The Halloween Grinch (aka A Very Monkey Birthday)

Being born on Halloween has its good and bad points.

The good – well it’s kind of badass to hang with the undead (legend has it Halloween babies have extra perception and the protection of the spirit world) and I can use it to explain away my teenager-like obsession with all things skull-print.

The downside is that every year, when you ask folk to come to your birthday party, they will all already be prebooked with something Halloweeny.

Rather like those who are born on Christmas, and perpetually hold a grudge against Jesus for watering down their gift potential, I have developed a Grinch-like bitterness when it comes to pumpkins, fake blood and witch costumes. Skeletons I can live with on account of the aforementioned skull-print fetish.

And whilst my silent “but it’s my birthday first of all” sulk can go relatively undercover in the UK, over in the US, Halloween is big business.

Walmart, for example, was already sporting a Halloween theme way back when we arrived in the States, at the end of September.

Every aisle boasted cobwebs, and leering cats, along with the well-known haunted outhouse.

Every aisle that is bar this one, where it was already Christmas.

Sensing (perhaps because I never stopped banging on about it) that encountering Halloween revelry on my “special day” would be a hiding to stroppiness, Andy steered me away from my original plan to go to the crabshack in Pacific Beach (an area packed to the gills with drunk students) and towards a nice, grownup restaurant for dinner.

But before that, there was the day itself to attend to, kicking off (and for this, I applaud Andy’s patience) at 6.30am with cards and presents.
I might be 39 now, but I retain the impatience of a five year old attacking Santa’s stocking.

Andy (Big Monkey, long story but stems from how we started dating) had bankrupted himself on the card front (for some reason stationery seems exorbitant over here), with four separate offerings – including one on behalf of absent friends and family, and one mocking my (Little Monkey) time-wasting ability when it comes to getting in the shower, along with a couple of smoochy numbers.

All other cards and presents (even those I was instrumental in buying) had been painstakingly guarded till the day itself, and gloriously wrapped in paper and ribbons for a full-on rip-open experience.
Having witnessed the abomination that was Andy's Christmas wrapping last December, I know how much effort this must have entailed, and once again expressed my gratitude with some “happy crying”.

After breakfast in bed (good old poached eggs again) it was time to head off to the nail salon (me, not Andy).

For some reason, I imagine the life of an American lady entails endless sessions of buffing and gelling, and given I was having a day off from grabbing hopelessly at big boys coattails and collars in BJJ, it was the ideal opportunity to hand myself over to the varnish maestros.

One manicure, pedicure and spicy sandwich later (Andy liked his so much he decided to sport it across his chops), I bedecked myself in as many birthday gifts as it’s possible to wear simultaneously, and we headed off to downtown San Diego.

The Gaslamp shopping gods were smiling on me, and Vans offered up two new pairs of sunglasses (the last ones lasted roughly two days before I sat on them).

Heading home to swank up before dinner, we made a last minute detour to the beach, to watch the sun go down and take way too many pensive “arty” shots. There are a lot of them in this blog, but trust me, it's a drop in the photo ocean when it comes to our collection. We are well on our way to becoming the proverbial "let me bore you with our holiday snaps" couple.

We ended the day by blowing the food budget (put it this way, there’ll be a lot more poached eggs this month) at Table 926.

It was a chance to ponder our first month (and a bit) of travels, and where we will head in the New Year.

As well as stuff ourselves to the point where we felt rather sick.

I’m not one for public outpourings of emotion (crying excepted) but it was quite possibly the best birthday ever. For everyone who posted, gifted and greeted, and of course the exceptional efforts of the Big Monkey, I want to say thanks, it left me feeling something like this…

Version 2.0

I have always wanted a tattoo.

Since teenagehood I have been obsessed with ink, piercing, scars, anything that leaves a mark, or a story on the body. I’m probably the only person who has a session of Chinese cupping and feels sad when the bruises fade.

Given my fanaticism, you’d expect me to be head-to-toe covered in permanent art. But the truth of the matter is I’ve always been afraid to make that commitment. I’m a love-it-or-hate-it type of person, and my taste is wildly fickle. Plus, I’m still a bit scared of my mum, and my mum hates tattoos. For 38 years I’ve made do with obscene levels of tattoo groupiedom around friends with ink (sorry to everyone whose arms, legs and chests I’ve creepily pored over) and talk of “the best tattoo in the world I’m going to get at some unspecified point in the future”.

This trip, however, was about a new start - a different way of living and some alternate ways of thinking. Yes, it also featured Brazilian Jiu Jitsu quite heavily, but more than that I was beginning to recognise some patterns in my behaviour that were really counterproductive.

The eternal fearfulness that meant I never really stepped into something unfamiliar in case it worked out badly.

The “martyrdom” that meant I prioritised keeping everyone else on side over making myself happy (undoubtedly the misery that accompanied the martyrdom drove friends, family and partners up the wall).

And the desperate desire to be the best at everything that continued way past school and university, and regularly ran me flat into the ground.

With my 39th birthday hurtling round the corner, I had a real moment of clarity – one that said “You’re about half way through life, and you haven’t really started living yet. How much longer are you planning on waiting?”

It was time for a reboot, a Lisa Version 2.0. Taking the last 38 years as a test run, and using it to build something stronger, braver and more “in the moment”.

I wanted something to mark this commitment to change, something that wasn’t detracted from by “but what ifs?” And so, with roughly three days planning, and five days before we left for the States, I got 2.0 tattooed on my ankle.

Obviously this was a few weeks ago - the new Lisa Version 2.0 might be badass, but she’s still a bit scared of Mum Version 1.0 (we’ve got 2 months to go before the Christmas reunion, so maybe the UN can settle matters before then).

The tattoo itself was done by a very good friend of mine, MMA fighter Pete Irving. He’s currently apprenticing as a tattooist and it was my way of taking my pals with me on my travels.

As it happens, the 2.0 tattoo has come in handy in other ways. When I handed in my notice, got rid of my flat, sold my possessions and moved across the globe, I assumed change would happen automatically. After all, pretty much every element of familiarity was gone.

And the first week was definitely new and exciting, filled with an adrenalin-type rush. Our brains quite regularly couldn’t comprehend the enormity and consequences of chucking so much into the air, and so we flipped into holiday mode, bouncing merrily between beaches and BJJ mats with glee.

Around the middle of week two though, I started noticing a shift, one that was making me a little sad and deflated.

In an environment where everything was chaotic and unfamiliar, we had started building frameworks that made it more like the old life.

We didn’t have jobs to go to, but we had a gym schedule, classes to hit, people who expected us to be there. We had chores to complete, laundry to run, breakfast slots in the motel to wake up for.

Instead of the “letting go and uncovering what I really want to do” mantra I had recited to myself, we were both finding ways to organise, and hurry, and prioritise. Rest was squeezed in between things, a commodity that would enable the other stuff on the “To Do list.”

I’ll be honest here, I don’t think it was accidental that we slipped back into “I’ll get round to it after…” future mode.

Racing on and "achieving", be that belts, jobs or weight loss, is tough. Standing still is sometimes more intimidating. What if you don't like where you're at, see mistakes that you've made, or mourn opportunities you've missed?

But without stopping, it's impossible to really change. After all, you have to take stock to even know where you're starting from.

At times where I notice I'm reverting to old habits, it helps to have a tiny 2.0 on my foot.

It reminds me to keep changing. I don't want it to end up as a faded, meaningless piece of nothing – the proverbial dolphin tattooed on a drunken hen night.

And the funniest thing is that after 38 years of "what will I find that looks good enough forever?" type stress, the design itself is secondary - it's the permanence I like the most. It is, and was, a way to mark a snapshot in time. And at least it doesn't say #YOLO.