only two

For some reason, bloody blogger won't let me post more than two photos -- even though I've disabled all popup blockers. Oh well.

Bubby meets Zoe for the first time

in April, with Mami's friend Matthew

and Zoe's Grandma Barb, in New York

Sometimes, my curly girls
like to go straight

Dear Lucky,



I'm sorry to have missed your party. Truly, very sorry -- I even cried about it (I know, I know -- I'm such a baby). But I got there as soon as I could, when I was finished with work. I didn't think you all would have stopped partying by 10 -- my bad. Peef was so sweet, though, and gave me a root beer and a tour of her beautiful and fun home. I love that Peef.



I brought you a gift, which I need to get to you before you leave. I didn't, however, bring any food to share, a Dish-To-Pass, because, as I said, I had gone to the party directly following work. I thought about what to bring, though, and do you know what I came up with?



Guacamole.



Do you know why?



Remember the first time we met? I do. It was a crisp evening, and I was tagging along with la yen to your house. "You have to meet my friend Lucky," she said, "she is just all things FABULOUS." And she was right. You are. As we drove to your home in the dark, I remember thinking, "Yikes! That Deer Crossing sign wasn't lying!" I hadn't seen that many deer since I lived in New York. We arrived at your home and we were introduced. La yen was setting up her stamping supplies, preparing for demonstration, and I asked you what I could do to help; in response, you gave me a job to do. I loved that. You didn't say, "Oh, nothing, I can do it," like some other people (such as myself) would do: you let me help. And my special job: making guacamole.



Through the years we had quite a few more laughs. I love your impersonation of Alex Trebek saying "Croissant." And you know I love your pantry -- it's out of this world. We went to a concert last November. You hopped on the The Shirt bandwagon with the rest of us last year, offering the dwindling supply at low, low prices, and you let me put mine "on my tab." And I'm so glad you started a blog. Hooray for lucky's blog! And all the parties you had, in honor of the babies and such...who could forget? Plus, you brought me dinner, and on your Harley -- that stunt earned a spot in The Christmas Letter. And, of course: those who never got to go to Carrabba's with a celebrity such as yourself...well, their loss.

I know what you mean, Lucky, about not liking all the sunshine. It gets to be too much for me, too. I need the cloudy days, and the rain. We have that in common.

Sorry to have missed your party. Not sorry to know you. You will be missed.

Fondly,
~j5t

awesome scawesome

From when I had opened my request line, from la yen:

Write about how awesome I am

I've written about my friendship with Jen before: how I met her husband when I was 15; how we built houses next to each other; how she was present at Superstar's birth; how I was at the placement of Jooj. Currently I'm trying to talk her into going to my family reunion in Indiana next year. It goes on and on.

But since today I'm sicker than I've sicked in a long time (post-nasaly crap; I didn't sleep for more than a 40-minute stretch last night; my head is all stuffy and my body is super achey; yuckity yuck yuck yuck -- all on the day I start my new job), I'll just do you all a favor and send you to her blog. More specifically, I want you to see this post.

Holy Mother of Moley.

That's awesome.

Where does she find that stuff??

once upon a faux pas

In April, I went to New York to attend my sister's bridal shower and bachelorette party. After the shower (but before the party), I went to visit my friend Matthew. Matthew and I went to high school together, and he now lives in Los Angeles (Santa Monica, methinks). He just happened to be in town, visiting his mom, at the same time I was in town, and he had his beautiful bride and darling daughter, only one and a half months old at the time, with him. I had my baby with me, too, and we had a great time visiting, reminiscing, speculating about how we got to where we were and where we'd go next. It was very refreshing and a tad surreal to sit there, where we had as teenagers with all our angst and bitterness and teen spirit, now with our children, both supremely happy in our current lives.

Since I had just come from the shower, I was wearing a dress.



(this, but a different pattern, and I don't look like that, and I hardly ever stand like that)

I happen to love the dress, but it fits in such a way that I might be able to pull it off for a good portion of a pregnancy. Because of this, Matthew said, when introducing my son to his mother, "This is little Bubby...and [pointing to my midsection] am I right in saying that another is on the way?"

Now, before all you lady-folk get all jumpy and take my side over this, please realize that Matthew and I have the kind of relationship wherein he can comfortably say something like this and I can comfortably receive it. It is for this reason that I chuckled and replied, "No, I'm afraid this is residual."

And that was the end of it. I was gratified at this sampling of our friendship.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago: in New York with my entire family for the occasion of Seester's wedding. The day after the wedding was Sunday, so we, as we are wont to do, went to church. I wore a new dress, similar style to the one above, but a solid eggplant color and a great big satin tie that wraps around the entire body and ties in the front. The first hour of church went as usual, and as we dismissed for Sunday School, I was approached by a familiar face: a woman who, for my entire lifelong, has always been 300 years old. She continues to shrink physically, and will likely soon require someone to carry her in their pocket. For now, though, she still walks, and she approached me this certain, fateful Sabbath to greet me and mine.

"Hi, Jenny! So nice to see you!"

"Thanks, it's nice to see you, too."

"Wow, your family sure is growing. Is this your little one?"

"Yes, this is Bubby. He's eight months old."

"Oh, how sweet. And when are you expecting?"

*COUGH!!!* "I'm sorry?"

"I said, when are you expecting?"

Now, do I need to go into this? I think not.

But I will.

As if in slow motion, we had this exchange which in reality lasted approximately six seconds. She asked when I am expecting, and the reaction in my mind was, "I cannot BELIEVE you just said that to me. As a favor to you, I will let you get out of it by pretending I didn't hear you, and then you can just make something up." And that's what I did.

But she didn't bite. She asked again.

At this point, I started legitimately coughing and said, "I'm sorry *cough*, I have bronchitis [truth], I *cough* have to go get a drink [lie]."

I ran down the hall and did get a drink, and then hid from this lady. I told my brother of the exchange, and he said, "It's the style of the dress. You look fine." My mom was wishy-washy but said I didn't look pregnant (an opinion she later retracted).

When the Sunday School hour was almost finished, I made the executive decision to leave church and get on with our family reunion-type meetings. As I was rounding up the herd, I followed two of my kids into the chapel where they were running laps between the pews.

Guess who was sitting in there.

As I led my girls out of the chapel, she said to me, "They sure are cute. How many do you have?"

"Five."

"So...[pointing to my belly -- that's right, pointing to my belly] will this be number five or number six?"

You have got to be kidding me.

My reaction this time was just as mature as the previous: I acted like my children were physically pulling me out of the chapel, and then diverted her attention with, "Well, remember, we had the one son who passed away? Yeah, so we have five. 'Bye!"

She gave me an earnest smile and a wave.

And I, AGAIN, avoided her question.

Look, I know I'm out of shape, particularly in my midsection. In fact, I was wearing a girdle-thingey with this very dress. But, COME ON!!! Incase you don't already know this, you NEVER ask a woman if she's pregnant. Not even if she looks like she's hiding a basketball under her shirt and is talking about mucous plugs and episiotomies. You let her bring it up. But if you insist, you'd better have a fine excuse for yourself when she smacks you in the face.

Which I would never do.

I should have just answered, "October."