Thank You

If the sun refused to shine,
I would still be loving you.
When mountains crumble to the sea,
There will still be you
And me.

Little drops of rain
Whisper of the pain.
Tears of loves
Lost in the days gone by.

My love is strong.
With you there is no wrong.
Together we shall go
Until we die.
My, my, my.
An inspiration is what you are to me,
Inspiration, look... see.

And so today
My world it smiles.
Your hand in mine,
We walk the miles.

Thanks to you it will be done.
For you to me are the only one.
Happiness, no more be sad,
Happiness....I'm glad.

If the sun refused to shine,
I would still be loving you.
When mountains crumble to the sea,
There will still be you
And me. - Robert Plant



Happy Anniversary, my love.
Without you in it,
My heart would be parched as the sand
And dark as the night.

Labels: Manpie

Monday was the annual Daddy Daughter Dance, in our little town.



The pink tights were HER idea. Initially I tried to talk her out of it, but 1) No way. Pink and red are related through white, she says. 2) What do I care? I would be spending the evening home alone, knitting.

The little hair tie thingie lasted about an hour. To quote a Cakers: "I pulled it out when I had to Rock It."

Well, duh!

Labels: eye candy Friday, Manpie, My Daughter Scares Me

Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things. – Robert Brault

My wedding anniversary is in August, and for the past few years we’ve celebrated by taking a 24-hour retreat at the cottage, just the two of us. This year, August flew by without adequate opportunity, so we stole our 24 this weekend past.

I’ve been kind of struggling with the words to describe the splendor of the weekend. There was no finely orchestrated event. No gastronomical galas. No one outstandingly memorable moment. Just a lovely, 24-hour spread of sensorial delight.

First we went for a hike in the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Park. There are many hiking trails in the vast expanse of this park, but the one we took is only 5 miles from our cottage, and runs parallel to the Big Lake.

Here's an interesting tree we found along the path. It looks kind of old and tired. And pube-y.



After awhile, the sound of the surf was too alluring, so we hopped off the trail and onto the beach.

This is a fairly decent picture of me, taken by Cabana.



And a little Surf and Turf Manpie:



We took the scenic route out of the park. When I took this picture, I thought I had happened upon a very clever photographic concept.



In retrospect, or as seen through the rear view mirror of my mind, I must have been suffering from the collective influence of fresh air, natural beauty and good company.

A tall order of Tuesday-Leftovers-Saturday-Sky.



After some time on the beach at the cottage, we headed to dinner at a local bar, where we were served up a delicious meal of prime rib and baked potato, with a side of drunk Harley couples, for entertainment purposes only.

Back at the cottage, we caught a little sunset, campfire and coyote serenade.



The next day we just hung out on at the cottage. Some of us hung a little crazier than others.



That's my Cabana, swimming in barely-60-degree water. He wanted me to take a picture to show how clear was the water. I wanted to take a picture to show how clear was the insanity. You know, in the event of an inquiry.

As we were getting ready to leave, we received special anniversary homage from a couple of the locals:



::Please click on this one, for full impact of color.::

Afterwards, one of the ducks approached me to apologize and explain that they had originally planned a 21-Bun Salute, but with it being the migration season, the team was currently a little short-assed.

Butt really, it's the thought that counts.

And The Little Things.

Labels: Cottage, Manpie

Do I love you, do I?
Doesn't one and one make two?

Do I love you, do I?
Does July need a sky of blue?

Would I miss you, would I?
If you ever should go away?

If the sun should desert the day,
What would life be?

Will I leave you, never?
Could the ocean leave the shore?

Will I worship you forever?
Isn't heaven forever more? (for evermore?)

Do I love you, do I?
Oh, my dear, it's so easy to see,
Don't you know I do?
Don't I show you I do?
Just as you love me. -Cole Porter

Happy Anniversary, Baby.

Eight years of spooning hearts.
Here's to eighty fatillion more.

M.

P.S. I love you too, my little skater boy.



Almost as much as I love missing you while you're away at college.

Labels: Manpie

We're back, again, from the cottage. I'm currently working under the pleasurable peaceful house-work-promoting conditions of a Cakers-Free home. This is a time-limited opportunity, therefore, no way should I be spending even a kitten sneeze of a moment of this precious commodity, blogging.

That Being Said...Today's Eye Candy



Egg Candy


Bud buds.

Friend Candy




::Check out the confident stance, whilst donning melon-hued pants with stars and stripes. Girl Balls. McCalls.::


::What are the chances that the Dangle Your Noodle game was invented by a boy?.::

Glad Candy


Mad Candy

::Cakers: Don't take my picture. Me: Okay. ::

My Candy


Happy-Dog-Butt-on-the-Dock Candy



An actual post is may be coming soon, to a blog near you.

p.s. I could hardly upload my google reader or email, while on rural dial up, at the cottage. I hope to catch up soon, on my reading and emailing.

Labels: Cottage, eye candy Friday, From My Loins, Manpie, Pho-Ho'

It was a week ago Thursday night, late. I'd just popped a tiny Tylenol P.M. and was heading off to bed, when my husband comes into the room and asks me if his aortal aneurism ::I cannot spell that word.:: was ascending or descending?

What are you talking about?

My anyerism. You know. Is it descending or ascending?

How'd you get an anuerysm?

Didn't you hear the doctor? ::He's referring to the rent-a-cardiologist at the hospital, a month ago.:: He said my aorta is enlarged.

I never heard the word anyerism.

Well, that's what an enlarged aorta is.

What are you talking about? We don't know if your aorta is enlarged. You haven't even seen the real cardiologist yet. Your own doctor told you that you're a big boy, with a big heart and sometimes a big heart brings a big aorta. And if that's what you really have, wouldn't the rental cardiologist unit have told you? They didn't even have your baseline measurement at the time. And I just took a Tylenol P.M. ferfucklesakes.

I know my baseline, now. It was 4 cm. It's up to 4.6. That's huge. That's an aynyerism. Just forget I said anything. I thought I could talk to you...my wife. I thought you might be interested to know that when they perform the surgery to fix it, I'll be buried in ice and put on artificial life support, so as to minimize the brain damage, which is almost certain with this particular kind of surgery.

Brain damage? Where the hell is this coming from? And way to ruin a good Tylenol P.M. fuzz, by the way.

I got it from the internet. I've been reading up on this shit every day. I have...as he reads from the back of a tattered grocery list...a Thoracic Aortic Aneryism. And that's really bad.

I'll spare you the details of rest of the dialogue, but I will share that it included screaming and swearing and crying and then laughing. You see, a couple months ago, Cakers was diagnosed, by a real doctor, with bronchitis. The day after the appointment, our very own Doctor Cabana calls me at work to tell me that Cakers has Asthma.

Did the doctor call? I asked, with alarm.

No. I got it from the internet. She has asthma. I just know it. ::I have no idea. Maybe there is a diagnostic website where you breathe into the mouse and right click at the same time?::

Oddly enough, at her follow-up appointment, the doctor gave Cakers'lungs and overall respiratory functioning, a clean bill. And we didn't speak of it again. Until last Thursday.

And even though we agreed to hold off on looking for a nursing home until after getting a second opinion from the Real Cardiologist, the following Monday, I couldn't stop rethinking the possibility of me and The Cakers living a life without this man. This internet diagnostic idiot, who just happens to be my everything. My happiness. A man I would gladly share a life with in a van, down by the river. Okay, make that a used R.V.

I need him. He changes light bulbs and fills my gas tank and fetches me wine. He loves to grocery shop with me. He has a healthy respect for ADHD. He can do a buttload of dishes in about 10 minutes, the same amount of time it takes me to circle the kitchen six times, move 3 plates from one counter to the other, before deciding to do it later. And every night he tells me to quit plucking my eyebrows and come to bed. ::I don't even know how he knows that's what I'm doing, because I'm very quiet with the tweezers. It's like he's psychic. Practically.::

Needless to say, I spent last weekend fighting the intrusive images of limping through the rest of my life, fielding the misguided hatred of the half-orphaned Cakers, while growing fat and wrinkly and bald of brow. All alone.

Long story almost over: Per the Real Cardiologist, The fucking rental from the hospital misquoted the echocardiogram findings to us. His Aorta was not 4.6 cm, but only 4.2. Which, with margin of error, is basically a non issue at this time. His aorta hasn't grown. There are no structural issues with his heart. And while his cholesterol was normal, it was a bad normal, and the Real Cardiologist is also a lipids specialist, so put E. on medication for that, which is unrelated to any of the issues that put him in the hospital.

E. still has to see another Cardiologist who specializes in the electrical stuff, but this guy we saw Monday is pretty certain the episode last month is not a heart issue but a brain issue and described it as the opposite of the "fight or flight" response, which we now affectionately refer to as the "I think I'm going to lay down and take a nap. Right now." response. Okay, I guess you had to be there for that one. But my husband loves him some nap, any time of the day.

We should know more after the next appointment.

In the meantime, it's all systems go, with no restricted activity.
Well, except for access to the internet.

Post Post Note 1: Work is going to be crazy up to the end. I feel like I'm in a batting cage with three pitching machines, and no bat. Or armor. I'm working late every night and when I get home I have nothing left to think or say. It's going to be a more-than-usual sketchy blog schedule 'til June. And I've not been getting around to read blogs and am behind in correspondence and I really wanted to respond to comments on last few posts, but I just...can't. Right now. Much. But I do appreciate the good thoughts and encouragements.

Post Post Note 2: The Rent a Cardiologist Fuck-pas was the second in a series of two significant miscommunications at the hospital, which caused me undue emotional duress, of the life-threatening variety.

Labels: Deep Shit, I Need Therapy Thursday, Manpie, Scary Shit

I'm far past busy.
And outta brain.
And too tired to explain.

I just need to get the Bloggapost Monkey off my back.

And that's where I'm at.
A-ratta-tat-tat.

1. What a Difference a Year Can Make. Or, Where'd My Baby Go?
Here's Cakers at soccer camp last summer. ::Clearly, she has her mother's athletic poise and focus.:: Click it, for full impact.



Here she is at last week's game:




At this level, the game is just supposed to be fun, so they don't keep score. Funny how every kid on the opposing team knew that they were ahead 7 to zip.

2. What a Difference 18 Years Doesn't Make
18 years is how long I've been knitting. Looking at this meatloaf-esque Ariann sleeve, it's like I've turned enemy. Part of the problem is that I can't find my long-enough size 7 needle for the magic loop method, so I'm bastardizing the two-circ method on too shorta cables, and it's not going well.



3. Not Your Mother's Cabana Boy.



There'll be more to follow, regarding the machinations of my marriage to the feeble hearted. At least he's still cute.

4. Eye Cakers Friday.
This was taken last summer, at soccer camp.



See that golden glow around her head? That's the image I hold of her always, when we're apart.

Labels: From My Loins, Knit In Progress, Manpie

Sigh Candy.



It might not look like much to you, but believe you me, this picture taken just this morning, is a Sigh for these Sore Eyes.

I'm kind of at a loss as to what or how much to share of my past two days. Because everything seems to be okay now, the emotional havoc I've recently endured, seems a bit melodramatic in the retelling. But I still feel the need retell, so I'm just going to open the lid and see what tumbles out onto the keyboard. So bear with.

We returned home from the cottage Tuesday night, the house still a mess from when we left it, with the addition of extra fur blobs scattered about, likely from Bella renting herself in grief, in response to our absence.

Anyway.

On weekends and vacations, my husband ::aka Cabana Boy, but today he's E.:: and I take turns sleeping in, and Wednesday morning was mine to sleep into. About 9:50, E comes into the room and announces that he had just passed out in the bathroom and needs to go to the hospital. He looked poorly. Greenish. I thought maybe he was getting the flu.

So I got up and dressed and we headed to the ER, where I dropped E off at the door, and went off to park the car.

For the sake of brevity I'm going to try to bullet the high and low points of the adventure. ::And no offense or anything, but I'm mostly writing this for me and not you, but I need to be brief with myself too, because I gots shit to do.::.

After finding E. with the intake nurse in her little intake cubby, I experienced what I call the first in a series of Little Terrors.

Little Terror #1: The intake nurse appearing obviously concerned with my husband's medical presentation as indicated through her muttering "With a pulse of 43, we don't have time for a temp...he needs to be seen....Now."

Little Terror #2: After getting Cakers situated in the waiting room, I walked into Trauma 2, where it felt and looked like a scene from the T.V. show, E.R. Orders were being barked while professional bodies moved about the room and around the equipment and one another, in a frenzied yet oddly synchronized dance.

Little Terror #3: A nurse stopped the frenzy to ask if she could call someone to come in to be with me.

Little Terror #4: The fear in E's eyes.

Little Terror #5: They put pads on his chest in case they needed to use the paddles.

Long Portion of Story Shorter, it took about two hours for his pulse and blood pressure to creep into their respectfully normal ranges, although they were still low.

Once the color started returning to his face, we relaxed a little and started enjoying Little Happies, In Light of the Situation.

Little Happy In Light of the Situation #1: Whenever the monitor showed a considerable dip in blood pressure or pulse or a red alert came on the monitor, my facial expression indicated alarm. ::E couldn't see the monitors. I'm sure that's on purpose.:: He finally asked me to either stop looking at the monitor or develop a better poker face, because I was scaring the shit out of him. But I initially thought he said "porker face," so every time I looked at the monitor, I held my nose up like a pig. It was still hard to hold a porker face in response to scary dips in the numbers, so I would still look scared, porker face notwithstanding, which made E laugh...okay I guess you had to be there.

Little Happy In Light of the Situation #2: The nurses station was right outside his room. One of the nurses walking by the door, dropped a pen and stopped to pick it up. E. then called me over to whisper "I have some ER gossip. That nurse is wearing a red thong." I laughed and with my best porker face, looked at his blood pressure reading and saw that it immediately went up a couple points. We then decided to tell the doctor that his blood pressure Got Up at the Crack of Thong, and maybe he can get a prescription for some of that.

Blood work showed E was low in potassium, so that was added to his IV, which seemed to help, after a while. The doctor ordered him to spend the night so they can monitor his heart and undergo further evaluation. Once he was stablized and a plan was in place, I went home to pack a bag for Cakers to stay at my in-laws, to let the dog out and tidy up a bit for when the in-laws came by. Through the course of tidying up, I somehow picked up a blob of peanut butter on my palm, which I somehow got on the steering wheel and console of the car, and a little on my jeans and purse, and nothing handy with which to wipe it off.

Back at the hospital, I had a very hard time getting a straight park with E's behemoth car ::It's a hatefully huge SUV.:: and was in and out of the car three times to check how crooked each attempt was or wasn't. I never did get it quite right, but barely good enough was good enough for me.

And it was a bitterly cold, snowy and windy day. When I was just outside the entrance of the hospital, I noticed a flurry of money flying past me. The folded bills looked strangely familiar as they tumbled away. As I watched a couple bills go down the storm drain I thought, Damn, that's my money! I chased after what remained, almost hitting my head on a parked car.

Little Happy In Light of the Situation #3: Between accidently transferring peanut butter from the kitchen cleanup to E's steering wheel and my purse, and the parking problems, and money blowing out of my purse and into a storm drain, I light heartedly determined that the first thing I will tell my husband when I see him, is that he cannot die because in the past hour I have seen what I am without him and it is not a pretty picture. Not only would he get a kick out of the image of my utter and complete dependency on him, but would surely prompt him to an even quicker recovery.

So I make it up to his room in one piece, to find that he isn't there. I stopped to inquire at the nurse's station, where several scrub-clad women were circled and jabbering like a nest of magpies. While I waited and waited. Finally a woman looked up from her nearby desk and asked what I needed. I told her I was looking for my husband. Clearly, this woman was new to the job and could not help me without first consulting with the magpies, who did not stop their chatter for yet another minute, as she stood by, waiting to ask the question.

Little Terror #6: The newbie told me that the magpies told her that my husband was still in the ER. Still? It's been hours, I said. She shrugged and told me that it can take a long time to get transferred to a room from the ER.

So, I head back to the E.R., which in this hospital, is kind of like changing terminals at a major airport.

Not so Little Terror #7: I get to the ER and head to Trauma 2, where I last left my E. But the door to Trauma 2, which was previously open the whole time we were there earlier, was now closed. When someone came out of the room, I could see and hear that there was some very serious shit going on in Trauma 2. With my husband. He's dying in there, I thought to myself. He's going to die before I can tell him that he can't. Die. Because if he dies, I will spend the rest of my life leaving a trail of peanut butter, and pulling in and out of angled parking spots,and letting money blow out of my purse and down the storm drains. Eventually we'll be poor and homeless and forced to live in an SUV, down by the river. Except we won't even be able to do that, because I can't park the fuckingly huge and hateful car.

He can't be dying in there, because I can't live without him. I just can't.

I don't know how long I stood staring at the door of Trauma 2, but I'm sure it was just moments. Finally a clerk behind the desk asked me if I needed something. I somehow choked out my husband's name and asked if he was in there, and pointed to the door.

No, he's been taken to his room, the clerk said. A nurse overhearing the conversation, piped in to confirm that she had delivered him herself and a floor nurse signed for receiving him. He was probably getting his echo cardio somethings or his doppler doppling whatchamacallits.

"They told me he was still down here. They told me..." and then I couldn't talk anymore, but only pointed again, to the door behind me. The door to Trauma 2.

And then I started to cry.

After some genuine consoling, I was given directions back to my husband's floor. While I was certainly relieved at the good news that my husband was not behind door #2, I had a hard time shaking the fear and made several wrong turns on the way to his room. I apparently had the look of neediness, because several hospital staff stopped to help me along the way. They were rewarded for their efforts by my bursting into spontaneous bawl and incoherently grateful blubbering. One woman, who appeared to be leaving for the day, recognized me from earlier, and walked me all the way to E's room.

Once I was up in his room, one of the magpies approached me and apologized for the breakdown in communication. It was genuine and she was forgiven. She later apologized to E as well.

There is definitely more blogging to be done, from this saga. I'm still feeling emotionally skittish, even though my man seems fine, for now. All his tests came back normal, and his heart is strong. Because of his congenital heart issues, he is scheduled for further evaluation, with the focus on trying to figure out what caused the problem. He'll also be fitted for a temporary monitor, which will record his heart activity over an extended period of time.

For now, I'm just happy that we're all back together.
College Boy is heading home at this writing, for the holiday weekend and tonight we're celebrating with one of E's favorite dishes, Black Bean Enchiladas.

I apologize for the choppy, messy writing here, but I really needed to get this out of me. Because I lost 2 days of spring break, wherein I had planned on doing some Easter preparation, I am sorely behind in that and all other household endeavors. And with Cabana Boy currently on medical waivers, I gotta get the getting going.

Have A Good Friday, everyone.

Labels: Deep Shit, eye candy Friday, Manpie

Aww and Paw...





Ever since The Cakers was a baby, her father has been counting down the years until she turned five and he could take her to the annual, community Daddy-Daughter Valentines Dance.

I was the chauffer for the event. On the short drive home from the drop-off, I found myself fighting a case of the baby blues. It just didn't seem that long ago when my adorable husband started counting coup on the years until he could take his rightful place at the dance.

Then I started thinking about my son, away at his second year at college and how it wasn't that long ago he was in high school, with girls who not that long before that, had gotten all gussied up in their velvet and tights and maryjanes, for a real live date with the very first man of their dreams. Daddy.

And it doesn't help that my baby girl is already "tall" for her age, which definitely enhances the feel of her growing away from me.

A cute little side story: My husband and Cakers went out to dinner at a nice restaurant that was offering a special daddy-daughter deal for dinner. About half-way through their meal, the place was filling up with "dates" and Cakers suddenly got up from the table. My husband thought she went to talk to someone she knew. She quickly returned to the table with a plateful of croutons, which she had helped herself to at the salad bar.

Dates do that.

P.S. We're suppose to be headed to the cottage for our four-day mid-winter break weekend. My husband got held up at the bank ::not like that:: so I thought I'd use the time to bang out a post. But he's now here so I gotta hit the road, without proofing. Sorry.

P.P.S. I don't know how this ended up back in the draft pile so I'm republicking.

Labels: From My Loins, Manpie, Passages

To my husband, who is not Jay Leno:

You weren't my first Valentine...

...'Cuz I was saving the best for last.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.
For anything.

I love you, Manpie.

Labels: Manpie

Saturday Sky



Saturday Lakes



That's our lake in the foremost-ground and Lake Michigan on the horizon. If you click it big, you can barely make out the head of the Baby Bear of South Manitou Island.

This one is a neighboring lake in a neighoring town, a few miles up the road.



Saturday Eeyore Dog



Saturday Chair on Neighbor's Porch



Saturday Knit


Yes, new project. We'll talk later.

Saturday Nap



What a cutie, eh? And such a happy guy, after his bitchy-ass wife just woke him up for snoring. ::Yeah, he's cute and sweet, but there's no snoring in beautiful fall days at the lake.::

Okay. Okay. So I'm glad it didn't rain.

::I didn't plan on posting so many pictures, but Blogger was giving it up tonight, people. We just kept goin' and goin'.::

Labels: Cottage, Knit In Progress, Manpie, North, Pho-Ho'

M is for Mate. Mmmm. Mine.

You Had Me at Left Branch Bundle Block
A couple of years ago I wrote a birthday tribute to my husband and a comet called Halle-Bopp.

The story in question had a happy ending, obviously. But it almost didn't.

See, I had some unfinished business in another relationship with a sweet guy who I had been planning to break up with for a couple months. Then he lost his job so I thought I'd wait. My future husband (we'll call him E) was still on what I considered a most long-ass rebound from his most recent break-up and was quite happy in his current relationship position being raised by a flock of lesbians. Seriously.

So, after our initial, ummm, birthday meeting, Yeah, that's it, birthday meeting, Mr. E. called me a couple times and we chatted at the health club. He didn't ask me out or anything and clearly our relationship status was less than casual, which suited me fine.

That's until he showed up at my doorstep at 2:00 a.m. one evening, with a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay in one hand and Turning Leaf in the other, with the slurpy explanation that he knew I liked the wine with the leaves on the label, but he couldn't remember which one. ::Ain't he the cutest?::

That same night/morning, while we sat on my couch, I looked at this man and said "I think I could fall for you." To which he too quickly replied, "No. I'm trouble." And I said "But I can see your shiny heart." ::I have the shiny heart vision, because I really could see it.::

And that's when he told me the story about his heart. He already told me that he had been born with a heart defect and had open-heart surgery at age four and had been a subject in a study on congenital heart defects and pediatric surgery through the University of Michigan.

Obviously, I had seen the huge scar that ran from his chest to the top of his tummy, and the little scars on the sides of his abdomen where they had inserted tubes into his tender, four-year old flesh. These scars sprouted tiny tufts of hair, like tiny shrubs. But that's all I knew.

What I didn't know was the Left Branch Bundle Block part of his heart. We all have bundles in our heart. It's an electrical thing. I knew about the electrical thing, but I didn't know the bundled part.

And somehow, despite the ordinary reality of everyday heart bundles, hearing this hulking, sweet, more than slightly drunken man use bundle and heart in the same sentence was a death sentence for all my casual intentions.

That's exactly the point I decided I had to have this one. And his huge, shiny, bundled heart. Tiny shrubs and all.

That's exactly the point E decided he wasn't ready for any of this relationship crap. So he bundled his fine-assed self into his '93 Cobra Mustang and zoomed away.

Days passed and no call. I went to the club every day, at the same time I used to see him there. But no. No bundled heart.

Then I called him, but he didn't answer. I left messages on his machine, but he didn't return my calls.

One time his roommate answered and I heard a voice in the background whisper "I'm not here." And then I heard the roommate say, "He's not here." And then I felt like someone had punched me square in my heart bundles. And I couldn't breathe very well. And I felt so ashamed. And embarrassed. And alone.

That's when I took that scrap of paper with his phone number, and ripped it into tiny pieces, and threw it in the trash. ::I had memorized my last phone number in 1990. The brain can only hold so many phone numbers, I theorized.::

Weeks passed. I would see him at the club on a rare occasion, and we'd just give each other a nod. But he didn't call. And I couldn't call him.

Every once in awhile I'd talk to one of his best friends Tee, who worked the snack bar at the club. This was also the woman who had orchestrated our getting together in the first place. But I didn't ask her about him. This was partly to spare her an awkward position, but mostly because I couldn't bear to hear from a reliable source, that I should peddle my heart bundles elsewhere.

Tee soon left her job at the club, to work at a car dealership. And I just went on with my life. More weeks passed before I saw him at the club again. He nodded per usual, but he looked at me in a different way. Kind of sad. Lingering. I nodded back and went about my business. But that look bugged me. Later, I had the strong need to talk to him. To explain something. I didn't know what, exactly, I wanted to explain. But I didn't see him again.

One day, while driving past Tee's new place of employment, I stopped to see her. I told her that I needed a number.

I needed to call him.
To tell him that I threw his number away.
And would not be calling him.
Still.
Again.
Ever.
Probably.
But just to be fair, I thought I should explain.
And move on.
To forget.
About him.
And his bundled heart.
And tiny tufts.
And fine ass.
And bottles of wine.
And leafy labels.
And how my face hurt from smiling whenever he was around.
And how I just wanted to get it all behind me.
After I explained.
That I threw his number away.
And it's only fair.
To tell him why.
And that it's over.

And Tee said okay.

So I called him. And I actually said to him, "I'm just calling to tell you that I threw your phone number away and it's over."

And he laughed. And then he asked me if I wanted to come over. And I said okay. And I brought him a plate of black bean enchiladas. And we watched a movie, while we shared some enchiladas, and some wine and some bundled heart.

The next week we had our first official date.
And then he met my boy, who showed him some yoyo tricks.
And then we got engaged.
And then, on his way to work in the morning sometimes, he would stop at my house and come to my bedroom window and tell me he loved me, and ask me to marry him some more and then he'd go to work.
And then I'd fall back to sleep.
And then I'd wake up with a sore face. From smiling in my pillow.
And then we got married and bundled our hearts forever.
And then I offered my last good egg and we made ourselves a bundle of something the world has never known.

I am not a religious person. But I believe in a Higher Power. A Source. A Power not to be ignored. A Power that chose my eyes to really see this man as he was created. A joy. A light. A bundle.

Author's Note: I have been working on this post for days. It was really hard because it was so personal. And there was so much I wanted to say, but much of that was not for human consumption. So I wrote and wrote. Deleted and deleted and wrote some more. Last night I thought I had it done, but held off on posting it until morning.

Today I woke up with the intention of cleaning up and publishing. Instead, I deleted the entire thing and started rambling from scratch. From a whole new angle. It's this ramble that you're reading today. Pretty much unedited except for a few glaring issues. ::bloggers eating my words today.:: I got to get on with my life.

Labels: ABC, How I Met Your Father, Manpie

To celebrate the anniversary, my husband and I went to the cottage, for a romantic, overnight getaway.

Now, at the risk of sounding like a cold, jaded, shriveled up ol’ bitty, and, while I love my hunky guy to all get-out, the romantic piece of the excursion was not necessarily the meat on my weekend platter.

I know, I know.

But truth be, what I really looked forward to on our little escape, was doing stuff we can’t usually do, with The Cakers around. And further truth be, it is possible to find romance, after hours, with a sleeping toddler in the house.

But if your main freaky hankerin’includes asking your husband to tie you up, outdoors, in broad daylight, well, you're going to need some special, lone, circumstances. And baby, my strappin’ lone ranger, he delivered the goods.

Immediately upon arrival at the lake, and well before we unpacked (well, we never really did unpack, exactly.), I was half naked, with rope in tow, begging my husband to do the deed.

Okay. The other half of my naked was covered with a bathing suit.

Okay. At the end of the rope was huge turtle floaty thing.

Okay. My husband tied me and my turtle island to the end of the dock.

And before you could say “lasso-a-ho’" (i.e. within minutes,seconds even) the gentle motion of the lake, under the turtle, brought me to that strange place of consciousness, where one is aware of one’s surroundings, whilst drooling the spittle of the besotted.

In fact, the successful implementation of this very event was my only real wish, for the weekend. And I was not disappointed.

Other points of weekend interest:

-A late afternoon boat date.

-A scrumptious, Wharfside dinner in Frankfort. ::Shitake-dusted sea scallops in a mango chutney butter and asparagus the size of blades of grass and crème brulee cheese-cake::.

-A late evening boat ride to the sand bar (it’s a lake thing, no bartenders), where we got a little slurpy and a lot giggly. On our dusky ride back to the cottage, my Captain treated me to donuts on the high sea. My jaws were aching from the perpetual grin. ::Gawd, how I loves me a bad boy!::

-A campfire.

-Star gazing from the end of the dock. ::The night was clear and the stars were thick as a woolen blanket::.

-With my sweetie at my side, from the end of the dock, catching the biggest and most colorful shooting star either of us has ever seen. Ever. It was like a love wink from the Big Guy.

I guess it was a pretty romantic escape, after all. And the best part? We didn't even have to try. And, just like a periwinkle shooting twinkle, I figure that’s a pretty good sign.





I wasn't able to get any good sunset shots, what with the spinning of the boat in the middle of the lake, and all. But I did capitalize in this op, as we pulled up to the dock. ::speed boatin' gives us both the hair of TV evangelistas.::




Knitting Knuggets
I'm almost done with the wrap, so I'll save pictures for the final product.

I have been snooping around the blogosphere, looking for future, knitworthy inspiration. And I must say, the blogosphere has delivered.

First on my eyeball list is the Cafe Cardi, from the summer Cast-On. In fact, the ever-bustling Bron is whipping one out, as we speak.

Second on the list is this incredibly edible number, from Girl From Auntie. I have been the consummate, drooling admirer of the Rogue, since its birth, but never had much interest in knitting a hoodie,for some reason.

But this Eris cardigan, is perfect.

Now, all I have to do is save my pennies so I can buy enough ink to enable me to print the 40 pages of pdf instruction, currently resting in (on?) my hard drive.

And then pray that someone, somewhere, is translating the chart instructions to text. And further pray that this someone, somewhere, will be willing to share the chart translation.

::Is that legal? I mean I bought the pattern. I just hate the charts. And really, this complaint is absolutely no reflection on the designer, I'm just a rut-row-by-row-text-instruction-kind-of gal. What can I say?::.

That's it for today. With the invitations for my return to work showing up in the mail, on a daily basis, I think I'll go cry, a minute.



In the meantime, here's another shot of my handsome frog prince, from the weekend. This was taken at the sand bar. Yes, that's really the color of the water. And yes, those are his real shoulders.

Labels: Cottage, Manpie

Following is a cut-n-paste of my post from one year ago, today. I suppose that replaying a blog post is cheesy, or lazy, or even self-aggrandizing. But the miracle of this piece still amazes me. And what a fine piece it is...

Love Under a Hale-Bopp Sky (or Getting Some Birthday Tail)
Seven years ago today, Comet Hale-Bopp made its closest approach to Earth.

And seven years ago today, I went to a stranger's birthday party, alone, on a whim.

First of all, I'm not much of a "social crowd" person. In fact, I typically avoid/dread parties or other social gatherings, even when I know and love the people in attendance. But there I was, voluntarily attending a party where I knew only two people, a lesbian couple I'll call Tee & Dee. Tee worked the snack bar at the health club and was my "barkeep confidante." It was Tee who had passed me an invitation to the bash, then made me promise to attend.

Tee and Dee were best friends with the guest of honor, a handsome, strapping guy, with a really nice butt. I had seen him around the health club and consistently sized him up as Trouble. Fine-ass Trouble, but Trouble. In fact, I remembered once watching him squeal his 1993 Cobra Mustang, out of the club parking lot. Grow up, I thought to myself.

Also, at this time, I had a boyfriend. A sweet, steady, reliable boyfriend, 13 years my senior. Okay, maybe he was a tad boring. Okay, maybe he was a lot boring. But he was sweet and steady and reliable and....out of town for the weekend.

While I was pretty wild in high school and college, seven years ago today I considered myself unremarkably staid. Just a few years out of grad school, I was enjoying a new profession. I ate healthy, worked out and drank pink wine out of a box, weekends only.

I don't know if it was the safety of anonymity or the Tequila Shooters or the Hot Damn! slammin', or simply comet kismet, but 7 years ago today, under the Hale-Bopp Trail, this unremarkably staid, middle-aged, social-working woman, had a highly remarkable evening.

Fast Forward Seven Years to the Moment:
I have 35 pounds of precocious Trouble sleeping upstairs, a sweet and steady and reliable, middle-aged man in my living room, and in my garage, a 1993 Cobra Mustang.

Happy Birthday, Honey.
I love you.
Zoom. Zoom.

Oh yeah, in appreciation of your giving me the best Trouble I've ever had, this Hella Bopp's for you:

It's a comet's tale,
Of trajected fate.
And tequila shots,
At Heaven's Gate.

With a fine-assed boy
In a badass car,
Her leashed reserve,
Unleashed too far.

While Counting Crows
Called out the dawn,
Fallen soldiers
Graced the lawn.

Where dark of heart
Did once prevail,
Floats the golden shim
From a Comet's Tale.

Fast Forward March 22, 2005:
Happy 43.
Olive Oil.
Zoom, Baby.

P.S. And thanks, back then, for slowing down just enough, to make it a fair chase. And then cancelling the restraining order. Zoom. Zoom.

Labels: Manpie

No knitting content today. Just dishy musings
Love Under a Hale-Bopp Sky (or Getting Some Birthday Tail)
Seven years ago today, Comet Hale-Bopp made its closest approach to Earth.

And seven years ago today, I went to a stranger's birthday party, alone, on a whim.

First of all, I'm not much of a "social crowd" person. In fact, I typically avoid/dread parties or other social gatherings, even when I know and love the people in attendance. But there I was, voluntarily attending a party where I knew only two people, a lesbian couple I'll call Tee & Dee. Tee worked the snack bar at the health club and was my "barkeep confidante." It was Tee who had passed me an invitation to the bash, then made me promise to attend.

Tee and Dee were best friends with the guest of honor, a handsome, strapping guy, with a really nice butt. I had seen him around the health club and consistently sized him up as Trouble. Fine-ass Trouble, but Trouble. I once witnessed him squealing his 1993 Cobra Mustang out of the club parking lot. Oh, grow up, I remember thinking.

Okay, back to the story. Also, at this time, I had a boyfriend. A sweet, steady, reliable boyfriend, 13 years my senior. Okay, maybe he was a tad boring. Okay, maybe he was a lot boring. But he was sweet and steady and reliable and....out of town for the weekend.

While I was pretty wild in high school and college, seven years ago today I considered myself unremarkably staid. I was a few years out of my MSW program and enjoying a new profession. I worked out, ate healthy and drank pink wine from a box, weekends only.

I don't know if it was the safety of anonymity or the Tequila Shooters or the Hot Damn! slammin', or comet kismet, but 7 years ago today, under the Hale-Bopp Trail, this unremarkably staid, middle-aged social working woman had a highly remarkable evening.

Fast Forward Seven Years to the Moment:
I have 35 pounds of precocious Trouble sleeping upstairs, a sweet and steady and reliable middle-aged man in my living room, and in my garage, a 1993 Cobra Mustang.

Happy Birthday, Honey.
I love you.
Zoom. Zoom.

Oh yeah, in appreciation of your giving me the best Trouble I've ever had, this Hella Bopp's for you:

It's a comet's tale,
Of trajected fate.
And tequila shots,
At Heaven's Gate.

With a fine-assed boy
In a badass car,
Her leashed reserve,
Unleashed too far.

While Counting Crows
Called out the dawn,
Fallen soldiers
Graced the lawn.

Where dark of heart
Did once prevail,
Floats the golden shim
From a Comet's Tale.

Labels: Deep Shit, How I Met Your Father, Manpie