In honor of Valentine’s Day, this week’s topic for Sprite’s Keeper’s Spin Cycle is Love. At first, I thought, hot damn. I’ve been struggling for something to write; this will be an easy topic to bang out (pun sort of intended). But writing about love is much harder than I thought it would be.

I’m generally not a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s a contrived Hallmark Holiday designed to make you feel bad if you don’t have someone in your life or aren’t subscribing to the stereotypical notion of romantic love. I don’t hate Valentine’s Day, but I don’t measure the strength my marriage by whether or not I was showered with over-priced, half-dead flowers and a box of chocolate. It’s not a barometer of my love for my husband or vice versa. It’s much deeper than a sentiment on a card. More importantly, I hate the idea that you single out one day of the year to tell your significant other that you love them.

This will be the 13th Valentine’s Day with my husband (ooh, lucky number 13), but we weren’t exactly dating that first one. We had sort of started to, but not really. I think we were both seeing other people, because for various reasons we had decided it couldn’t work between us. But we liked each other, we “got” each other and liked spending time together. I clearly remember him sending me a little white teddy bear with a mug full of carnations or something. The romantic kiss of death, right?

Not long after that, though, we got by whatever was holding us up, and started dating. I think I knew pretty early on that he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with—which is why I kept pushing him away. He was actually interested in me, in what I had to say, in what I wanted out of life. He cared about my feelings and actually wanted to know what made me tick. How scary is that?

When we first got married I didn’t expect it to be wine and roses every day, but I do think I underestimated how hard marriage can be. You can love someone will all of your heart, but it’s not always enough. It’s much more than that. You have to do some work. Every day you have to get up and choose this person all over again. Every day you have to choose to get along, to fight battles together, to agree to disagree and be supportive of each other.

Contrary to popular belief, love does not conquer all.

I know that sounds cynical (I’ve been called that once or twice!). But I don’t mean to be. In fact, I’m a total romantic. But I’m realistic. I believe it’s the other 364 days of the year that really matter. It’s those days, that no matter what’s going on, no matter how tired you are, cranky about work or whatever else is bugging you, that you have to step up and treat each other with respect, compassion and kindness. It’s the quiet acceptance of someone for who they are (even if who they are is a rampant snorer!). It’s the daily little things you do for someone to make their lives just a little easier (even if they don’t notice). It’s putting someone else and their needs before your own. And it’s the belief, it’s the trust that someone is going to do the same in return. More than anything, it’s trust. Trust in each other that you’ll treat your feelings with respect and care. That’s love. And it’s the stuff of passion.

It’s not always easy, and I’m the first to admit that I’m not always successful. But I try. And so does he. And some days that’s all that matters.

So what does love have to do with it? Everything.

Posting has been a little light around here lately. I think I’m suffering from a substantial case of writer’s block. I hope it’s acute and not chronic, but it’s definitely put a cramp in my blog style.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve started at least a half-dozen posts but end up just saving them in my drafts folder. When I read back what I’ve managed to type out, I’m not sure any of it will see the light of day. I’ve deleted a few; edited others, but nothing is moving me to hit “Publish.”

It’s not like I don’t have anything to say. I’ve got plenty on my mind. But I just can’t seem to organize the words into coherent–and complete—thoughts.

It’s a sad state of affairs over here in Snarkville.

So I need your help. I’m going to be a little lazy and ask for some suggestions. Will you throw some random topics my way to get me writing? Or ask me a question. I need an “assignment” to get me rolling again.

Pretty please?

1. Freshly washed sheets on the bed.

2. Whipped cream in my coffee.

3. Rainy mornings that give me the excuse to do nothing.

4. Watching HGTV instead of cleaning the house.

5. A dog snoring at my feet.

I don’t know the first thing about our local politics (well, I know who the mayor is, but beyond that? Meh.), but I know people who know people and they have people. And I have an idea that I’m going to push and work tirelessly for in order to make sure my bill becomes law.

In Southern California it’s hard to get around unless you own a car. Our public transportation system kind of blows. Yeah, we have buses, but not enough. We sort of have subways, but they only go about 5 miles in one direction then you have to get off, and get on another that goes in another direction. Kinda pointless. This is a car culture, baby! We love our cars. Every year there are about 1.5 million new cars (about 9% of the total market) sold in California. And every morning, I commute to work with about 1.2 million of them. And every morning, when I get to work and realize that I am not only still alive but unscathed, I get down on my knees and kiss the ground in gratitude.

For a culture that spends so much time in our cars you’d think we’d be better drivers. Not so much. We suck.

The experience of driving a typical L.A. freeway is to be terrorized by an entire population of people driving 1990 Honda Civics and 2006 Toyota Prius’ racing each other, trying to break the land speed record on their way to Starbucks. I’m an aggressive driver, but I think it’s more out of necessity than psychosis. I don’t willfully and purposefully cut people off, tailgate a quarter inch off someone’s bumper, change lanes without looking, apply makeup while piloting a one-ton SUV at 90 mph, while talking on my cell phone and texting on my Blackberry with 6 screaming kids watching DVDs in the backseat. I have been known, however, to extend a salute with my lovely, manicured middle finger out of my adorable little topless convertible to thankyoumverymuchforbeingatupidbitchnowgetoffmyass.

And I never commit my personal pet peeve—lazy lane changes. In the last couple of years I’ve noticed that fewer people actually execute a proper lane change—you know, signal, look, wait until it’s clear, slow down if necessary until you can move. Instead, they rush up to your bumper as fast as they can and then…lacksidasically…turn the wheel Ever. So. Slightly. to get into the adjacent lane, but not before giving you a heart attack thinking they’re about to take your rear bumper with them, sending you careening into oncoming traffic. It happens to me every single day.

I don’t know what the laws are across the country, but I know that here in California the only time you actually take a physical driving test is if you are between the ages of 16 and 18 and are applying for your license for the first time or if you’re over the age of 80. That’s it. Otherwise, you take a written exam every other time that your license comes up for renewal. If you get your license after the age of 18, you don’t have to drive around doing three-point turns or parallel parking. You just take the written test, they hand you a slip of paper and off you go, free to commit random acts of terror behind the wheel.

A couple of years ago, I had to go DMV to take my written test. While I was waiting my turn, I heard them paging my license plate number over the loudspeaker. Turns out this stupid 16-year-old, who was parked next to me, went to back out of the space to take her driver’s test and took out the whole side of my Tahoe. In spite of my total temper tantrum, they let her take the driving test anyway. I think that should have been an automatic fail. Instead? DMV=FAIL.

So here’s what I propose. Every three or four years, or however often it is that your driver’s license comes up for renewal, we should ALL have to retake the actual driving portion of the test. And not just up and down a city block. They should make you drive in real-world situations—morning traffic, in front of a school getting out for the day, in a parking lot (please, don’t even get me started on this one. Parking lot does not equal speedway. Slow down, you fuckers.) This will weed out the weak, the bad and the stupid. I guarantee it. If you fail, you have to retake driver’s ed. Then you can try again in a month.

And not only will this get all the morons out of their cars and onto buses where they belong, it’ll pour money back into the California economy. California can take a cut of the driving school fees, plus any additional fees for the driving tests. I’m not great at math but 1.5 million cars at about $20 a person is a lot of money.

I think I’m going to write to my congressman.

I just need to figure out who that is.

Much ado about absolutely nothing…

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

As I drove on to my street last night I saw that our neighbors across the street had their Christmas light on. For a split second, I thought, “Awww. that looks nice.” Then I realized not only were they on—it was February 3—but they just put them up. Yesterday. February 3. Not sure what that’s about—were they too busy at Christmas time to actually celebrate Christmas then? Are we testing the homeowner’s association? Or are they just trying to get a jump on next Christmas?

In a Jam

I was on my own for dinner last night. Bill was working late and I was too tired to cook anything. Rather than resort to my fall-back meal—cereal—I decided I wanted a PB&J sandwich instead. I wasn’t digging the wheat bread, but I found some fresh tortillas, heated them on the gas burner so they were a little crispy, and slathered the peanut butter and jelly on them. But this wasn’t just any jelly. I used Sarabeth’s Peach Apricot Preserves. Oh My Holy Hell. This is the best stuff out there. A few years ago, Bill and I spent a week in NYC and stayed at a hotel on Madison and 92nd. Right next door was a restaurant called Sarabeth’s and it was incredible. I remember having the jam one morning and I’ve never forgotten it. Flash-forward to a couple of weeks ago. I was cruising through Bristol Farms and saw a selection of Sarabeth jams and grabbed some. It’s pricey ($10 for a jar), but it’s like desert. You can make a PB&J sandwich, scoop it over ice cream or serve it with a cracker and some goat cheese. Mmm.

My Cups Runneth Over

After my PB&J extravaganza last night I was exhausted. The dog, of course, was not. She had been waiting patiently all day long for me to come home and walk her. And when I tried to get away with taking her up the block and back, she was pissed. She’s pretty calculating at times, and very patient. So she waited until I crawled into a nice hot tub to relax to fuck with me. First she kept sticking her paw in the tub to splash me. Then she grabbed her ball and tossed that in the tub repeatedly. I got tired of her throwing it in, so I tossed it out one last time and shut the shower door. Apparently, when I got undressed to get into the tub, I left my bra hanging off the edge of the counter. By the time I was done with my bath she had managed to rip both of the straps off and eat one of the bra cups. Now I get to watch her crap my bra out in the back yard.