s going to take me a little longer to stop a massive truck. I’m not a crappy driver. I don’t drive like an old lady and I’m not timid. I’m actually a little aggressive behind the wheel, but not to the point that I put myself or anyone else in danger.

If we had to actually do a driver’s test every time we had to renew our driver’s licenses, I bet there would be fewer drivers on the road.

L.A. drivers suck.

My wedding anniversary is today. Bill and I have been married for nine years (we’ve been together for 13). It’s a long time. 3,285 days to be exact. Well, maybe not exact because I think there was a leap year or two in there somewhere. We got married 4 days after my 30th birthday so Bill likes to joke that he save me from becoming an old maid. Chivalrous of him, right?! Some days nine years feels like a major accomplishment, some days it feels like a drop in the bucket, some days it feels like time has flown by too quickly, and other days it feels like it’s been a struggle. But when Bill proposed he promised that I would never be bored married to him, and he wasn’t kidding.

Bill has three sons and, frankly, step-parenting is probably the most thankless job around. Fortunately, most of the boys were a little older when Bill and I started dating, so I think it was probably easier than it could have been. Over the years, a couple of the boys rotated in and out of our house, and one of them was pretty easy to live with. The other, not so much. Not even remotely easy. Difficult would be an understatement. It really tested our marriage. But we got through it. A few years ago, both of Bill’s parents became ill and passed away within a year and a half of each other. That kind of sadness and depression could dismantle a marriage pretty easily, but somehow we got through that, too. And we’ve endured job changes, careers going in new directions, kids moving out and kids moving to different parts of the country. We’ve survived a close family member needing intervention and ultimately rehab. We’ve had a granddaughter, and now we’re in the middle of a what began as a kitchen renovation but has become a much bigger more involved project than that.

But even when we were deep in the bowels of hell, even when I didn’t see an end to the chaos, even when I considered running screaming from the house every single day, I didn’t. I stayed because even with all the baggage, even with all the bullshit and drama, I knew that this man is the only man that I’d want by my side every day no matter what. I’m pretty sure we can get through anything if we’re together.

I used to have a fantasy of what the perfect marriage should be. Picket fences aside, I had visions of googley-eyed happiness and fiery romance every day. And don’t forget the wine and roses. But the reality is so much different—yet so much better than I could have ever imagined. There’s romance and happiness, but I’ve realized that how you deal with problems and obstacles together that really matters. Bill and I make a pretty good team. We balance each other out and we have a lot of fun. Even when the shit has hit the fan and splattered all over the walls, we can always make each other laugh. And, for us, that’s the secret.

I am so happy to have spent the last 9 years married to this man. And I can’t wait to spend many, many more with him.

Happy anniversary, Bill!

Gracie is going to be competing in the National Samoyed Specialty later this month, and we took out an ad in the program. Her brother Zane is on the left.

Just a suggestion to the chick behind me in Starbucks this morning. Don’t stand right in front of the bar where the drinks come up, blocking the whole thing so everyone has to reach around you to pick up their coffee. And if you insist on standing there anyway, please don’t finger every god-damned drink that gets placed on the bar. You know your name and you know what your ordered. If they call, “Skinny Vanilla Latte for Maureen” keep your fucking germy hands off my coffee. I don’t know where they’ve been. Because next time? I might just walk up and lick your coffee lid when you get your drink.