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Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28
Put THIS in your pipe and DON'T smoke it! - 2014-10-23
Max, Wolf, and the goats - 2014-10-15
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11:46 a.m. - 2014-03-28
Seventh Heaven

Welcome to another installment of Random Shit on My Mind!

Fluorescent lights suck. I bought a nail polish the other day believing it to be sort of a frosty brandy color and it turns out to be copper. Looks like I have ten new pennies glued to the ends of my fingers.

Nail polish is my current vice. Since I cannot indulge in my old ones (booze, skunk, lashings of french fries and Cadbury chocolate) I have taken to treating myself with new nail polishes. I'm rather embarrassed to admit I own more than 40 bottles not including nail hardeners and quick-dry top coats.

'Frost'. This was a huge thing back in the late 1960s/early 1970s. Everything was frosted. Cars were all glittery. Women got their hair 'frosted'. Every eye shadow, lipstick, and nail color was 'Frosted Something or Other'. Metallic clothing was the bomb. Everything was icy and rimed with cool. Ironic considering this was also the heyday of the baked black suntan. I remember my mother was in hysterics if she wasn't mahogany-colored by Easter. To that end she had a folding lounge chair in her car's trunk and wore a weird hybrid of bathing suit/lingerie (highly structured opaque bras and panties) beneath her swank legal secretary clothing and would go out on her lunch hour to lie out behind a nearby barn as soon as the weather let her disrobe without getting frostbite. There'd she be- Glamour Mom- with her twinkly frosty hair (complete with matching hairpiece to full out her scanty wispy locks) and her ice chilled make-up colors on top of her brick-oven tan. Not since the court of Louis the XVI had women done so much to alter their natural coloring in the name of beauty.

Disappointed! I just missed seeing Sami and her new baby at the bank this afternoon. Phooey. Henri the teller said she'd been in to say hi not 20 minutes before I got there. I'd have loved to congratulate and coo over the baby in person.

I am very, very careful with new moms. I remember after having Wolf I was defensive and insanely tetchy about how puny he was. Strapping 10 pounders were the norm on both sides of the family. I was 10lbs. Mike was almost 11lbs. My younger sister Gidget at 8lbs 12oz was considered some kind of miracle preemie. Alex was 10lbs 4oz too, so to have produced this brine shrimp of an infant who wasn't even 7lbs at birth was shaming. When friends and strangers alike cooed and awww-ed over my 'teeny tiny baby' I was volcanic with rage and humiliation. I felt like they were telling me I'd failed. This despite Wolf's delivery at barely 8 months and knowing if he'd cooked for another 5 or 6 weeks he'd have at least weighed in at over 9lbs. I writhed with embarrassment and felt like all those innocent comments actually meant, "Boy, do you suck at gestation! What'd you do? Smoke crack?" With Wolf I felt like a failure from the very beginning. A pre-emptive C-section, I was 'too old' (34) to be a new mother, and I had this mite, this barest scrap of a baby who was so translucent and all curled up. To me he looked like he should be in a cocktail glass with red horseradish sauce.

Insane? Yeah, probably, but there's no arguing with post-partum depression. Remembering my own anguish I carefully preface any remarks about a new baby's size/weight/color/appearance with many, many, many compliments as to what a good job the new mom did. A miracle! A wonder! The best baby EVER! When speaking to a new mom, some poor sap with exhausted circles under her eyes, greasy hair, and leaking breasts I find it prudent to err on the side of congratulatory caution. No telling what kind of burr her walloping hormones have jammed up her butt.

Tomorrow (today actually, it's after midnight but I haven't been to bed yet) is the seventh anniversary of our first date. A calendar date and year count I have much easier time keeping track of than our wedding anniversary. I can never remember how long we've been married. It seems moot. We've been a committed couple since our first date so I consider March 28th our real anniversary. That mess in November is just a hassle in the middle of getting ready for Thanksgiving. And how will we celebrate this momentous occasion? As we always do, we're going out to eat then on a spree at B&N. It used to be a meal and lingerie shopping but that fell off the agenda a couple years in, no need for frilly scanties once the honeymoon is over. Books, on the other hand, are always welcome.

(It's officially today now. Good morning!)

This is dopey. Despite my pash for rom-coms and wedding dresses I'm not terribly sentimental. Mick, the hard-ass cop, is a total smush. I don't keep scrapbooks and my favorite souvenirs are coffee mugs. My darling mannie, though, is all about the hearts and flowers. At least when it comes to me. This morning I came downstairs to find he'd drawn a perfect enlargement of a 'Love Is...' cartoon. The little naked couple is seen from the back going into a restaurant and the tagline reads...'Love is...celebrating the anniversary of your 1st date.' The comic had been in the paper back in February. Mick clipped it out and saved it in anticipation of today. He modified his version to the name of the diner where we met and the date to today's. He included the original comic and wrote a sweet love note on the back of his drawing.

I know, right? TWO months! He'd been planning this for two months. So sweet. And I didn't even get him a card.

For my 50th birthday he arranged for a stretch limo to take us into the city. Once there we did a carriage ride through Central Park and had a lovely romantic dinner. For his birthday last year I bought him a garage door.

Now this isn't quite as gruesome as it sounds. Our wee garage is where his beloved '57 Beetle lives. A spring in the old door broke and the raising and lowering of it was a chancy thing. The door weighed a ton and would crash down if the board holding it up got joggled. Along with risking a hernia lifting the darn thing the broken door gave him nightmares thinking it might crush his most special possession while he was rolling the car in or out of the garage. Plus the door didn't lock properly and it let in the weather if the wind was from that side. So. I got him a new door. A secure weather-tight door that's a breeze to open and close. Mine is a practical romanticism. I'll probably never arrange for a champagne hot air balloon ride over a field where I spelled out "LA loves Mick" with big rocks, but his steak is always cooked exactly as he likes it, his favorite mustard and kind of jelly are in the fridge, and when he gets home from work I always stop whatever I'm doing and greet him with a hug, a kiss, and a big smile...no matter what kind of day I'm having.

Mostly when Mick comes up in this blog it's me grumbling about how grouchy he is or that his neurotic need for tidiness is driving me bonkers and how his shyness makes Ms Party Pants here feel like I'm socially marooned. But those are top mind truths, momentary flashes of irksomeness, and bad on me for not speaking more often about how carefully and tenderly I am loved. How after seven years he still opens my car door. Or how he's given up his thing for practical jokes mindful of my PTSD and how a "BOO!" won't give me a startle and then the giggles- I'll panic, break out in hives, and mostly either crap my pants or throw up and sometimes both. Not a day's gone by in the last seven years where he's neglected to tell me he loves me and that he feels honored and humbled that I love him back.

Seven years and the only itch I'm feeling is wanting Mick to get home so I can kiss him all over his handsome face. ~LA


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