Turning One

I went to a birthday party for a cute baby-face baby tonight.  It was the First One – you know when you turn that all important ONE. 

It all started – for me, at least – on a cold January Wednesday night in 2012 when I broke a state law (not to mention my own strict rule) and answered my cell while I was driving and heard “He’s here.”

Now, he’s been here for a whole year!

And what fun it’s been!  Well, at least the last six months have been fun – when I knew he could hold his head up and I couldn’t break him. 

I am in no way hugely important to him nor do I pretend to play any major role in his life – most certainly not the role of diaper changer – but I’ve been along for a little bit of the ride this year and it’s been amazing.

First, there were his firsts – I was there when he went to his very first sports bar (for my birthday), I was there when he went to Texas Roadhouse for the first time – and ended up experiencing his first parking lot picnic, I was there when he celebrated Easter for the first time – as much as any baby laying on a floor can celebrate, and I was there when he sat on a mall Santa’s lap for the first time. 

Then there were my firsts – certainly not as monumental – holding him for the first time, holding him unassisted for the first time, holding him unassisted and not shaking for the first time.  Seriously, are there no instruction manuals for kids these days?!

He’s learned so much in this past year and so have I!  Most importantly, that babies don’t break. 

It’s been amazing to watch him grow and develop and now understand the world around him! 

He giggles when something’s funny.  He knows the difference between a hand and a hand wearing a glove.  He brings you things that you tell him to go get.  He can turn on cell phones.  He can text me.  

He’s done this much – and more – and he’s only ONE! 

I can’t wait to see what Year Two brings!

Sick Daze

For the past few days, I’ve been sick.  I don’t mean like sniffle, sniffle, cough, cough.  I mean (said in my most dramatic fashion) I was on my deathbed unsure if recovery was humanly possible.  At least, that’s what I told my mom when she called to check on me.  Thankfully, the death plague has passed.  They’ve lifted the quarantine off of my house.  I can rejoin the human race again.

A few things you should know:

I don’t get sick often.  Sniffle, sniffle, cough, cough – yeah, sure.  That happens to all of us.  But really, really sick.  Nah, not me.   Maybe it’s the flu shot that I get every year religiously.  Maybe it’s my super-human immune system.  Whatever.  The last time that I got really, really sick was like ten years ago.  It wasn’t fun then and it wasn’t fun now. 

I rarely call out of work sick.  This week, I had to do it twice.  At the end of the government’s fiscal year.  I failed my team.  I failed my agency.  I failed you, the American people.  To top it all off, I probably infected a bunch of colleagues.  Talk about guilt.  On the bright side…aww heck, there isn’t a bright side. 

I’m not stocked with the proper supplies to survive getting sick.  Well, I’m actually not stocked with the proper supplies to survive much of anything.  But I can usually run to the store to get those supplies.  Not this week.  (Although I did go out to get ginger ale.  In my pajamas with a huge hole in the back of my pants.  I didn’t much care.) 

I live by myself.  Living by oneself when one is sick sucks.  When my brother (who also lives by himself) gets sick, my mom is at his house in seven minutes with chicken noodle soup and ginger ale to make sure he’s okay.  Because she lives seven minutes away from him.  My mom lives two and a half hours and $35 in tolls away from me.  She doesn’t bring me chicken noodle soup.  Probably because of the tolls. 

I’m not the best when it comes to asking for help.  I always thought that meant I was strong and independent.  Really, it just means I have a huge flaw in my character.

Operation Influenza Drop

This week I needed a little help from my friends. 

And by the power of social media – and my mom – help was generously offered and gratefully accepted.  One of my friends brought me medicine and tea bags and soup and even a pile of DVDs.  Other friends offered to bring me anything that I needed.  That meant a lot to me.  Especially when I got all maudlin and weepy when I was sure that I was going to shrivel up and die and the only people that would notice would be my little cat family.  Did I mention that I tend to be a little dramatic? 

I’m incredibly thankful.

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And now, a few observations that I made during my sick daze – 

Having no ABC soap operas to get me through from noon-thirty to four o’clock was just sad.  The death of the soap opera is the death of an art form!  They canceled “All My Children” for “The Chew”??? 

Ginger ale is disgusting.  There’s a reason I usually only drink brown sodas.  (And now for a brief tangent – this is why I believe restaurants have a moral responsibility to inform patrons that the Coke machine isn’t working before they pay for their drink – clear sodas stink.  Do you hear that Boston Market?!) 

The ladies on “The View” are annoying.  So are the ladies on “The Talk” although they are more diverse -  two black ladies, a lesbian, a Brit, and a media mogul’s wife versus two black ladies, a Republican, an octogenarian, and Joy Behar. 

Saltines are good crumbled up in soup.

Anderson Cooper is good people.  (Full disclosure, I met Anderson Cooper at a book signing once – he seemed like a genuine guy!)

Cats don’t care that their human might be sick.  They just want food.  And they’ll walk all over you to get it.

Katie Couric’s stage looks like a giant kidney bean.

I get a lot of calls from 1-800 numbers during the day.  I thought I was on a Do Not Call list somewhere! 

Being sick is no fun.

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Finally feeling much better!  Although – in my never-ending quest to understand the definition of irony – is it ironic that I’m going for my flu shot next week?  Or just rotten luck?

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

Looking up at the Chrysler Building

A couple of years ago, a friend from work came back laden with gifts after a visit to New York City.  I received a mug emblazoned with the bold proclamation “I [heart] NY” to add to my already sizeable – and much loved – mug collection.  But whenever I used that particular mug, I didn’t feel legit.  Certainly not as legit as I felt when I sipped from my #1 Sister mug.  ‘Cause, while it’s a well-established fact that I am indeed a #1 Sister, I never exactly [hearted] NY.   

I’m not exactly a fan of “the city”.  And by “the city,” I don’t mean a specific city; I mean cities that are really big and noisy and filled with really tall buildings.  I prefer my cities to be slightly smaller.  Or suburban.    

Last week, I spent three and a half days in New York City.  This was really my first time spending a significant amount of time in the heart of the Big Apple.  To be honest, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.  It’s just so big and noisy and crowded and there are all those really tall buildings.  I was filled with anxious trepidation.  And an overwhelming fear of getting swept away and lost.  Luckily, I was going with two friends, one of whom really, really [hearts] New York City.  And who knows how to cross the street like a true city girl. 

On my trip, I learned that New York City is many things.

It is extremes and in betweens.

It is hustle and bustle and moments of serene solitude. 

It is skyscrapers and shrines.

It is food carts and ice cream trucks and the Russian Tea Room.

It is bright lights and dark alleys. 

It is Upper and Lower.  East Side and West Side.  Downtown.  Midtown.  Uptown.

It is the city that never sleeps.  Except for that guy on the church steps. 

It is past, and present, and future.  All in one city block. 

It is the citiest of cities.

And I survived it.  With a little help from my friends. 

I [heart] NY might still be too strong of a sentiment for me; however, I can honestly now say that I [fondly appreciate] NY.

I wonder if that’ll fit on a mug.    

What the Pho?

I think it’s time we have an open and frank conversation about me and food.  I’m most definitely probably over-thinking this but I’m getting the distinct impression that people feel like they have to cater to what I like to eat.  Like, oh, we can’t go there because Denise might freak out throw a tantrum make funny faces refuse to eat not like it.  And that’s not true because, you see, I’ve changed.  Like in a totally good way!

Look, I admit it.  I have food issues.  Not like Meredith Baxter Birney classic tv movie food issues or anything serious like that.  I, obviously, eat – but it’s homestyle, hearty, processed fare that’s finger lickin’ good.  And that’s just dinner. 

I don’t eat a normal breakfast.  Actually, I’ve never eaten a normal breakfast.  As a kid, I ate Tastykake chocolate cupcakes.  Then there was the period when I ate Chips A'Hoy cookies.  When I got bored with those, I ate two containers of Swiss Miss chocolate pudding.  After that phase, I ate a baked potato with ranch dressing.  Every morning.  Until I graduated.  And guess what?  My pediatrician told my mom that it was okay.  As long as I was eating something, that’s all that mattered.   These days, I prepare myself a heaping bowl of applesauce to start the day.  For those who are wondering, I finally switched to a glass jar.  ‘Cause it’s better for the environment and all.   

Let’s talk about lunch.  I’m weird about sandwiches.  Well, actually, I didn’t think I was weird until just the other day when I heard myself explaining my disgust about squashed sandwiches to a colleague.  The whole explanation sounded weird.  And then I noticed his expression and I realized, oh my gosh, I am weird!  Note to self, delete that information from any online dating profile!  I just, literally, cannot stomach a squashed, soggy sandwich.  All I can say is – thank heavens for the invention of the protective armor of Tupperware!

In the interest of word limits, I’ll spare you a discussion of all of my “texturalist” issues.  Just two words sum them up – rice pudding.    

What’s this all boil down to?  Well, I feel like I’m putting my friends out when it comes to dining choices.  Like a few weeks ago, when my pals met me in the lobby of our building in a totally punctual manner and asked, in a halting, cautious way - "How do you feel about Vietnamese food?"  I half-wondered if they had a conversation on their walk down to meet me 8 minutes late like, "Oh, do you think she’ll go for it?  Ohhh, she’ll make that face.  We don’t want her to say she’ll go but she doesn’t really want to go."  For the record, I have extremely compassionate and kind friends – they would never make me go anywhere that I didn’t want to go.  And they're probably not talking about me on their walk down to the lobby.  Unless they're running late.   

So they asked about Vietnamese food.  And I promptly fell down on the floor, screaming and wailing, and thrashing my legs against the floor and said, “I just don’t know why you can’t meet me on time.” 

No, seriously. 

I was game.  I was nervous.  But I was game.  See, the fact of the matter is – given the choice, I’ll always go to the Boston Markets, Jason’s Delis, Noodles because well, that’s routine and I like routine.  But I don’t mind being pushed into trying new things.  I might panic about it.  And maybe even be overwhelmed by it.  But when it’s all over and done with, I’m usually happy that I’ve tried eaten done it. 

Which is how I felt when I ended up in a Vietnamese restaurant on a hot July day being guided through the process of  eating pho.  Pho.  Which is not pronounced “do-re-me-fa-so-la.”  Nor is it said like “fe-fi-fo-fum.”   Or like “Foo Fighters.”  No.  Pho.  Like “fugettiaboutit.”  Or “what the fu…dgescicle?!”     

I gotta admit - I didn't use chopsticks.

What the pho is the big deal about pho?  Well, not much really.  It’s soup with noodles and beef.  (Granted, I probably had a tame version).  It certainly wasn’t cringe-worthy or fear-inducing and I don’t think I made any faces.  I would definitely eat pho again.

In fact, I think the next time we all want a break from the regular routine, I’ll tell my compassionate, kind pals that we should go for some Vietnamese food because it’s a good day for some pho.

Act Like a Kid, Think Like an Adult

On Saturday night, for the first time since I was 10 years old and stopped having them, I had an actual birthday party.  I’m talking cutesie invitations, birthday hats, cake, and ice cream.  All that was missing was Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  Actually, there wouldn’t have been time for that because we were too busy roller skating!  That’s right, I had my birthday party at the local roller skating center.  What?  Your town doesn’t have a roller skating center?!  You don’t know what you’re missing!

Walking through the doors of the Laurel Roller Skating Center was like stepping back in time.  1977, to be exact ‘cause the place probably hasn’t been updated since the days of disco.  I imagine that the skates that my friends and I laced up have been worn by generations of skaters…which only creeped me out later that night when I got home and my kitten took a unnatural interest in my socks. 

Once the skates were laced up, there was only one other thing required.  Absolute vodka courage.  I clung to the side of the wall and thought – oh no, what did I get myself into?  There wasn’t much time to think about anything else because the referee yelled – fast skaters on the outside lanes, slow skaters on the inside!  Okay, there was a little time to think.  It went something like this - &@#%!!!  I need to get into the MIDDLE of the floor?! @#$&! 

Somehow though, I managed to roll out to the middle of the floor, joining my friends who were already skating like the wind.  I took a slow and steady approach because, well, skating is hard work!  And also, I needed a lot of time to plan my exit strategy.  But somewhere along the line, the worry went away and my friends and I were just skating around, acting like kids, without any cares in the world, yelling “Wheeeeeee!” 

It was so much fun!  And we hadn’t even had any ice cream and cake yet!

There were some tumbles though, me included.  Man, when you take a roller skating fall at 33…it hurts a little more than it did when you were in the seventh grade!

That’s why the next morning, I thought like an adult and went to the local emergency room to get an x-ray of my arm (note to self – next time you go roller skating, your butt should break your fall, not your arm!)  Luckily, nothing was broken although they gave me a sling – which oddly, the other kitten has taken an unnatural interest in!

My Sunday morning adventure to the ER didn’t put a damper on my Saturday night roller skating adventure though.  Honestly, Saturday night was the most fun that I’ve had in a long time.  It was kinda like we were all kids again.  Or maybe we’re all still kids inside and they came out to play on Saturday night.

The only problem that I have now – what should I plan for next year’s birthday party?!    

Some of my friends getting their skate on!

Beginnings

I met a new guy on Saturday.  He’s very relaxed, absolutely gorgeous, and doesn’t seem bothered by multiple cats.  He also likes to keep people waiting and isn’t much of a conversationalist.  But I guess that’s to be expected when you’re three days old. 

Good friends of mine welcomed their first baby earlier this week.  It is the beginning of a new chapter in their family history.  It’s an exciting and momentous time for them and it’s been fun to watch as they went from being responsible adults to responsible expectant parents to responsible parents of a little human being with a still developing immune system.  

Despite what the dock-side psychic told me this summer, my biological clock seems to be on a permanent snooze.  So, since I’ll probably never experience the joys of my own kids, I think I’m just gonna become an honorary aunt to other people’s kids.  Did you have any of those in your life?  Did your parents have friends – maybe they met in a bowling alley or a Cheesecake Factory or the neighborhood – that you called “aunt” or “uncle” even though they weren’t related to you by blood?  Maybe your family tree was filled with nuts and they outsourced the “aunt” and “uncle” duties.  Maybe you didn’t have actual aunts and uncles so you adopted random people on the street to fill-in the vacant slots.   

Growing up my brother and I had three sets of those kinds of aunts and uncles.  I only ever see my Aunt Connie anymore but I remember the others, especially my Aunt Linda and Uncle Dick who I thought were so cool because they lived in an upside down house – their kitchen was on the second floor!  Following in that tradition, I’m designating myself as “cool honorary Aunt Denise.”    

Now, this isn’t one of those “it takes a village to raise a child” post because, quite frankly, this villager doesn’t know anything about children or motherhood so I’ll just stay away from all that child-rearing business.  But a few months ago, I heard the honorable Judge Marilyn Milian of The People’s Court say “The more people in my kids’ lives who care about them, the better.”  You can’t argue with that logic, can you?  So that’s what I’m going to do – I’m going to be one more person in this new little boy’s life who's there for him and cares about him. 

And now, a personal note to the little guy...

I’ll probably be a nervous wreck around you until you can hold your head up by yourself (even though your mom tells me that I can’t break you, I’m not taking any chances – your dad was a Marine, after all!) I’m going to make you a few promises -

1.       When your parents take you for your daily walk around the neighborhood in your sweet ride of an umbrella stroller, I’ll wave enthusiastically from my house.  Unless I’m napping. 

2.       I’ll watch animated Disney movies with you without musing about the reasons that Donald Duck doesn’t get the same respect that Mickey and Minnie do.  Afterwards, however, I will make you watch “The Jetsons” and I will tell you my theory about hover-craft cars.  My theory being that we should all have them.  Unless we do all have them by that time.

3.       When I travel, I’ll buy you a souvenir tee-shirt.  Because what is cuter than a baby/toddler wearing a tee-shirt with “Someone Who Loves Me Went to the Grand Canyon and All I Got Was This T-Shirt” on it?

4.       I’ll give you full-size candy bars at Halloween.  But only if your dad gets dressed up in a costume. 

5.       When we go out to dinner, I’ll make sure you get a colorful selection of crayons so you can create art on the placemats.  But your mom likes to color, so you’ll have to share with her.  I’m just warning you now. 

6.       I’ll keep the mini fridge in the basement stocked with your favorite juice. 

7.       You’ll always have someone right around the corner who cares about you.  And who’ll totally let you jump on the bed.

In five or ten or 32 years, I’ll probably be just a page in the history of your family, someone who was there at the beginning.  But maybe you’ll think back and remember with fondness your cool honorary Aunt Denise who bought you a ton of souvenir tee-shirts. 

But for now, welcome to the world!  Everyone’s so glad that you’re finally here!    

ORLLs

In military records, there’s something called Operational Reports – Lessons Learned or ORLLs (pronounced orals).  Fun to say, right?  Basically, they’re what they say they are – reports of lessons learned from military  operations.  Last night wasn’t exactly a military operation but I definitely took away some important ORLLs that I’ll keep in mind for my next soiree: 

1.       One turkey is actually enough for 17 people, especially when you have a couple vegetarians in the mix.  No one actually eats a pound of turkey like the magazines say.  Making two turkeys just means more stress and more…turkey.  Who needs that?

2.      It doesn’t matter how small it is, people will hang out in the kitchen.  The only solution I can come up with is to buy a house with a bigger kitchen.  Yea!  More room for more people!

3.      Set your bar area up away from the kitchen.  This helps alleviate some of the kitchen crowding and also allows you to live out one of your teenage dreams.  Also, come up with a kick-ass name for your bar.  My bar was called “Turkey Landing Bar” because…it was on the landing of my stairs and there was a turkey on display.  It’s no nightclub in Sydney, Australia but it was the most rocking bar in the neighborhood. 

4.      Wine gets better with age.  Except if it’s been open.  So, the year-old opened wine that I set out…um, no good.  I’m sorry to anyone who drank it and/or got sick.  Whoops.

5.      People supplying their own alcohol is the best idea EVER.  Everyone brings what they like and, yeah, okay, my wallet says thank you. 

6.      The person who supplied 90 proof bourbon is the best guest EVER.  Yeah, yeah, it was for the cider.  I’m not a fan of apple cider.  I’m a huge fan of bourbon cider.  You know that gal is getting a return invite. 

7.      When you make a craft with feathers, you’ll find feathers everywhere for days on end.

8.      When pouring anything into another container, do it over the sink.  Actually, I should just not pour, period. 

9.      Some people do enjoy getting their inner Pilgrim on and will voluntarily wear Pilgrim hats.  But nobody likes to wear bonnets.  Not even the ladies. 

10.  Save all your receipts so you can return all the excess stuff you bought.  Or just save it for next year.

Give Thanks or Eat Pie Trying

Three things you should know about me:

1.   I don’t like Thanksgiving.  It’s not one of my favorites (which for the record are:  Fourth of July, Christmas, my birthday, and St. Lawrence day).  Thanksgiving for my family is just another turkey meal with a bunch of extra vegetables.  And rolls.  And dessert. 

2.   I very rarely, like almost never, cook – especially if it requires opening the oven door.

3.   Until last year, the thought of having people in my home who weren’t related to me by blood in my personal space home filled me with intense anxiety – and not because I’m a closet hoarder, I swear.  Seriously, the four years that I lived in my apartment, I had one friend over and that was for like fifteen minutes. 

With all that in mind, how is it that tonight there will be 17 people gathering in my house for our Second Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving (PTT) Feast eating turkey that I cooked in my oven?  Yeah, I still can’t figure it out either.

Actually, to understand let’s go back in time.  So, last fall sometime I was eating a Healthy Choice frozen meal – the turkey dinner – for lunch.  Yum-yum!  I thought, well, gee whiz, this is really delicious…IDEA!  Let’s have a Thanksgiving potluck at work and we could all bring stuff in and eat a Thanksgiving-y lunch together.  I had the whole plan in my head – my contribution would be anything store-bought because like, seriously, was I going to cook?  No way.  There are people much more adept in that area than me.  Yea!  Thanksgiving lunch idea, woo-hoo!

Then I told other people and they got the crazy idea that the Thanksgiving potluck should be at my house because I never had a house-warming party and then it kept snowballing and before I knew it I was taking turkey-makin’ lessons at TopChef’s house, watching YouTube videos about carving birds, and preparing for invaders visitors. 

Except for one minor snafu, I survived last year’s PTT feast.  I even had fun and enjoyed having my friends in my home.  I know, crazy, right?  I jokingly said it would be an annual event (although I was pretty sure I said it would be a moveable feast…) 

I haven’t been in much of a celebratory mood lately so I wasn’t really planning on having a Second Annual Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving.  I waffled on the decision and then said, what the hay bale, let’s do it.  If my friends – even some from the city – want to come and share food and fellowship (I totally stole that line…), wear Pilgrim hats, and give pre-thanks at my house, they’re more than welcome. 

By the time you read this, I’ll have cooked (and carved) two turkeys, set a table for 18 people, and convinced my friends that to really experience Pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving like the Pilgrims, we really must don bonnets and Pilgrim man hats.

Hey, anything’s possible.  

And a Happy Harvest to you and yours!

  

Things Remembered

Sometimes opening a box can take you back to the people and places of long ago memories.  And before you know it, you're remembering...

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Sometimes I remember Catholic school copybooks and public school notebooks.   

Sometimes I remember the house with the ugly green door and first beers and jumping out of a window just to walk back in the front door for kicks.

Sometimes I remember the summer of Sun-In and the autumn of burnt orange hair.

Sometimes I remember baseball games and an Action News interview that went horribly awry.

Sometimes I remember midnight runs and Chinese fire drills and ice cream at Friendly’s.

Sometimes I remember gifts from the heart.

Sometimes I remember games of Punch Buggy that hurt like hell.

Sometimes I remember the ridiculousness of SoCo.  And now when I say I live in HoCo, I cringe a little. 

Sometimes I remember the morning I found out why it was so funny that I went to a school called Beaver.

Sometimes I remember walking down the boardwalk talking with really bad British accents.

Sometimes I remember games of “would you still be my friend if I…walked like this, talked like this, looked like this?” 

Sometimes I remember Mickey and Donald and Goofy too. 

Sometimes I remember two girls; one brash and bold and the Great; the other quiet and timid, with none of the self-assurance then to proclaim herself anything near great.

Sometimes I remember.  And I wonder…

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Sometimes you have to close the box and put away the memories. 

You've Got Mail

Yesterday, the network at work was down – that meant no email, no intranet, no internet (and no internet meant no Google!)  Not being able to use technology for an entire day made me realize just how much I love getting dependent I am on email.   I’m still young enough to remember the world before email.  I got my first email account in 1997 when I was a freshman in college.  Prior to that, the computer was the thing you used to play Oregon Trail.    

Nowadays, I use email all the time, especially at work.  I use email to connect with colleagues.  I use email to make lunch plans.  I use email to check on friends.  I use email to say, hey I’m leaving early; hey I’m a little late.  I use email to exchange witty repartee.  I don’t use email to send forwards because forwards piss me off – like really – and I don’t want to get any so I don’t send them.  And when email goes down, you wonder if there are still people out in the world.  The people in the cubicles right next to you don’t count.    

Yesterday, I had to make lunch plans over the phone.  Sometimes it can take 86 emails to set up those plans.  Yesterday, we did it in two phone calls.  It wasn’t as fun.  Or funny. 

I had to walk across the hall to ask a colleague something because I couldn’t email her.  I mean, she was all the way across the hall!  And I’m still recovering from the 5K that I ran-walked on Sunday. 

I had to exchange witty repartee in person.  That wasn’t so bad…I think I’m pretty good at in-person witty repartee.  Unless, you know, you’re an eligible, single man in his early to mid-thirties.  Oh gosh, if there wasn’t any email at all, I’d never be able to communicate with eligible, single men in their early to mid-thirties!  

Not being able to email was a drag.  (Is it ironic that the mailman’s daughter is writing this?  No, really, is this an example of irony?)

Luckily, the network was back up today.  How’d I know?  I checked my email.

Schellenberg Wished He Was This Cool

Who’s Schellenberg, you ask?  Only the “Father of American Archival Appraisal,” according to Wikipedia – as an aside, there’s not an article about T. R. on Wikipedia…what gives?!  Basically, he wrote the book on archival methodology.  No, seriously, I was assigned to read  his book – or a chapter – in grad school.

But today is not Schellenberg’s day.  Nope, today is the Feast Day of St. Lawrence, patron saint of archivists and librarians.  Long story short, Larry, an archivist and librarian in the early church achieved martyrdom when he was roasted over a gridiron because he wouldn’t reveal the names of wealthy Christians.  Supposedly, as he was roasting, he told his executioners to turn him over because he was done on that side.  I like a guy with a sense of humor.  Even when he’s roasting to death.    

Fast forward a couple years and now we have the Feast Day of St. Lawrence on August 10^th.  All pious archivists and librarians with a lunch hour to kill honor his memory by feasting on cold cuts (because of that whole roasting on a spit thing…although I’m lobbying that we change the tradition so that we eat rotisserie chicken instead).  

You know I don’t like to plan anything but I do like to talk about parties I’m going to throw.  The Mad Men Memorial Day Cocktail Party, the birthday Tax Day May Day when the hell’s it gonna happen roller skating party, Summer Field Day (there were gonna be medals, I swear!)  Usually the parties don’t get out of the talking stage.  With one exception.

That exception is St. Lawrence Day.  St. Lawrence Day is always on my calendar and there’s always a celebration planned.

Here’s the deal – for the last couple of years, a group of my colleagues have gathered at the local deli to observe Larry's day.  This year was no different.  Today, 19 colleagues showed up for the 3^rd Annual Feast of St. Lawrence!  We broke bread and enjoyed one another's company, all under the comforting gaze of St. Lawrence.    

In between bites, we paid homage.

 

Celebrating the Feast of St. Lawrence!

So, save the date.  Same day, same place next year!  And I promise, we won’t roast you!    

**I have no idea what's going on with the font of this post...sorry!

It's a Boy!

No, no, no, I’m not still gushing over the hot salsa dancer.  Although, have I mentioned how awesome that was?  I’m about to tell you about another boy.  Now, what I’m about to tell you may land me in swag jail, so, you know, if you want to start taking up a collection for my bail money, that’d be great. 

First, let me tell you about women bloggers.  We’re intelligent; we’re serious; we’re funny; we’re thought provoking; and boy, do we have a way with words.  We’re a force to be reckoned with.  We are influential.  One of the stats that was mentioned (I’m pretty sure I got this right) was that 80% of women would buy something that they read about on a blog.  So, no wonder major brands flock to conferences and give out free stuff.  I mean, in one night, I got colored pens (3M), a birdhouse kit (Lowes), a sausage croissant sandwich (Jimmy Dean), Smurf figurines (McDonald’s), and, well a lot of other stuff.

I think one of the biggest forces in the blogosphere may be moms who blog.   I’m going to try not to call them mommy bloggers anymore because I met tons of ladies this weekend who are moms blogging about lots more than their kids.  Moms who blog are using their voices to do all sorts of cool things from advocating for kids with special needs to promoting healthy living and everything else in between.  And if you’re a mom who blogs, you get the best swag at conferences (Toys.  Lots of toys!)

My pals – moms who blog – got invited to a swag suite filled with kid-centric swag.  I made the walk over with them and had a choice – sit outside and wait for them or try to get in.  It was amazingly easy to get in.  (Do you have that bail money collected yet?)  As we stood in line, TopChef told me that they might ask about my kids so I’d better invent one fast.   

After about one minute of labor, little Luke bounced into the world.  He just turned two in May and we were beginning to potty-train him but he was stubborn, just like his father.  Maybe I started potty-training too soon?  He liked trains and wanted to be Batman for Halloween.

ImagaLuke was so easy.  I totally skipped over that whole infancy phase and I didn’t have to worry about cutting those tiny little baby nails, I didn't have to worry about supporting his little baby neck so his little baby head didn’t pop off, and best of all, I didn’t have to change any diapers (which is good because I’ve never changed a diaper in my life and I wasn’t gonna start with my imaginary son, or um, anytime soon.  Just putting that out there.)  ImagaLuke was also laid-back, always ate his dinner, and never, ever threw a temper tantrum.  What a good little imaginary boy he was!

Don’t get me wrong.  Even though I was a fake mom, I worried about ImagaLuke.  As I picked up a small toy, I worried that ImagaLuke might put it in his mouth and choke on it and…crap, I don’t know the Heimlich and I certainly don’t want to do what my mother did to me when I was choking on something; when I ate a sample of vitamins, I realized that ImagaLuke should probably take vitamins and eat fruits and vegetables and other healthy things and wow, that could be a problem with a mom like me; when I was given a cool, awesome thermometer, it dawned on me that if ImagaLuke was sick, I was the one who had to take care of him even if I was sick too and what if his father was out salsa dancing with other ladies and I didn’t get a nap or a shower* or…okay, a little overboard right there.     

The swag was nice and all but being a mom to an imaginary boy was hard! 

For right now, I’m content with just being friends with moms and moms who blog.  Especially if they get me into the cool swag suites. 

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All the swag I got from this particular suite was either given to my moms who blog friends or will be donated to Toys for Tots. 

*There’s one thing that’s always worried me about motherhood.  Showers.  Not the ones where you get presents but the ones where you get clean.  My childless friends and I discussed this at the beach.  We all like long showers but can moms take long showers when they’ve got kids on the loose in the house?  At our first breakfast in San Diego, I asked my moms who blog pals and they assured me that yes, you can take a long shower when you have kids.  Whew.  And thanks to my new friend, Partner in Snoring Crimes, I know where to put the kids so they don’t, like, burn the house down when you’re in your 20 minute shower!    

Connections

On Wednesday, I headed to BlogHer'11.  My friends and I flew into Nashville where we had a connecting flight to San Diego.  Luckily, there was plenty of time to spare between the flights and we didn't have any problems making our connection...because missing it would've been annoying.
  
On the flight to San Diego, I sat next to a nice young girl named Brielle.  We started talking and I found out all sorts of things about her.  She's 17 and lives in Nashville with her mom and grandparents.  She has two little half-siblings who call her Big Sissy.  She starts her senior year on Tuesday but she's going in on Monday to help the underclassmen.  She took in a stray cat a few years ago, she has five house plants, and she reads the Bible.  She was flying to San Diego to catch a connecting flight to Sacramento.  I'll never know how Brielle's trip to Sacramento was and I'll never find out what college she picks or anything else about her because our paths will surely never cross again...but for a few hours last Wednesday, we made a connection, fleeting as it was.

When I arrived at BlogHer, I found out that this conference is all about connecting.  Connecting with brands to get swag (because yes, this borderline hoarder needs free crap like a hole in the head!); connecting with fellow bloggers as you lamely tell them that your blog is about your life (yep, because the other 3,599 write about the same thing!); connecting with strangers at lunch because they just had to sit at your table where all you wanted to do was eat in peace so you could pick all the lunchmeat off the roll without feeling like a freak or a four year old; connecting with bloggers in lectures in which you learned about connecting with readers.  It was  a heckuva lotta connecting.  It was so exhausting that by the end of the day, the only thing that I wanted to connect with was my bed.  Snoring be damned.  

I'm actually not the best at making connections with people.  On the surface, yeah, sure.  I'm  the gal everyone knows and waves to and who seems like a jolly good time.  But the honest to goodness, trust you enough to let you in, trust you enough to let you see me, the real Denise...that's been a work in progress.  This year has been a turning point for me.  Maybe it's the blog, maybe it's the quieting of all the voices in my head (except the ones who speak up on nights when I eat Oreos too late), maybe it's something that even I can't explain, but this year, I've started making those connections.  There are people in my life who I know I can count on, the ones who I trust enough to give my spare house key to, the ones who I can invite over without caring that I didn't clean up all the clutter, and the ones who I can call or text or Facebook about whatever crazy thought crosses my mind.  They're my connections;  they're my friends.  And boy, am I glad that I didn't miss out on them.           

So, go out and make connections.  Maybe even play Connect Four.  Whatever.  Just don't miss any more connections.

The Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise and the hare - a story about friendship…and running. 

At the beginning of the year, the tortoise set a goal to run a 5K.  It was a crazy, ridiculous goal for the tortoise and was met by eye-rolls by many in the tortoise’s family.  The tortoise didn’t run.  Aside from climbing a couple flights of stairs every once in a while, the tortoise was content to curl up in her shell, watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (because all tortoises dream of being ninjas), and take lots of naps.  But the tortoise set the goal anyway, figuring, well, if it didn’t happen, oh well - at least she thought about doing it.  That’s half the battle right there. 

January turned to February and February turned to March and the tortoise was still firmly ensconced in her shell.  Then, sometime in March, the tortoise's friend, the hare, hopped over for a visit and told her that she wanted to run a 5K too.  So, they joined a running club together and you kinda know the story:  the hare turned into Steve Prefontaine when she tied up her laces; the tortoise turned into turtle soup.  But they had 12 weeks to train and prepare for their big 5K.

For 12 Thursdays from April to July, there was a bit of a routine between the tortoise and the hare.  Usually, they would send emails to each other in the morning – were they really going to running club that night?  If it looked like rain - at 7:45 in the morning - there were silent prayers (at least by the tortoise) that running club would be canceled.  More often than not though, the tortoise and the hare sucked it up and joined all the other tortoises and hares to train.

Today was the big race.  This isn’t a fairy-tale so I can’t tell you that the tortoise magically turned into a hare, ran the whole 5K, finished first in her age group, and won a $25 gift certificate to the local running store.  No, that didn’t happen.  But, the tortoise did run farther than she’s ever run before.  And, with the help of a very good friend (now known as the Rogue Runner) and the hare – who finished a good ten minutes before her and was on the sidelines cheering her on towards the finish line – the tortoise ran sprinted across the finish line and accomplished one of her goals for 2011. 

To the hare --

We did it!  Congrats on a great first race and thanks for helping me accomplish Goal #5!  I’ll call you when I’m ready for the 10K!

                                                                                    -- From the tortoise    
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In case you're interested in the results (and who isn't?!) - I finished with a time of 39:18.75 - that's several seconds less than 40 minutes!  I was 297th out of 397 runners.  Am I disappointed?  Nope...being the glass half-full gal I'm trying to be these days - I think that's pretty darn good and it means that I was 1st out of the last 100 runners.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  

Here are some pictures.  The action shots are courtesy of my friend/personal race photographer/the Rogue Runner, Miriam.

#179 - Ready to race!

I'm in the white and black running behind
(not next to) the lady in pink and blue.

The hare is actually way far up in front in the teal.
Can you see her?  Me neither!

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a running tortoise!