Devotionals

This weekend, perhaps the last fetching days of the season, I spent at the library. It sounds like I have a deadline, that I'm behind. It smells like teemed spirit and procrastination. Funny how we discover ourselves in our work. I am happy to put this baby to bed with a goodnight story and a bottle of Gewurtraminer: the Baroque Period of my life.

I've been reading like an old person with spare time lately, pushing myself up the hill of two books a month. I joined another book club, as a I often require a "spotter." Typically book-clubbing has me dragging my heels because  1). No one ever likes what I read and 2). I hate being "assigned" work, but this is a group of hardcore readers; smart and funny, and a few writers, in fact. My last book club had a couple of worms in it, but when one woman--the one who always cried when she told a story about her kids--chose a chick-lit book about friends who made it through breast cancer, raising kids and cheating husbands, I was so "out of there." I mean, I have real friends for all of that, so why would I waste my time stuck in idle?

Our first book was The Book Thief. A clever, sad tale about the holocaust, but the poetic prose began to wear thin, and the author was no Jonathan Safran Foer.

Our second book was Just Kids, by Patti Smith. I devoured this book daily, then regurgitated it each night to feed my husband, saying, "You must read this!" I relived every single chapter (almost acted them out), which means it's a dust collector in our house from here...I couldn't help but give away the punchline. Patti Smith is the Godmother of punk rock, and for those who are thinking, "irreverent behavior and slashed wrists" right now, well, you have it all wrong.

Patti's book won the National Book Award with its historic, raw, honest (well, whoever really knows about that), and poignant account of NYC in the 60s and 70s. My favorite poem of hers is titled Piss Factory, about getting out of South Jersey and the factory-girl life. (My personal Piss Factory comes from walking my bloodhound every day, watching him take a leak on every plant, and wondering where in the hell he stores it.)

Patti's complete devotion to Robert Mapplethorpe, coupled with her endearing muse tendencies, made me love her: great devotion thinks alike. But the utterly engrossing segment of the book was when she and Robert lived at the Chelsea Hotel, amid the getting-there hopefuls, now posthumously famous, and others whose mamas tried to raise them better:

Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungeon
Dee Dee Ramone
Bob Dylan
Janis Joplin
Jimi Hendrix
Arthur Clarke
Allen Ginsberg
William S. Burroughs
Dylan Thomas
Edie Sedgwick

...even Ryan Adams stayed there, for Christ's sake!

The last time I visited New York, I sprinted to the Chelsea (actually, I walked...I was very close). I took photos with all the other bloody touristas, soaked in the culture, and--ever-so-seriously--feared for my life.

And now, the Chelsea is closed to guests. Handfuls of pained residents remain, awaiting their fate, but can anyone relive the past? Just ask Worsdworth, just ask anyone who ever broke up: we cannot.

The Chelsea closing is likely the best thing that will ever happen to the Chelsea, because a more horrible fate would be for my son to read a book someday about the time Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift coexisted there for a while...

The Post Op

There are a couple of things that can categorically cause divorce. There's the "obvious" stupid (and always quite regrettable) behavior, choosing a paint color for your family room, assembling a grill together, and your child's mole removal. Today, our son had his wee, cute mole removed from his tender face, wherein pandemonium ensued.

I began my day by making a pot of coffee, laying out Sam's "surgery" clothes, throwing his pre-purchased pain medication and my journal in my bag, and then attempting to wake him and his dad. Lord, have mercy - those boys love to sleep.

We made it to the hospital with time to spare (really, this is something), tricked Sam into believing he was on some secret mission where he had to count backwards into a spy mask, and watched him being led into the surgical abyss by a nurse named Jo (who was plenty tan).

He came out wearing colors that fly, eating popsicles and asking when we could "get the heck out of there." He's awesome, mature and, might I add, adorable. If I had a nickel for every nurse who said, "He's so cuuuuute," I'd have 35 cents.

Post Op: (I'm using medical terms here)

* A trip to Bob Evans. Pancakes and sausage gravy, anything you want, sweet boy.
*Puke in the back of my Volvo.
*Daddy saying, "I think I'll go into the office for a while."
*Mommy saying, "Oh, yeah, that's a good idea."
*Sam acting like a crazy person coming off of a bad cocaine habit, mistreating the dog.
*Sam sent to his room for a nap.
*Sam ripping off his surgical tape that was to remain on his stitch for 3-4 weeks.
*Mommy's little freak-out.
*Daddy's workday.
*A trip to CVS.

Remember that television commercial where the sweet host and hostess stand inside the CVS pharmacy folding their arms and smiling as yet another satisfied customer walks home (because there's a CVS on every corner)? Well, that is complete bullshit.

When I arrived at CVS (any old CVS), I stood calmly by the sign that read "Consultation." A couple of pharmacists looked down at me with a look that clearly stated, "Shit, that lady wants a consultation."

I quickly realized that the consultation line was for customers who'd graduated with high honors from the drop-off/pick-up line, and that, in essence, I was a nuisance.

A throaty voice asked, "Do you have a question?"

I replied, "Um, yes, in fact, I do have a question," followed by the details of my terrible horrible no good very bad day (omitting the pot of coffee).

Frog lady climbed off her lily pad into aisle 7A, where you can buy surgical tape, although she had NO IDEA what kind of tape I needed (one that applies directly to wounds...no, no...it seems quite simple), and so I ended my afternoon with bandage dots, some Bacitracin and a jug of hydrogen peroxide.

And, unlike some married couples who might end their day with the wife peevishly answering questions with one-word responses--simultaneously and aggressively brushing her teeth--while her worn-out husband opts to watch Simpson reruns, we made it through unscathed.

All is well, and we hope for Sam's unfaltering recovery.

That Bugs

It probably happens to you. Some say it's no big deal, and perhaps it isn't, but when someone "friend requests" you and you have no idea who they are, what do you do?

Facebook is stuck in my craw lately.

Going to a high school of 4,000, I ran into a lot of people. That doesn't mean we spoke. Following it up with I.U., I certainly met--or at least saw--a lot of faces from Indy (Kokomo, Greenwood and Columbus don't count) and "Chicago" (most kids in college who said they were from Chicago were actually from Northern IN, or a Chicago suburb, pop. 12,000).

In today's world I get weekly friend-requests from unfamiliar people. Perhaps I knew them when...but I don't know them now. Facebook will claim that we have 15 or 16 mutual friends, but when I refer to the list, I usually can't remember those people, either. Do I ignore the request? Should I have ignored the other requests? Do I accept the friend request to push my numbers up so that it seems like I know a lot more people that I really don't know? Do I want to see photos of kids whose parents I can't remember? Do I care?

Oh shit, wait: I don't really care.

My husband is a master of snubbing people he can't remember, never really liked, or wants to rid from life. I gasp: Won't that crush their delicate feelings? and he replies, "So what?"

So, because of my terrible memory for faces and names, and because it feels like strangers going through my closets, I'm gonna have to let the snubbing begin. In advance, I apologize.

I feel lighter already. One to go.
Facebook went public this week and their stock isn't selling well: I'll tell you why. It's because of people who put things like this on their status update:

Please pray for us.

For days I pray. I pray and pray and pray; meanwhile, I'm messaging that person (who I really can't remember): What's wrong? Who am I praying for? I need more details!

No response.

By this time, hundreds of people have posted things like, "I'm so sorry!" or "Let me know how I can help!" and I'm still shrugging my shoulders asking, "What the hell happened? And...who are you? Did we have a class together?

Shit.

A few days later a new post appears:

Thank you for all of the prayers and support. We're on our road to recovery.

with no...freaking...explanation.

From now on people of this nature will be deleted from my beloved book. The people I don't know can go bother someone else with whom they maybe had French class (although I skipped that class a lot, which could help explain a lot of this mess...).

A Breath of Fresh Air

If my blog were an infant strapped inside a hot car while I ran into the grocery for a couple of things, I'd be arrested.

The rains have let loose, and there are ants inside my mailbox. I'll give them 48 hours to find new digs or they're going to have an unmemorable spring.

As I snack on green bean crisps (which Sam says are "totally gross") and sip wine, I reflect on recent happenings, spectacles and things that made me laugh really hard.

I'll begin with the latter. Matt used a jackhammer over the weekend to take out our front, God-awful-ugly sidewalk. Stomach-aching laughter....but cute, dat. I couldn't be near him, truth be told, due to the continuous giggling. Instead, I dug a new line around the house for the flower beds, ripping out grass and thick dirt with my bare, farm-raised hands. I love back-breaking work. Matt left a jagged pile of cement debris, and returned the jackhammer to the store. We both relaxed with a glass of water and a jar of Aleve.

Today, Sam and I started picking up the pile of rubble. We looked like a chain gang out there mindlessly tossing rocks into buckets. Some neighbors passed by with their dog, snickering in that we've-already-finished-our-work tone, "Having fun?" Sam responded by shouting, "We're picking up rocks. My dad isn't really a good worker." Oh my God, I laughed so damned hard.

As for spectacles, Matt and I saw Dwight Yoakam at the Palladium, one of the most fru-fru venues on the planet, and a fight broke out. In Carmel, Indiana. At the Palladium. Penny loafers and tassled leather shoes were flying everywhere. The Republican Party had never seen such nonsense in their lives! It was pretty brilliant. Well done, drunk assholes.

And, the haps. Sam began Little League, and he's doing quite well. Seems he's got a little 'Brooks' in his blood (my nephews are astonishingly good at baseball). He's sooooo into it, sleeps with his glove, wears his uniform day and night, and when other kids mess around on the field, Sam looks at them like, "Dude, we're in the middle of something here..."

He's a lefty, and the kid can hit. His team is the Boston Red Socks, unfortunately, but luckily he looks divine in red. The practices and games have been nothing short of hell frozen over here in the Midwest, due to erratic weather behavior, but it's fun to see him participating, fielding some grounders, twirling when he's bored.
And lastly, we adopted a 5-yr-old bloodhound/coonhound mix from the Indy Humane Society. It was that or a pitbull, but Matt said that all pitbulls should be eradicated from Earth, and I second that emotion. Our dog is awesome, and I love hearing Sam say, "Here boy...here good, good, good, good boy..." Aww. He came with the name Waylon, but I've taken to calling him Longfellow.

When we're away, Longfellow whines for us. Sam calls it squeaking. We pull into the garage and Sam says, "I'm sure my dog has been squeaking for me all day," and then begins calling "Here good, good boy..." This kid! This sweetheart kid. Always amazing me...

Until next time, little bloggey, rest well. I'll keep the window cracked for you.

Chick Stuff

I'm baking a three-layer birthday cake for my mom today: red velvet, Devil's food and classic yellow. I've come up with the frosting design (didn't have to consult Pinterest), and it's baking now, as I write.

"Is she making these from scratch?" you might be asking. Oh, hell no.

Before Matt left for the office, he said, "Make sure it's moist. Cook it five minutes less than it calls for. Don't forget to add plenty of oil...so it's moist. And water, to make it moist."

Believe it or not, this is Matt's love language for "You're pretty creative, but a great cook you ain't."

{Digression: I finished reading The Help this week, and I've been talking like a 1960s southern, black maid all week. This is not a racist comment, as they are now heroines of mine! I'm gone have to read that book again, I liked it so well.}

My cooking has true moments of beauty, but traditionally, and I blame my English/German heritage on this, it's quite bland. And I don't follow directions. Ever.

My friend Emily writes this wonderful blog, photographing all that she cooks, and it inspires me. She's a stay-at-home mom, too, with THREE kids, and she homeschools one of them. AND she's a great cook. It's really sickening, but I love her.

Part of my problem is planning. I never go in for the kill on this. I made an Italian bake the other night, hurrying through it because I started around 5:00 p.m., and I realized that I'd forgotten to add the red wine, the KEY ingredient. When it came out of the oven, fully cooked and bland as hell, I wondered if I added the wine then, pouring a half-cup or so over cooked pasta, maybe no one would notice. A few minutes later, Matt walked in. I sprinkled a bunch of seasoned pepper on it (my best friend), and called Sam to dinner.

We sat down to eat, and I said, "I tasted it. It's OK." Matt asked, "Is it bland?" I couldn't look him in the eyes, I just nodded.

Sometimes, I like to cloak the truth in a "I made a healthier version than the recipe called for" attempt. I pretend that this works for me.

Matt and Sam are troopers. They know that deep down, cooking isn't really my thing. Just like Chick TV, Chick Lit and, basically, mindless-chick-stuff aren't my things.

Post Script:
The Devil's food looks moist; the red velvet crept out of the pan and made a mess because I think it was too hot; there's classic yellow batter all over the kitchen floor. The phone rang 5 times from the start of this blog to now. If it weren't for my editing job, and need to talk to publicity people, I'd blow up the phone. At least I do not have the E! channel on in the background...

Due For Repair

Spring arrived in a little blue box this week. My crocuses and hyacinths are in full bloom, the days are longer, and Matt is almost tolerable to live with (hee hee).

We've been cooking out, playing outside (Sam is in his fort right now killing bad guys), taking walks, and tonight I'll be firing up the grill and pouring a small wine goblet for my dear husband--who never has to wait on repairmen--to enjoy on the deck.

I'm not sure what it is about us and repairs, and thank God I write from home so I can be here to meet the endless stream of child-abducting vans that are forever parked in our driveway. I called Matt today to tell him that our LG fridge was spewing water. At first, I detected low-grade defeat over the phone, then a growing surge of apoplexy, but then he calmly sighed, saying, "Do you want to call them, or me?"

There is a dark cloud hovering over our appliances, wiring and, soon enough, furnace. It's like a hail storm in the middle of a hurricane, and it never seems to end. These are the things that make marriage fun.

But it's life, and sometimes there's no better answer than a 1997 Martinelli, Jackass Vineyard, Russian River Valley Zinfandel. (Alcohol 16.5% by volume.)

Riding Life's Waves

We're on our last day of vacation in California. We're at Matt's parents now, but we rented a house on Newport Beach this time, so we were mere steps to the ocean. It was a little chilly this time around, but that didn't keep Matt and Sam out of the water, both surfing with their wetsuits on. Sam heard a million times, "Oh he's so cute!" Honestly, he did look pretty darn Matt-like in his suit. I asked Sam yesterday morning if he was going surfing, and he answered, "Yes, Mom, it's what I do, it's my job."

Matt and I ran on the beach a couple of times, and there were a few trips to Perry's Pizza and PJ's Surfriders. Standard issue. I know every nuance of Newport Beach now. : )

Sam told Matt how his job isn't any fun, saying, "Daddy, you don't have any toys or children to play with (well, a few children), just those big rocking chairs."

Matt took Sam and I to see his elementary school in Orange. In California, the kids walk from room to room...outdoors. Their little coat hooks are outdoors. Gotta pee? The bathroom is located outdoors. It's crazy to think that these little kids aren't locked inside some building, wandering the halls like all the little Indiana chillins. I like the concept, but...

The Newport Beach Grammar School is located on the beach! OMG, how much sand those poor teachers must have to sweep up daily. Not to mention all the beach bums that stop and gawk. Oh, no way.

Yesterday was Matt's and my wedding anniversary. It was a very sweet day. I think we hugged and kissed 53 times. He took me to our favorite restaurant, Orange Hill, that looks out over all of Orange County and a sliver of the ocean. I gave him a plastic, red heart that I'd dug out of the sand, to which I'd added a piece of heavy string. It was kind of a joke, but he got it. Our hearts are still strong, and our perspective on what marriage really takes in unflawed. He truly is the best guy, and I'm extremely fortunate. I love my guys so much.

Camper Van Halen

Matt told me two days ago that we'd been invited to a suite at whatever-Conseco-Fieldhouse-is-called-now to see Van Halen. I stared blankly, looking for an escape hatch.

I said, "Oh, god, honey, it's just that I...it's just...oh, how do I say this...I hate them. I hate them so much." I told him I'd look for a sitter. Imagine my delight when all Brooks family members were unavailable! But, damn, our Australian friend said, "Yes, of course I'll watch the lad. I'm pissed that you didn't ask me first."

I told Matt that the only song I remember is Pour Some Sugar On Me.

Matt's response--OK, more like a snicker--was, "Jill, that wasn't Van Halen."

I like the friends we'll be joining, I happen to love making fun of big hair and Spandex, and Matt told me today that Kool and the Gang are opening. OK, I'm there. I'm so there.

Open That Bottle

The Wall Street Journal, in an attempt to encourage their wine-loving readers to drink the good stuff, began an Open That Bottle night program. Instead of hiding your prized wines (I have several from the early 1990s that I've been hoarding), you take them to a party of fellow wine enthusiasts and drink.

We participated Sunday night at the home of my editor friend who lives downtown in the old Block building. Although I've turned Matt into a wine snob over the years, we paled in comparison to most of the knowledgeable folks sharing bottles at this fest. There were Rochioli pinot noirs, Martinelli Zinfandels from Jackass Vineyard, plenty of Côtes du Rhône, Burgundy and Châteauneuf-du-Pape...and one of my old boyfriends. DRINK! 
 
Just kidding, it was fine.
 
Matt and I met DJ for dinner at St. Elmo's afterward--more wine--and then flipped a coin for who drove home. Fun evening.

Happy Valentine's Day, Matt...

Quads 21st Birthday Bash

We celebrated the adorable quadruplets' birthday last Saturday night in Broad Ripple. We met at Union Jack's for some intensely yummy pizza, and Matt was sweet enough to stay home with Sam so that Deb--our favorite babysitter--could join us.

Deb returned home, but my dad stayed with us, and we felt that a ripening experience in Ripple would be a quick shot at the Alley Cat Lounge. I always loved the Cat. I maybe or maybe didn't play pool there with several bands over the years...

Saturday night, Whitney Houston had just been pronounced dead--no real surprise to us--and some big, loud, weepy girl at the Cat (also drunk and stupid) went up to my dad and asked if he was a Republican. My dad, meekly, answered, "Um, no, I'm not a Republican," (fibber) to which she said, "Good, because if you were I'd punch you in the face."

She continued walking around the bar crying, so I had to make fun of her, just a wee bit. I said, "Oh, are you all right?" to which she replied, "No. Ronald Regan killed Whitney Houston, and if I find any Republicans here tonight (shew, I was safe) I'll f*@#ing punch them in the face."

We left the Cat pretty quickly. It was getting weird earlier than I remember back in my days. We walked down the alley (you see the significance here) to the Vogue Nightclub. My favorite place on earth next to my very own family room.

Our entire bunch: Jason, Angie, Nick, Tyler, Lauren, my dad and I got jiggy with it for hours. We all knocked back some tasty beverages, and none of us were feeling any pain...until the next morning.

Chocolate milk definitely cures a hang-over.

Matt's Birthday Party

I really must desist in surprising Matt each year, because by the time he's 40 there will be no more tricks up my sleeve. And I've already told him...we're going somewhere hot for his 40th.

We had a surprise party open house this year. I told Matt that our neighbors previous and past would be joining us, which was fine with him, but people kept coming, kept coming, more people. We realized that we are still friends with almost all of our former neighbors. We're very fortunate with that.

I made a bunch of very yummy soup for the occasion:

bought him the perfect cake with our likenesses :) (and broke the "H"candle):

and his friend re-gifted this hideous thing from Christmas:

Another party snaps to attention. I'm on break until Valentine's Day.

Do What You Like

I shared the best "secret" moment with Sam tonight...and then ran to tell Matt about it.

I have kept a journal since the 7th grade. Thank you, Mrs. Blaylock.

Sure, at many points it has saved my life. But my most extensive, serious journaling has been since the day I found out I was pregnant with Sam.

I journal all the time, and many days--most days--after Sam has said something funny, interesting or mean, I'll say, "Oh, Mommy needs to write that in her journal."

Tonight, Sam said, "I want to journal. I love to write."

I replied, "Well, when you learn all of your letters you'll be able to form words, and then you'll...oh, Sam! You'll be a writer. Mommy always wanted to be a real writer, but Mommy lacks some discipline, but if you want to be a writer...write! You can write a book!"

Sam's face burst with a smile. He couldn't contain himself, and he threw himself forward, hugging me, and simply said, "Mommy..."

Sam loves praise and nurturing. I followed it up (because of the parenting books) with, "You can be anything you want to be. Even a Senator. Mommy will still love you."

Sam said, "I want to be a writer."

I expounded to Matt.  Matt's response: "Well, better than a lawyer..."

Apple Pie and Amoxicillin

Not since I was in Madrid, Spain, searching for a 24-hr RX, have I been so greatly disappointed. In Spain, lovely Spain, there are roughly 3 drug stores per any metropolitan area. They open at 9, close at 5, and none of them are open weekends. This goes for France, too, come to think of it. While walking what seemed the entire country of Spain, back when I was still "fashion over function," I had at least 15 blisters on my feet from walking in clown shoes all day.

I searched for hours, not speaking a word of Spanish (5 years of French has really come in not handy), for a freaking drug store! To no avail.

But I will say this: at least in Europe you understand. They're purists. They don't like neon. They don't like advertising and marketing. They won't allow "box stores." Bless their hearts, I love Europeans.

But when Sam got strep throat over the weekend, and I had to call my always-there-for-me stepmom to find an open MedCheck (at 6 p.m.) I was pissed. We live in Carmel, for God's sake. Strip mall capital of the world, right?

And then to fill a prescription? Forget about it. One open. ONE. Oh-my-high-price-of-gas-God.

I called Matt after I'd already driven at least 12 miles around in a circle, asking, "Please hold dinner for me, I'm at CVS on Rangeline" (my third attempt at an open pharmacy). Matt said, "Better you than me, because someone would already be dead if it were me..."

There were actual tears in my eyes.

So, Sam's better. God bless America and amoxicillin.

We took him to see Beauty and the Beast 3D the next day. Ten minutes into it I spoke over Sam's head to Matt: this is a horrible message, if you really think about it. Matt nodded.

When we left the theater, Matt said, "So, Sam, the message is that if you hold a girl captive for long enough, she might fall in love with you."

Oh, the truth does sting.

People in my hot tub

The "people in your hot tub" idea is a theory that allows you to entertain famous people who you may not--and probably are not--married to.

My neighbors, Kelly and Mike, and my husband all chose sex symbols, television personalities (if you can call it having a personality), and moviestars. OK, OK, I gave Kelly "Dennis Quaid," because I rather like him, too. And, honestly, I'm probably too old to know her other choices. I think both husbands chose Megan Fox, because, you know, they're guys.

Except for Jon Stewart, a highly sexy, funny and intellectual television personality--with tons of personality--I had a difficult time coming up with people who are actually still alive. Kelly thinks I'm nuts. She lets out screams regarding my choices.

I've spent a lot of time with Shakespeare. Old Bill would be in my hot tub, for sure, and now Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald.

I've been on an F. Scott Fitzgerald kick, of late. For those of you who may have only referred to the Cliffs Notes for Fitzgerald or, who, like myself, didn't completely 'get' him at age 16...reread! I just finished This Side of Paradise, and it's as if time stood still since 1920. Highly intellectual and philosophical, mildly political and greatly FED UP with humanity.

I'm walking on a cloud, having just laid the book down after a heavy sigh.

On to revisit the works of George Bernard Shaw. If you have ever seen a photo of him you may already know that he won't be joining my party.

Work, no sleep and a big smile

There's something in the water around our neighborhood because everyone seems to be inexplicably happy these days. I know I am. I love life so much that I feel a little guilty for loving life so much. Shouldn't I be hating the world along with everyone else? Oh wait, that's only "as seen on Fox News."

It's the fact that I'm working. I'm working a lot right now and that makes me extremely happy. Sure, I tell Matt and Sam to "get out of here - give me some peace for the love of God" now and again, but that's my perfectionist calling card, not unhappiness.

Matt's been very supportive, and when he lets down his guard I think I even see a shimmer of pride on his face. : )

Sam, well, Sam is the greatest kid on earth. I sometimes wait for a specific measurement, some conclusive allotment that will be filled and I'll be content to love him on that level without possibly loving him more...and then he smiles, or laughs, or farts on me and I love him even more.

I made up this little song, Sam and Mommy Are Best Friends, when he was wee, and he still sings it to me occasionally. He's just the coolest little guy and I am so grateful and extremely blessed. Matt and I ask him all the time, "Do you even know how much we love you?" and Sam smiles, puts his hands as high as they'll go, and says, "This much, right?"

But, the kid still sleeps with us. He always begins just fine in his you've-got-to-be-kidding-me comfortable bed, but around 2 or 3, sometimes 4, he comes into our room. My eyes fly open like broken spring window shades, and I'm up the rest of the night. Last night, Matt slept in Sam's room because he was sick, so Sam and I watched Batman Forever in my bed until way past his bedtime. He fell asleep in 14 seconds, but then his snoring began. I turned our fan to level two, suffered for at least another hour, and then turned on a humidifier, as well. The bedroom sounded like a vortex into which we were about to be sucked, so I finally surrendered to half of an Ambien.

Snoring that trumps insomnia is never good news. Tired, bags under my eyes, I made him a quiche for breakfast and kissed him multiple (hundreds) of times throughout the day.

Matt dropped me at the Cheese Shop today while he waited in the car with Sleeping Boy. I bought a sliver of goose liver paté (where my PETA membership from college hits a snag), a bigger sliver of Stilton cheese, and of course, our favorite, Fol Epi (mais oui!). Sam and I made our first batch of cake balls today. It's the new thing, or maybe it's the old thing - I wouldn't know. They are not very pretty, but we did it together, like we do most everything. Now he's cooking dinner with his dad in the kitchen.

What can I say, it's love.