But we aren't really “The Traveling Newlyweds” anymore. We're just a couple folks in an in-between stage of our lives, looking for work and eating a lot of microwave burritos. Unemployment isn't quite as exciting as crossing the Bali Strait during a monsoon, especially from a relationship perspective. So we're hanging up the hat here, at least for now.

I'd love to bust back onto iVillage in another form down the road, and I hope that if and when that happens, you'll come visit us again. Until then, thank you so much for your support, well-wishes, and advice. If want to keep up with us online, I'm still blogging regularly, and if Brendan gets bored enough, he may even start one up too. I wouldn't hold your breath, though. He watches an awful lot of baseball.

Take care, everyone.

Sarah

I am trapped in Giants fan hell.

See, I don’t like Mr. Bonds. If you follow baseball, you know what I’m talking about. If not, the situation is such that Barry Bonds will soon break the all-time home run record, arguably the most hallowed in American sport. And he’ll have done it with reported help from steroids.

“But you don’t know that,” Sarah says.

“Sure, I never actually saw him jab a needle in his butt, but there’s a lot of evidence that says he did.”

“Well, still you don’t know. I wish you’d just drop it.”

But she’s wrong. I do know, along with everyone else outside the Bay Area. What I don’t know is how the two of them can keep on fooling themselves. But again, maybe they know he’s a juicer, but they just don’t care. Baseball is turning into professional wrestling that way, with designated good guys and bad guys. The problem is that no one seems to care that this game shouldn’t be like professional wrestling. This is real. Barry Bonds really is going to stain the game. And yet, I keep watching and buying tickets, so I guess I’m to blame too.

I know this may seem trivial to non-baseball fans, but for reasons I can’t really explain, this whole thing means a lot to me. I fell like something good is being lost.

“You’re obsessed with Barry Bonds. That’s all you ever talk about.”

I just want someone to see my point. Another Cubs fan around the house would be nice.

“You love Barry. Admit it.”

I try to explain that what’s happening now is going to be remembered for years and years. Someday, there may be grandkids who want to know what it was like watching Bonds chase the record even though everyone knew he was juiced. Although, I’m almost positive this won’t happen. Something tells me kids two generations away won’t be as baseball-obsessed as I am. And maybe that’s a good thing, since it’s one less thing to fight about.

-Brendan

Now that we're temporarily living in Californian suburbia, getting anything done requires our car. So if I'm out running errands, Brendan is stranded back at the house. I could take him along, but there's really nothing worse than dragging my husband through Whole Foods (for some inexplicable reason, he gets unbearably antsy when I compare the nutritional content labels of, say, competing brands of vegetarian refriend black beans for five short minutes). It usually isn't a big deal, but once in a while the singular car thing comes between us.

Tonight, for example. I belong to a monthly girls' potluck group and tonight the gathering is in Redwood City (about 1.5 hours from here, without traffic). Door to door, I'll probably be gone for at least six hours, which means that Brendan needs to plan accordingly before I leave. And the entire time I'm gone, I'll have that little nagging voice of guilt reminding me that poor Brendan is at home and lonely and that I shouldn't stay out any longer than absolutely necessary.

To combat my guilt, my new favorite internet pastime involves browsing various hybrid car models that we can't afford. It's a start.

-Sarah

We’re still jobless. We’ve got prospects, so we’re not worried, but we’re still sitting around in our pajamas until two in the afternoon. And in an effort not to spend every waking minute around each other, we’ve developed a daily routine that keeps us out of the same breathing space. That is, I’m banished to the office while she gets the run of the living room and kitchen. She’s got a nice little spot picked out on the couch which she rarely ever moves from.

In the office down the hall, I can keep track of what she’s doing without having to set foot in her personal space. See, my computer lets me know whenever she adds a new update to one of her dozen or so blogs. The number of blogs is actually closer to four, but I can’t keep track. Their names all sound like something aliens might name their pets (Twitter, Tumbler, Snippet). So every time she adds a new random thought (Actual example: “I want sushi tonight. Like, real bad”), I’m on top of it, along with a few hundred other people.

It’s the only way to learn what she’s doing, since when I ask, she won’t tell me. I walk into the kitchen to make a sandwich, casually ask about her morning and she rolls her eyes like I just asked her to paint the house.

“Nothing. Just, you know, internet stuff (read: three hours on Baby Name Wizard).

“Oh. What’s new on the internet?”

“Go make your sandwich.”

She’s always so hesitant to tell me what she’s doing. I’m pretty sure she’s not downloading porn, so why the secrecy? I think she thinks I’ll judge her. But I won’t! Really, I tell her, we’re unemployed and in our pajamas all day. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.

-Brendan

I've never needed to build my own insurance plan before. It's just something I always had through company benefits. Let me tell ya, it's a huge drag. Right now I can hear Brendan swearing in the other room over something called a "catastrophic plan". Apparently it's the one we want, but the details are rather difficult to dissect. They really shouldn't give insurance plans names like "catastrophic".

Before we left the country last year, we both got caught up on the essential teeth cleanings, paps, shots, and cholesterol level diagnoses (ok, just one of us for the pap... wouldn't want you getting the wrong idea). A few of those routine visits are due for renewal, but haven't lapsed long enough to a big concern quite yet (although I'm sure my old dentist in LA has been mutilating his Sarah voodoo doll ever since my 6-month check-up reminder bounced back in the mail). Even so, it's one of those things you can't just ignore the way you can ignore dustballs behind the TV or holey socks. If I get really sick, and I could, we'd probably go broke saving me unless we have a decent health plan.

Picking out your own health plan is like choosing a cell provider, but scarier. Instead of SMS fees, we have dismemberment deductibles. We only want coverage for a few months, in hopes that eventually our respective job benefits can take over, but not getting locked in will naturally cost extra. The information we got over the phone doesn't seem to match the information displayed on the website. It's all very necessary, yet soul-crushing. I'd rather be fishing.

-Sarah

I’m a little disappointed. I chose to fly east this week to see some family, thereby avoiding any fast-induced rampages. But it looks like I won’t be spared.

Or will I? See, she could be fasting, but those lame excuses keep getting in the way. You know what I’m talking about. It’s how you rationalize not going to the gym, or doing homework or whatever.

“I was going to start today, but I thought, you know, I need to finish the eggs in the fridge, cause I don’t want them to go bad.”

“Yea that’s a good idea honey.”

The next day, I call her again.

“How’s the fast going?”

“Well. Here’s the thing. I was going to start this morning, but last night, I found out this friend was coming into town, and we’ll probably go out, and I don’t want to just sit there drinking water. You know?”

“Yea.”

“Also, I may go the Giants game this weekend.”

“Well, you can’t be expected to not drink beer, right?”

“I know. Plus, there’s the garlic fries.”

Sometimes it’s nice to just chill on the couch, resting on your lame excuses. But they start to eat away at me. Excuses are the reason why I’m not a millionaire. They’re also to blame for my stalled great American novel. Which I ought to be starting any day now, just as soon as I finish watching “American Idol.”

-Brendan

It's something called the master cleanse, or master cleanser. I admit I'm ignorant of the process, but it just seems to me that not eating for ten days might be a little dangerous. She says there's a lemon-based drink which will give her all she needs to not die, but still, I'm skeptical.

She's been talking about this fast for months, so now she has to go through with it in order to save face. Every few days she brings it up, reading testimonials of people who've done it (apparently, there's a large master cleanse online community out there.) There are also lots of pictures. I mean of things people have passed while cleansing. Big, red-knotted, rubber tube-looking things. One picture shows a woman proudly holding this thing up with a pair of tongs, with a smile that says, "look what just came out of me!"

This is what Sarah apparently wants. I'm glad I'm away for a few days, because I don't know how many times I can hear, "I'm hungry!" Because what can you say to someone who's fasting? Drink some more lemon based drink? No, best to let her fast in peace, where I can't hear her.

-Brendan

Having this quiet time to myself is pretty nice, actually. I spend a lot of time online these days, researching my next professional move and geting caught up on everything I've missed over the past year. It's time-consuming and certainly a little dull to observe, especially when Brendan emerges from the back office every half hour or so to check on my status.

"So what's new online?"

"Oh, you know. Just doing research."

"Yeah, uh huh. So, what are your thoughts on lunch?"

Asking my thoughts on lunch actually means: "I'm hungry and I'd like you to offer up some lunch options, because I only want to make my own PB&J if I absolutely have to."

At this point I usually sigh and push aside the laptop, and then Brendan will say something like "forget it, forget it, you're busy, I'm fine", and disappear into the back office for another 15 minutes or so. The entire scene will repeat in various forms throughout the day. It's just what we do.

But not this week. This week, I'm free to surf the web and eat things I know Brendan wouldn't like (sourdough walnut toast and cottage cheese, for example - you should see the face he made when I suggested it last). But it's a little lonely, too. The cats don't appreciate the graceful way I flip eggs in a pan, or pour milk onto a bowl of cereal. Even though I don't really like playing waitress, I kinda like being the one my husband depends on for his nutrition.

Although if he saw what I was watching on YouTube right now, he'd certainly have something disdainful to say. So, yeah. It's nice to have this quiet time. Just me and the cats, all week.

-Sarah

This morning started out fine as Brendan attempted to buy a flight to Chicago online. No biggie. He's done it before. We're still living with my mom while we try to sort out jobs and such, and rather than crawl the walls here day after day, he's decided to spend a week visiting friends and family back home.

Except that it wasn't going so well. First, the flight he wanted disappeared.

"Aaaah! My flight's gone!" he wailed.

"They canceled the flight?"

"No... it's just ...missing!"

"What do you mean, the flight's missing?"

"I went through all the steps, and NOW they tell me there are no more seats."

"Oh. Well honey, that happens."

Indignant muttering ensued. I buried my head the the Vanity Fair Green Issue.

"What the...? Why, Horizon Airlines? This makes no sense! Argghh!"

He knew he was being dramatic. He just wanted me to understand how upset he was. I fought the urge to offer to take over. See, I usually do this, and he usually lets me. But then he doesn't learn. I can't always keep taking over. He has to learn.

"Oh my god. This is bad. This is really, really bad. Oh my god." (He was saying it just like that, as if Armageddon had arrived.)

"Honey, what's wrong? Why has this gotten so bad?" I asked with as much patience as I could muster.

"Well, I thought I had booked a 7:30 a.m. flight, but it booked me on a 7:30 p.m. flight, and now I can't make my connection."

"It booked the wrong flight? The computer did? Or did you enter the wrong flight info maybe?"

"No. No it freaked out and just did this."

"Hmm. Sounds like a pretty big glitch. Can't you just change the flight back to the one you wanted originally?"

He gestured at the screen helplessly. "But I already used my American Airlines miles. And, now... it's just a huge mess. This is crazy."

"Sounds like you need to get someone on the phone."

"Yeah."

Thankfully, Brendan's phone skills are totally up to par and he managed to smooth out the Great Airline Fiasco within about three hours. It had been a very traumatic morning, and when it was all over he was visibly shaken from this latest technological meltdown. I don't know how he's going to survive for a week in the Midwest without me.

-Sarah

Unfortunately, I won't be able to be his running partner. For a few days now I've been hobbling around on what I believe is Achilles tendonitis, and it hurts. Toward the end of our stint in Argentina, I jogged in my hiking shoes around our Buenos Aires neighborhood. You can get a lot of cheap things in South America, but not new Nikes. Now I know my North Faces weren't really designed for workouts, but they're really comfortable, and I didn't feel like I was doing any damage at the time.

My heels are telling me differently now. Since I've been back, the muted yet detectable pain in my feet has grown into full-fledged, throbbing jabs. At first it wasn't bad, and I ignored it. I ran anyway. Then it kinda sorta started hurting more, and I still ran. I've never had foot trouble before. I assumed I was just stiff, or out of practice, or old. Maybe I'm all of those things, but now I'm also injured. All I've learned online is that I shouldn't run until I feel better. At this rate, that could take a while.

So when Brendan runs his 10k, I'll have to remain in the cheering section. I feel bad that I can't participate, but maybe it's better this way. Crossing the finish line will be his personal achievement, and as I shower him with bottled water and praise upon completion, he'll probably feel pretty darn special.

-Sarah

I would go myself, but this isn’t allowed. See, I would just pop down to the big national chain supermarket down the street and load up on frozen pizzas and lunch meat. Maybe a box of doughnuts just to irritate her. She won’t stand for it though. Sarah needs to shop at the organic / expensive place located ten miles away. It’s there that she buys all kinds of neat stuff. Like yoghurt, soy milk and bran. I’m all for healthy eating, but a guy could use some salami once in a while, you know?

Before we left on our trip, things were cool in the grocery shopping department. She shopped, I ate. She knew what I wanted. Now, before she goes to the store, she makes me tell her what I want. What I want is not to have to tell her. Just make it happen. We used to live together, I tell her. Do whatever you did before.

She gets frustrated and buys soy milk and god knows what else. She comes back from the store with six bags, and two days later, we’re completely out of food again. What’s in these bags? Condiments? Cat food? I’m starving here!

Maybe she’s trying to get me to lose weight. I’m skinny enough, but maybe not enough for her. In any case, I’m starting to like soy milk. It tastes like candy somehow. Plus, it goes good with a nice PB&J.

-Brendan

I shouldn’t give her such a hard time. She’s putting in some long hours at the computer obsessively constructing her website. Sarah’s pretty handy with that stuff. She’s building her new site because the old one was about travel. Now that we’re home, she needs a new focus.

But she’s very extremely particular about design, and I’m not sure it’s very healthy. She’s endlessly changing fonts, moving text a fraction of a millimeter, and then moving it back again. The other night, she stayed up very late futzing around, and in the morning, asked my opinion.

“Okay, it’s just a first try, but tell me what you think.”

It looked exactly the same.

“I think it looks great honey.”

“Do you? Cause see, I made the white over here stand out a little more. I think it makes it look cleaner.”

“Yea, that looks good.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“See cause now, all these links redirect to a sub-host. Cause before, people were going there and it was just talking them to the main site. But now, the links will redirect them to the original server… and this.. well.... blah, blah, blah. Am I boring you?

“No. I’m listening,” I say looking deep into my cereal bowl.

Blogs, websites, new internet fads. They’re important to her. I think she’s really happy to finally have the internet whenever she wants it. It’s been a long ten months away from her internet culture.

Me? I seem to have lost interest in all that stuff. I think it happened somewhere in Laos. Maybe I still have a “traveling around the world” mindset, but I just can’t get excited about all these new internet fads. What’s weird is I feel like I should apologize for it. Like maybe I’m crazy for not seeing the awesome potential of social networking. What’s happening to me? I’m 30 and I’m an old man. Maybe I should just go back to Laos.

-Brendan

Anyway, it's wonderfully suburban and quiet in Santa Rosa, California. We're staying here until we figure out what to do, and I'm not in a big hurry to leave. There are lawnmowers, cul-de-sacs, neighbors who stop by and chat about new hardwood flooring. It's tranquil compared to the life we've led recently. And it's nice to get some more people into the mix. Sarah and I are grateful to have her mom around, just to be able to talk to another person besides ourselves.

Well actually, there are three new people in the dynamic. Sarah's mom, a girl named Bunny and a guy who goes only by Cosmo. They sleep a lot and shed on the carpet (Bunny and Cosmo do. Not Sarah's mom).

Cosmo and I are still kind of warming up to each other. You'd think that being the only guys in the house, we'd bond a little more. I'm still waiting for him to kind of come around to me. Yesterday, I'm walking down the hallway where he's sitting (right in the middle, I might add, as if he's looking for a problem) and as I walk up towards him on a completely un-cat related errand, he suddenly freaks out and runs into the bedroom where I'm also headed. Once there, Cosmo is beside himself. He's cornered. He's zigzagging, trying to find an escape. Hey Cosmo, relax! I'm only looking for a pair of socks in here. Sheesh.

So Cosmo, if you're reading this, let's hang out tonight. Just the guys. It'll be fun. We'll watch the game and you can fall asleep within seconds.

-Brendan

Speaking of cars, yesterday I drove my old stick-shift for the first time in a year, and I've probably never had a more enjoyable ride in my life. It was an innocent trip to the grocery store. Brendan wanted to come along, but I made him stay behind. See, when the two of us are in a car, he always drives. I usually don't mind being a passenger, but yesterday I just really wanted to be behind the wheel and in control. And I didn't want anyone offering constructive criticism on my driving skills, or hogging the radio dial.

He pouted a little as I pulled out of the driveway (a little too fast, admittedly), but all was forgiven when I came back with his favorite Whole Foods frozen chicken pizza. Of course, that was before he discovered that the only milk available to wash down his cereal was made of soy.

-Sarah

Then, I got drunk and someone stole my video camera.

Now, someone didn't steal it because I got drunk, but sitting at the sidewalk table for three hours in the late afternoon certainly didn't help. I know just when it happened too. There was a moment when a dirty-faced twelve year old boy walked up to our table and brazenly grabbed a handful of peanuts out of our bowl. I was amused. Sarah slapped his hand. I'm pretty sure while I was feeling sorry for this poor kid begging for change, his buddy was under our table making off with my bag.

I am so pissed off. I loved that camera. Yes, it's insured, and yes, I know it's just an object, but you know how you love an old pair of sweatpants or a comfy chair? It was like that between me and my camera. We went everywhere together. We lasted 11 months without a single problem. I let my guard down one time, and now my sweet camera is gone (along with a full hour of great Buenos Aires shots).

Feeling sorry for myself this afternoon, hungover and alone in McDonalds, I thought of this kid. Fantasizing about hunting him down and punishing him, I tried to think of something a little nicer. Maybe he (or his mom) won't sell my beloved camera. Maybe he'll learn how to use it and develop a talent for filmmaking. Maybe stealing my camera is a turning point in this dirty-faced boy's life. Maybe he won't grow up to be a bad person who steals. There's always hope.

-Brendan