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Seventeen

Birdcage

3/16/96

This is the ticket stub from the movie SOB took me to on our very first date. March 16, 1996. We skipped school (I was only a junior in high school at the time, and he was a senior) and we ventured into the city of Pittsburgh. We went to the museum, took in an afternoon movie, and then went to a playground closer to home so that he could drop me off at my bus stop by the end of the school day. I'm pretty sure that no one in my family suspected that I had spent the day being a truant with a boy who made a habit of it, but I wouldn't have cared even if I had gotten caught. We were already friends, and by mid-day I was fairly certain I was madly in love with him. The threat of parental punishment was an afterthought at best.

I still remember so many little details about that day. What I was wearing. The chill in the air. The smell of mud from the park. He didn't kiss me that day, and I was in agony.

Fast forward seventeen years. We've had a typical life trajectory, but most of the time it feels extraordinary to me. I can't even count the number of movies we've seen, or remember how many museums we've been to together, and still a scent on a breeze of a muddy spring day will make my heart flutter like nothing else. I can't imagine that another person exists that could make me feel as happy and loved as he does.

Half of my life so far we've spent together. I can't think of anything I'd like to do more than to spend the rest of it together, too.

Proving Myself Wrong

I was worried that after all this time, I wouldn't be able to find the glasses. Well......





And here is the history....

The Ice Queen

As a child, my brother and I always had chores. On Saturday mornings he would vacuum the house while I dusted and wiped down the bathroom. When the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, it was his job to empty the bottom rack and I had to empty the top rack. We were responsible for keeping our own rooms clean and our cloths put away, and he took out the trash. I took care of the cats, he took care of the dog. Pretty normal stuff.

Except for the Ice.

Yes, Ice with a capital I, because it was that important. For those of you who don't remember, freezers did not always come equip with built in ice makers. Back in the old days (like 1990) if you wanted ice cubes, you had to fill a plastic tray with water and wait for HOURS until the water froze. Then you had to bust the frozen blocks out of their plastic tray and voila! Ice cubes!

In my house, ice cubes were as precious as gold. My mother had a pretty serious iron deficiency, so she had an intense craving to chew on ice cubes. Not just regular old ice cubes, but special cubes made in an ice cube tray that you couldn't buy at the store. It came with some other old freezer from our past, and the cubes were smaller and rounder, more easily chewable, than the traditional ice cube. They looked kind of like an igloo. As soon as those cubes were solidified the tray needed to be emptied into the bin and re-filled. Every day of my life from about age nine until eighteen.

Not long after I moved out of the house my parents bought a new one, and their new freezer had an ice maker. And most of my apartments and homes have had them as well, so I thought the ice tyranny had reached its conclusion.

And then we moved to West Virginia.

The people who built this house twenty-some years ago had a professional chef in the family, so all of our kitchen appliances are commercial. The stove and oven and flat top are amazing, and the refrigerator and freezer are awesome as well. Except for one thing: the freezer lacks an ice maker. Which means I am back to my old tricks. Those ice cube trays from the old house are long gone, but luckily there are many good alternatives now that didn't exist back then. Luckily, my mother doesn't live here (yet) so I don't have to make ice on the daily, but as soon as they get here on the weekend the first thing my dad does is check to see if Ice needs made.

And so it goes. In exchange, my mom empties the dishwasher for me.

And the Dish Ran Away with My Son

I bought some new dishes today.

When SOB and I first moved in together his mother gave us a set of plain white dishes that she had in her basement. They were actually very high quality, but since we were living in a rather generic apartment, with a plain white kitchen, the plain white dishes got to me after a while. I always felt like I was eating in a cafeteria. So we passed them onto his sister and went shopping. We got our current/old ones at Ikea about twelve years ago, and we loved them so, so much. We had never before made a big-ish collaborative home purchase, and the addition of those twelve matching plates and bowls and mugs, for me, meant we were grown-ups making a home together. There was some serious commitment involved, and no one had to buy jewelery!

They have served us very well. Sadly, time marches on, and some have gotten chipped. Some others have gotten down right busted and thrown in the trash. Ever since we moved here I've been on the lookout for a new set, and today I found what I was looking for (on the clearance rack, no less!) and now we have a whole set of un-chipped, pristine dishes.

So what to do with the old ones? We still have at least 80% of them. The dinner plates, which saw the most use, have had the highest casualty rate, but there are still nine of them. We barely ever used the cups and saucers.

I was thinking I could re-use the packages from the new dishes and we could store them in the basement. Then maybe one day Sam could take that box when he gets his first apartment, girlfriend or not. Imagining him eating home made mac and cheese (because he will learn how to make it before he's permitted to set out on his own) out of that bowl with the chipped rim makes me smile. Maybe one night he'll sort through them so he can use the nicer ones for a dinner party. And then when he's ready to go out and buy his own, he can pass them along to Lucy.

Who am I kidding? Lucy won't accept hand-me-downs. She's the one who will demand her very own brand new set of stone wear for her first dorm room!

How Sam Came to Be

My husband has been travelling a lot lately. He has a side gig where he goes to big city-type places with fancy restaurants and gets car services and first class upgrades and hotel suites. It all sounds very glam, until you realize that he had to drive from WV to Pittsburgh, fly to Miami via Charlotte, then get up at 5am to fly to Newark before lunch, then head to Manhattan for dinner, then back to the airport so he can fly back into Pittsburgh around midnight, drive home to WV and get up at 6am for work tomorrow. That's five airports in about 36 hours. Typing it all out like that makes me feel slightly less jealous that he's having dinner at Bar Boulud tonight and I'm having left over spaghetti and meatballs for the second day in a row.

ANYWAY, all of the travel reminded me of how and when Sam was conceived. (Side note: this isn't going to get all graphic or anything, so don't worry. Intimate details will most certainly not be provided!)

When SOB was about to start his final year of residency I had been working at my current post for about three and a half years. I had moved up from when I began, but I knew it wasn't for me, long term. We had talked about having a baby, and decided that if we started trying now the timing would hopefully work out well, since we were already planning to move for his fellowship. I stopped taking my birth control pills in April, and that first month we just kind of winged it. When we went on vacation in May, I was in that horrible 'it's too early to know if I'm pregnant, but I might be so no booze' stage and I lamented our decision to start trying before our trip. I also lamented the amount of money I was spending on pregnancy tests, but that was to be expected, right?

The next week I got my period, and because I am an absolute control freak I immediately went online and ordered some ovulation prediction kits. I wasn't going to let this whole process develop naturally. I was a scientist, damn it, and I knew all about the processes going on inside my body. I also knew there were ways of monitoring them, so a few days later the kits arrived.

After reading all of the instructions (twice), I marked off the days on the calendar when I would start testing. SOB had a conference scheduled for that month, but it was towards the end of what I predicted would be my most fertile period. I started the ovulation tests, and day after day I would get a negative. I started to think that I was doing something wrong. After re-re-reading the instructions and realizing that I was doing everything right, I started to worry. His trip was looming, his destination all the way on the other side of the country. He was only scheduled to be gone for three days, but in ovulation speak that was long enough to miss our window.

He flew out on Wednesday. He was scheduled to return first thing Sunday morning via red eye.

On Thursday afternoon my ovulation test was positive.

I was disappointed that we would be waiting another month to try for our baby, but held onto a tiny shred of hope that if he wasn't too tired on Sunday morning maybe we still had a shot. I gave him a call, and before I could even say a word he starting telling me about how boring his conference was and how he wished he was coming home earlier. Maybe he was blowing smoke up my ass, but I saw my opportunity and wasn't about it let it go! I immediately told him about the test and then commenced a campaign of convincing him to come home a day early. If he got on the red eye Friday night, I argued, we'd get at least two chances for our future child.

He said he'd look into it. The next day he was on a plane headed back to me and his pro-creation duties.

Two weeks later, I got my first positive pregnancy test. What was truly fitting about it was that it was the day before Father's Day.

To this day SOB likes to tell people that I forced him to fly back from California to have sex with me, and while that may be a teeny tiny bit true, when I look at Sammy, I think to myself, thank god I was so damned persuasive!

Lucy on Ice

After Sam's successful introduction to hockey, we decided that we should get Lucy on skates as soon as possible. There is a pretty decent girls hockey league here, and there is also a figure skating club, so no matter what her inclination, she would have something to do at the ice rink. Right now we have them both in dance, and she is a little jealous that Sam gets to go to hockey also. I think as we move forward that we'll keep them in similar activities, since they like it.

I was a little concerned that her stubbornness (to put it nicely) was going to be an issue, and for a minute I was almost right. She didn't like the skates they provide with the lessons, but I realized that they were too small and then she was ok. She was the youngest kid in her class, which goes up to six year old, so they immediately gave her a sled, which looks like a walker, to push around. When Sam first began skating, he was really reluctant to give up the assistance, so I was expecting Lucy to do the same. Imagine my surprise when after about ten minutes she looked right at her instructor and clearly said, "I don't want this anymore," and skated off without it!

Maybe it's the former figure skater in me, but she seemed like a natural! She fell down occasionally, including a pretty hard head knocker at the end, but she was smiling to beat the band most of the time. When the lessons were over, they collected the name tags, and she began bawling because she thought that meant she wasn't allowed to come back. It took me almost the whole ride home to convince her otherwise, but since then she's been telling everyone about her skating adventures.

She's only had one lesson, but I'm already envisioning her in a clean pair of white boots with a twirly skirt, leaping through the air!

When History Repeats Itself

When I was 14 years old (and my hair looked like this) I visited a county fair with my friend. Her father was a farmer and he had legitimate reasons for attending, like buying livestock. My friend and I only came along for the fried dough, entertainment and boy watching. After checking out the rides we decided against them. We were already smart enough to know better, so we decided to spend our money playing games. Because it was the summer before my freshman year of high school, I was pretty much 100% more awesome than anyone. In addition to being straight up awesome, though, I wanted to be bad ass. Never mind the face that I was a straight-A student who attended church every weekend (as a reader, even) and had never even broken a curfew. I wanted to be bad ass. And how was I to achieve bad ass status?

I needed a knife.

Yes, a knife. The only reason I decided on a knife, as opposed to a gun or some liquor, was because at the county fair there was a ring toss game where you could win a knife. The game consisted of several rotating tables with knives stabbed into them. If you tossed a ring around a knife, you won it! It looked kinda exactly like this:

After throwing several dollars in rings into the air, I finally landed one! My bad assery was about begin. But first I had to find my friend's parents because you had to be 18 to collect your prize.

I carried that knife around in my purse for about six months because I was terrified that if I put it in my room somewhere my mom would find it and ground me. Despite being a total bad ass, I was still afraid of losing my TV privileges. Then in the spring it was time for our annual visit to my grandparents in Florida, and I realized that I couldn't take my knife on the plane with me, so I sold it to a boy in my french class for $5. BAD ASS!

What does this have to do with anything?

Well, we visited the county fair on Saturday afternoon.

The knife ring toss game is wildly popular, so it's positioned right near the entrance. SOB, who is very familiar with my bad ass story, immediately decided that I would be playing until I won. Pregnant, with a baby in a stroller and two preschoolers in tow. I was reluctant, to say the least, but SOB put the money down on the table and the carnie put the rings down before me. I decided to be a sport, and also to let the kids in on the action.

Sam tossed the first ring. And guess where it landed?

My four year old landed the ring squarely on a fucking knife!

We laughed so hard the carnie thought we were weird.

And so, I think we can now safely say that we're fitting in just fine here in West Virginia.

Wedding Cookies

It's tradition in western Pennsylvania to make dozens upon dozens of cookies for anyone that is related to you when they get married. At each reception you will find a well stocked cookie table in addition to cake after your meal is over. Since this has been going on for some time, most people have certain types of cookies that are their speciality. For as long as I can remember, my grammy has been making pizelles.

She always makes them as thin as possible, so that they are like lace and they melt in your mouth. This iron has been in the family for god knows how long, and no matter how hard she scrubs it the patina never comes off. I think that's why they taste so freaking good!

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For more Best Shot Monday, visit Tracy at Mother May I.

When a Place is More Than Just a Place

Unless you live under a rock, then you know how the east coast has been pummeled, weather-wise, in the past week. On Sunday, a major part of my history met with an untimely demise because of the snow. The Rostraver Ice Gardens suffered a roof collapse. Luckily no one was injured, but somehow I still found myself choking up as I viewed the footage.

My history with this building goes back to before I even had a history. My mother and father met there during a public skating session. I've heard the story so many times I almost feel like I was there. My mother was skating hand-in-hand with her boyfriend Red when my father skated up to them and threatened to seal her away. (Spoiler: he did.) My maternal grandmother worked at the arena, and I think every single one of my uncles, on both sides of my family, played hockey there at one time or another. Then when I was a kid my mother worked there, behind the snack bar. I used to sneak behind the counter and get my own sodas. I grew up spending my Wednesday nights and weekends there while my little brother played hockey, and he sat on the benches while I took figure skating lessons on Saturday afternoons. I skated hand-in-hand with my first boyfriend there, and I met my oldest and dearest friend there. The memories I have could fill volumes.

I had hoped to take Sam there this year. The plan was to go with cousin Max, who's father's high school hockey number (#3) was retired after he (and his brother) wore it, and teach the boys to skate together. Sadly, that isn't going to happen.

I can only hope, for myself as much as my children, that they are able to rebuild and re-open. My past is linked with my mother's because of this place, and it is an amazingly awesome feeling to know we have that common background. I want that for my children. I want them to have the chance to make their own memories to fill their own volumes.

Flashback

Last night we attended the parents' open house at Sam's new school. We spent an hour hearing all about the dropping off and picking up procedures, the inclement weather policies, and who to call when your kid inevitably comes down with the swine flu.

(In an unrelated but interesting development, one of the parents we met actually works at Sam's old school but has chosen to send her own child to the new school. Makes me feel pretty good about our decision to switch, huh?)

After some snacks, we were ushered to the individual classrooms to meet the teachers and hear a little more about the Montessori teaching principles. We sat in tiny chairs. Correction: everyone else sat in tiny chairs. My big preggo ass couldn't handle the tiny chairs, so I stood behind everyone else while they shifted uncomfortably in their tiny chairs.

After learning about the teachers and the program, we were encouraged to take a look around. As we assessed the different learning stations, SOB started having all of these deja vu moments. He would touch something and you could almost see the memories coming to him.

At one point, in the life skills area, SOB encountered a small dish of dried beans. As he ran his fingers through them, a silly grin came across his face. I instantly knew what he was thinking. One of the first stories his mother ever told me about his childhood involved a three year old SOB coming home from Montessori school sounding rather peculiar. All afternoon his mother asked him if he had a stuffy nose or something, but he said no time and time again. As the day wore on, his voice became more and more nasal sounding. Finally, after hours of pestering he admitted, in an uber-nasal voice, 'I put a bean in my nose.' The resulting trip to the ER involved SOB's mother sitting on him as a resident used some long ass tweezers to pluck the now rehydrated bean from somewhere deep in his little face.

It's now become a family tradition, the telling of this story, complete with SOB talking in the goofy three-year-old-with-a-bean-rehydrating-in-his-nose voice. As we both stood there counting beans, I think we were both hoping that Sam can create some lasting memories, too.

Only hopefully his won't involve the emergency room.

Lucy, Top Chef, and 6 Degrees of Separation

As any good reality TV junkie/foodie knows, the new season of Top Chef began last week. SOB and I have been big fans of this show for a while now, and have even made trips to visit some of the chef's restaurants in the past. We've never, however, had the pleasure of eating at one of the contestants' restaurants before they've been on the show. Until now.

A few years ago (2 years plus 38 weeks, give or take) SOB and I went on a date down in Hotlanta. We had a lovely dinner at a french bistro and then ended the evening at a wine bar in Midtown. There was a good deal of wine consumed by yours truly, and little Lulu may or may not have been conceived that evening once we said goodbye to the babysitter.

We were sitting watching the first episode of Top Chef as the chef-testants introduced themselves, and we recognized the name of the restaurant one guy was talking about. 'Hey! We've eaten at ENO before! Cool!' we said to one another. And then there were a few moments of silence as we both recalled the details of the night.

Needless to say, we rooting for Eli to win the whole damn thing!

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Hey! I've posted a new face over 50 faces @ 50mm. Stop by and let me know what you think!

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My friend Carrie had a little baby boy yesterday, and I'm dying! First: he is just too lovely for words.

Second: OMG I'm going to have a baby soon! In my head, the timeline had Lucy's birthday and the birth of Carrie's baby as the final two things that had to occur before our own little scrunchy faced lovely could arrive. Carrie was due on September 1st, so, again, in my head there was going to be more time between Lulu's party and her baby's arrival. Now my whole sense of schedule has been shattered and I'm in full blown panic mode! Where's the car seat? Bassinet? Do I have any diapers/onesies/nipple balm? Holy crap!

I'm just going to go and stare at the photos of this little man for a while now to calm me down...

My Secret Fear of Bees

A long time ago, I developed a severe and somewhat irrational fear of bees. I say 'somewhat' because even though the event that formed the root of my fear was totally traumatizing, intellectually I know that bees are not the big baddies my brain makes them out to be.

My subconscious, however, isn't convinced.

It was July and my brother's birthday. I can't quite recall, but I know it was somewhere in the eight, nine or ten age range for him because I was on the cusp of puberty. We usually had semi-big parties for his birthday, since the summertime afforded more space for rambunctious guests. The usual family, friends and neighbors were there.

Growing up I was the only girl in the neighborhood. One neighbor had four sons, another had two and yet another had one. And then there was my brother and me. Naturally I was rather tom-boy-ish, but by fifth grade I was already sporting tiny breast buds and well aware that play time as usual was probably going to change. So was this one neighbor kid named Tim, who used to pinch my bottom and offer up what he though were encouraging words on my new, um, developments.

Anyway, my brother's birthday party. We were all playing outside and running around, consuming near fatal doses of sugary soda and cake with everyone under the age of twelve and over the age of two. A game of hide-and-seek commenced, and I volunteered to help my cousin Nicole, as she was one of the youngest kids playing. We decided to hide under the shrubs in front of my house, and she easily scootched her little three year old self into the perfect hiding spot. As you can imagine, my ten, eleven or twelve year old body didn't fit quite as well. As I crawled into place, I dislodged a hornets' nest above me. Luckily, it wasn't super big, but it landed squarely on the middle of my back.

It only took a few seconds for me to realize what was going on. I grabbed my cousin and literally tossed her over the porch railing and started screaming. As I tried to make my way out of the shrubs I inadvertently grabbed a handful of the nest when I reached for some limbs to hold onto. I was getting stung all over my back, neck, head and now my right hand.

When I finally separated myself from the shrubbery, a crowd was waiting. One neighbor, who was a nurse, took charge of the situation. I had a countless number stinging insects trapped inside my clothing, so she immediately starting stripping me down in the middle of my front yard. Once she had me naked, save for my underpants, she instructed me to get into the shower. My mom came with me. I thought she was there to kill off the remaining hornets that were trapped in my hair, but more likely she was there to make sure I wasn't going to pass out or have an allergic reaction.

The whole ordeal probably only lasted two or three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. In the end I only suffered just under two dozen stings. They were painful, but a little aspirin paste applied to the sites helped ease the pain. However, the humiliation of having my entire family, my entire neighborhood and my brother's entire hockey team see my nearly naked body as I flapped and screamed in the front yard is something that still makes me cringe today.

All of this is my very long way of trying to make amends for totally knocking over an old man last week while trying to dart away from a bee. I hope that by sharing this humiliating story with the world wide internets I'll earn some sort of cosmic forgiveness.

Next time, ask me to tell you about the time I got head lice.

The Cosmic Salad Bowl of Love

SOB and I have been together practically forever. I've known him since middle school, we started dating in high school and we moved in together after my freshman year in college. While none of our parents were super-duper happy about our living arrangements, money talks. SOB had to get an apartment when he came to Philly for school, so it was likely we would end up unofficially co-habituating while my parents paid for an empty dorm room. Thus, apartment 1004 at The Iroquois became our first little love nest.

After a year in a one bedroom on the 10th floor we moved a few blocks away to a two bedroom in a basement. A few weeks after we moved in hurricane Floyd hit and our little basement paradise flooded. We had to toss a few hand-me-down rugs and an old Ikea chair, but it could have been worse. We were in love, after all.

This was all taking place during SOB's first two years of medical school, which meant he was kee-razy busy studying. He received a small loan stipend for living expenses, but it barely covered our rent. In order to do things like eat and drive I had to work. Luckily, I have always been a great multi-tasker. I baby sat, waited tables and ultimately ended up working as a tech in an environmental lab. Starting at $9 per hour, we though we hit the jackpot. Remember this was in 1998. Three months after I started working there, the two other employees quit, making me the de facto boss of the lab. I parlayed this into a raise and a part time position for SOB, who would frequently come in with me on the weekends to help.

Despite our sweet jobs, we were still broke. Not 'getting evicted' broke, but 'occasionally not having enough money for laundry' broke. The early stages of our relationship had moved along quickly, and while we always talked about getting married, getting engaged was going to be a tough considering our lack of funds.

Unbeknownst to me, SOB had been researching some odd jobs. Namely, he had been looking into signing up for medical research. Having two years of med school under his belt, he knew better than to sign up for drug trials or anything else that might have had serious side effects. Luckily, he found a nice, safe study on light and melatonin. Every Wednesday night he would drive into center city around midnight, get a little vial of blood drawn, sit in a dark room for two hours, get a little more blood drawn, then he would sit and stare into a bowl of light. He called it the cosmic salad bowl, and each week the color of the light was different. After two hours and another blood draw he was finished. He got paid $20 each night, but if he completed the entire 12 week study he got a bonus that brought his total to about $1,200.

I bet you can see where this is going. When the researchers decided to do a second round, SOB volunteered again. And then again for the third round. Some of the money had to go towards books, bills and keeping us housed but he managed to squirrel away enough to buy me a ring after three sessions at the cosmic salad bowl. It wasn't huge or flashy, but it was perfect. He proposed on New Year's Eve, 1999, which was very out of character for him. He had always said he was going to propose to me on a random Tuesday in November or something, so I was quite surprised to find him down on one knee. We were already having a party that night, so we were able to celebrate and share the news with friends. It was a magical evening.

Years later I still wear that same ring. Some people I know have upgraded their engagement diamond or gotten a new ring all together, but I would never dream of such a thing. After all, it was paid for by the cosmic salad bowl of love, and that you can't put a price on.

Memories of Cheeses Past

May, 2005

September, 2007

May, 2008

May, 2009

If you know me, either in real life or in virtual bloggy life, then you know that I love love LOVE these head hole photo things. Nothing pleases more than coming upon one that is particularly relevant to something else in my life, like this blog thing (which is approaching it's fourth anniversary!) 

Because we have a membership to the Philadelphia Zoo, we encounter this cheesy photo op with a good deal of regularity. One day I hope to assemble a photo album with this exact same shot through the years. I might have to figure out a new configuration once the baby is born, but that should just add to the fun, right?

What memories do you have to share this week?

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

On Monday night I had a dinner with someone I hadn't seen or spoken to properly in almost twelve years. And it was pretty awesome!

I spend a great deal (read: way too much) time online. I blog here. I blog there. I also blog over there. I read 749 other blogs. I tweet. I read random fashion and TV sites. I occasionally try and keep up with the news, too. And now I'm even getting Sam into playing online, so I usually spend some time at Sprout.com most days. So I resisted with great fervor the bevy of social networking sites laid before me in recent years. I knew they would just be a non-essential time suck. 

Then my dad signed up on the Facebook, and I was cornered. I got an invite from him, and I can't say no to my daddy. If you ever want something from me and don't know how to get it, just have my dad ask for you. I'm helpless against him. So I joined up. 

At first, the only 'friends' I had were relatives. I'm the oldest of my generation, so I started following all of my hip teenage cousins. But after my brother signed up, I started discovering some old high school people. Some I barely knew, but others I had been close with. I lost touch with pretty much everyone from high school right after I started college because I was hell bent on re-inventing myself. I moved 300 miles away and pretended that the place where I came from never existed for a few years. Luckily, I made some pretty awesome friends in college, but because I was a dumb ass I left behind a few pretty awesome friends from high school.

Enter the Facebook. Through my bro I was friended by M, one of my best high school buddies. We chatted back and forth about life in the past decade and did the general catching up thing. Then she said she was going to be in town for work and would love to get together. Right off the bat I agreed, and while I was excited I was also extremely nervous. 

First of all, I am pregnant, and besides that somewhat, um, larger than I'd like to be. Especially compared to high school. I mean, at least I have the whole pregnancy thing going as an excuse, but still? Large and in charge. Secondly, I am boring! One of the very first messages she sent me contained the word 'legendary' and I can assure you, there is NOTHING legendary about my life right now unless you count the number of asses I wipe on a daily basis. Because I do, in fact, wipe a lot of butts. But everything else? Meh. I drive a fucking mini-van. Going to the Y and grocery store are big outings for me and the kiddies. I love it and wouldn't trade it for the world, but it doesn't make for very interesting dinner conversation. 

As the days ticked down to our date, I began to fret over what I was going to wear and what restaurant we should go to. I flat ironed my hair, people. I've been with SOB forever, but I can only imagine that this is what dating must be like. 

Finally the day arrived. 

I went out to pick Lulu up from school, and when I got back she was there, looking as youthful and radiant as she did in 1997. After an embrace and an admonishment from Sam to talk quietly, as he was watching TV, we moved into the dining room and started talking. The conversation flowed as easily as it did all those years ago, and even though it was cliche, I got out a box of photos and we poured over the old images. Sometimes we couldn't remember what or when or where, but we laughed all the same. Dinner was more of the same. Our meal was eaten at a snail's pace because we just couldn't stop talking. New stuff, old stuff and everything in between. Stories of people who have ended up in prison (mostly) made us laugh and stories of people who have died made us pause, sometimes to keep the tears from spilling, other times just to take it in. 

Once we said our goodbyes, and made plans for another get together in the near future, I spent almost an hour giddily recounting every minute to SOB. He knew better than to stop me, so he switched on his video game and listened with half an ear as I prattled on and on, quite literally like a school girl. 

Me & M.C. 1996

History

This is me and my best friend Jen, sometime around 1994 or 1995. I was in eighth or ninth grade. As you can tell by the bottle of liquor in my hand, I was quite the feisty teen. Jen was a bit of a rabble rouser herself, what with her illegal firearms and all. Our mothers' went gray that summer. 

Just kidding. We were both perfect angles, at least for a little while longer!  

Obviously I didn't take this photo, but I recently discovered it and thought it would fit the bill for Theme Thursday. I'm driving down to Virginia (all by my self!) tomorrow to visit her for the weekend, which is my first solo trip since Sam's birth, if you can believe that! We're going to walk on the boardwalk and get pedicures and watch Clue. I'm very excited, to say the least!

For more Theme Thursday, visit The Land of K.A. 

Chillin' Out Maxin', Relaxing All Cool

An oldie, but an goodie. The was way back from when we were still in Atlanta. From before Sam's first haircut. When he was still a wee babe and Lucy was still in utero. I made a few adjustments from the original, and I think I like it. He was totally relaxed, can't you tell? In fact, I'm willing to bet there was a poop in his pants at that exact moment. 

For more relaxation, visit The Land of K.A. 

It's the Cheese Party's 1,000th Post and Election Day Bonanza!

Guess what? My 1,000th post coincided with election day! How cool is that? I was going to post something last night about bathroom products, but I thought I'd save that for my 2,000th post. You know, 'cause it's such an important topic. 

I was thinking about compiling a list of my favorite posts or something to commemorate this historic event. However, I thought a better idea would be to let you, my dear readers, tell me your favorite posts! Why? Because I am lazy! But also, because if I know what it is you're digging on, I'll give you more of the good stuff. Seriously.

So leave me a comment. There are at least a dozen of you lurking out there, so give it up! And answer me a question or two. 1) Did you vote yet? 1a) If not, why?!?!?!?! 2) Tell me something you like about the Cheese Party. A post, a photo, etc. Boost me up a little. I'll start.

1) Yes, I totally voted. It was awesome, there was no line and one of my neighbors bought Starbuck's for everyone! Lucy accompanied me, although Sam missed out because he was at school. If SOB gets home in time and it's not too crazy up there I might try and convince him to take Sammy boy. Since it's at the end of our block, I can always waltz up there and collect him if he gets to be a pain. 

2) My favorite post? It's actually not even posted on the Cheese Party. It was part of Kristen's Blog Exchange, so you can find it here! There are a few oldies but goodies that rank high on the list. And naturally, I'm partial to the ones where mah presh-ush babees were born. 

See, that's not so hard! Oh, and as incentive, I'll pick one commenter at random and give them a magical prize! Well, maybe not magical, but it'll be totally awesome! I promise!

P.S. Also, if you have time please go check out my post over at The Cheese Says....Mmmmm! on the book Amazing Baby. More pics of delicious babies! 

Family Matters

I've had this here blog for three years and almost four months. In that time I've had two kids, bought a new camera, moved twice, and spilled more than a lot of shit. All from the safe, mostly anonymous space behind my monitor. Sure, a few of you know my face, but judging from my site meter thingamajig most of you wouldn't know if my eyes are green or blue or brown. 

(They are a greenish hazel, BTW.) 

Recently, though, my readership population dynamic shifted a little. I've been seeing more and more little dots in the south western corner of PA, and a few dots in central Florida, and some over in the UK. 

What I mean to say is, my family is reading.

(Hi mom and dad! And Danny! And Uncle Rick!)

I never sought to hide my blogging from them, I just was never one to shout it from the rooftops. I always assumed that they would find it eventually. Because of that (and because I was raised by the 'if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all' school of thought) I try as hard as possible to never write anything here that I wouldn't want to read aloud in front of a roomful of elderly relatives. Mostly. I've always thought that, aside from a few diatribes on my father-in-law, I've been mildly successful.

But.

Now knowing that my father is clicking by every now and again, I cringe at the number of times I've written about my boobs. And my period. And did you know that I have one hundred and thirty-two entries with the tag 'mental' on it? That should make the parents proud, right?

And what about this?!? Seriously, what does this say about me as a person?

The good news? They like it. Well, at least my mother does. And my brother does too, I think. (He does, however, want to write a guest post about himself because he thinks I made him sound too much like a rock star.) My mother called last night to tell me how much she enjoys reading about my boring, mundane life. Even though she probably couldn't tell it, I was a little misty on the other end of the line. Why? Because what little girl doesn't want her mommy to like the picture she drew/song she sang/story she wrote? Just because we're all grown up doesn't mean we don't care about what our mothers think. 

(Note to self: Remember this in about twenty years.)

Thanks, mom.