In which VD can be a GOOD thing.

It started like this.  Cold, snowy- reminiscent of other houses we'd holed up in much farther north.

It was almost Valentine's Day and my honey said he was taking me someplace special. The practical part of me thought, It's nice to own a four wheel drive vehicle. The impractical part wondered if I'd shaved my legs and if this nice place would be sunny.

But sunshine can be internal, can't it? We bopped around Atlanta, shopping, eating and drinking. making friends in odd places, including a cabbie we called Saleem Dion. We laughed and forgot all about snow and kids and barking dogs and anything that we couldn't change- like taxable goods and a shitty President.  We returned to a room strewn with white rose petals, a chilled bottle of champagne and chocolates that looked like fine art.

I didn't plan a thing and had the best time...
 what did he buy me for Valentine's Day, you ask?

 Well, after 17 years? He knows what to buy.

                       **Shoes.**

A gift worth rewarding.

Momma said you gotta wear white on wedding day

The wedding story.. the shoe part 2.

These are the shoes I wore at my wedding in Firenze, Italia.

These are the shoes that were buried in my closet in California, that I had to call home from a payphone in Germany to ask my fiance to bring for me. Do you know how hard it is to find white shoes in Europe after August? Do you know how difficult it is to operate a payphone in Dusseldorf?

In hindsight, the wedge heel was a blessing when I had to run through cobblestone streets (the morning of our nuptials we got lost on our way to the Palazzo Vecchio)

almost missing our own wedding.

Yep, that's me the blushing- er- squinting bride.

I may have worn the shoes one more time since returning home in 1992, but I'm certain I did not feed the strap through the buckle without thinking of a red room, a smiling consulate and a very sweaty, very nervous groom.

( A groom who cut off my feet in this picture, before he took for Chinese food in Italy.)

Really, Honey? I don't think we need a new roof.

This Spring, horrible hail storms rattled our rooftops in Georgia, damaging twenty year old shingles on houses of people that still believed in twenty-five year warranties.

We watched neighbors go through the early morning, late afternoon, early in the evening construction upheaval. We sat in our backyard, drinking cold beer all summer, pleased that we weren't one of the blue tarped houses, one of the people stuck at home while roofers took three hour lunches, arrived late to work, or not at all.
We saw the proud signs go up in the neighborhood, pulled ads off our mailbox and kept our money in the bank, chanting, not us. not us. not us.
And my other mantra- this is not our forever house, just do enough to keep it saleable.
We laughed as the rains came and we sat dry- in one of the oldest houses on the block.

But when the next door neighbor- who never does anything to his house- was re-roofed... and the other next door neighbor- who has the crappiest luck with his house ( and he's a preacher, which opens up a whole different theory about luck, as far as I'm concerned) signed up for his new roof, telling us about insurance claims and ease of install...

we bit.

After not having any grand problems with our roof pre-inspection by insurance man, pre-quote by two roofing companies... pre- having any men walk, slip and slide over our roof, we now have two new stains on the upper floor ceiling and a nice drip, leak and crack on the lower level, way too near the expensive AV system.
Hmm.

Soon, I will be the woman who needs to be fully dressed by 7AM. The woman who will wish she had taken Spanish in high school instead of French, the woman who will have a proud new sign in her yard and a dozen less cold cokes in her fridge. And I will be reminded that every time I tell my house that it doesn't need that new carpet, that upgraded dishwasher or matching micro-oven combo, it will retaliate as any good house should, until I beg for mercy and pull out the yellow pages chanting, this may not be my forever house, but it's our home and we deserve the best.

It wasn't me. Thank God.

Growing up with three sisters, I always had someone to blame- for the broken vase, for the dirty dish in the sink, for the wet towel on the floor. Our mother frequently referred to this classic Family Circus cartoon... understanding exactly how that worked.


Last week, someone tried to kill a venomous snake and instead killed our downspout and housing.
Someone tried to play soccer with little girls and ended up breaking one of their wrists.
Someone forgot how to pedal their bike and wasn't wearing a helmet.
Someone didn't finish their homework.
Someone tried to hide the mess in the closet by simply closing the doors.
Someone left a multi-colored pen in their pocket then washed a full load of whites.
Someone forgot which store and even which mall held the necessary item they needed to buy.

Someone didn't go to graduation.
Someone forgot they weren't supposed to ride the bus home, but wait in the parking lot.
Someone tried to get out of church.
Someone didn't save the reading list.
Someone ate all the chicken in a biscuit crackers.
Someone ordered the wrong pizza.
Someone messed up the TV settings.
Someone didn't clean up their room.

and for once? Guess what...
 it wasn't me.

Family Dinner Charades

I'm all about the family dinner conversation, the "meeting." As long as it's low-key and ends in my favor, well, generally anyway.
The problem in our house starts with getting everyone to sit down at the same time and maintain a common pace through the meal.
Invariably, someone will have to hop up for a condiment or the phone or a bathroom trip. Then there will be someone whose food needs to be warmed or cooled or spiced differently. And there's me, who grew up with three hungry sisters and hates having the "end piece" of anything. I'll eat what's on my plate and do it quickly. Sadly, meals have become more necessary than enjoyable.

But the other night we were talking about impressions, and after my daughter chickened out of doing 5 teacher impressions for her school talent night ( they were GREAT!), I joked about someone else at the table, and in imitating him, got a rise out of her.
We then took turns transforming into each of the other three family members... like a physical caricature, we walked the way they walked, tagged everything with the familiar phrase they utter or nickname they use for a loved one, and exaggerated common mannerisms they employ when trying to make get their point across.
It was funny and no one had any problem coming up with material.

The next night when the kids wanted to do it again, I said, only if it could all be positive. It was harder, but still fun, and interesting to see how you come off in the eyes of your children and your spouse.
Maybe a little too eye-opening for some of us.
Try it in your family and let me know how it plays out.

Thrilling Singular Sensation? = Hot Date with Hubby

Escaping the captive confines of computer and office and heading out on the town.
Woo hoo.
Off to shave my legs.

Sometimes Bunko is just Bunco.

Some of our husbands like to call it "Drunko."
I've played in three different states, with at least five different basic rules. But one thing remains the same: there is nothing SERIOUS about this dice game.

It's all fun and games and drinks and chocolate. It's socializing and home decor ideas and husband bashing and kid bragging and shoe swapping. It binds friendships with stories and private jokes and sometimes, it pays for the gas to get there and the beers on the way home.

In our group there are themes and costumes... and always, always laughter. We've had some Bunko Nazis, some party crashers, some fall down imbibers and some sad sacks... we've made memories as people have moved on, as babies are born, as children grow up, as jobs change and cars crash, we are there to hear the story and clink glasses. We hold each other up in good times and bad, something the men will never understand.

This month, we had a six gal carpool for our "out of the neighborhood" Bunko, and six more ladies at the other end. Much fun, with lots of food, mojitos and a bourbon slush worthy of the Derby.
In this day, when money is tight and party planning can be a bother, it's nice to have that one night a month to count on, a night when you can let your hair down and be with women who get you- who understand the pressures and problems and questions you face every day- whether it's at work or at home, dealing with bosses, or diapers, or deadlines. We are our own best support system, and one that I hope we can grow and expand, because who doesn't need a good round of bunko to help them put life in perspective?
In bunko, even when you lose. you win.

For the ladies who couldn't make it this month... we missed you and will see you in March. And for the newbies that had fun in February, we hope you will join us again. I'm sure by then we will all have a new story to share as the dice go around.

Happy belated birthday to Karen. Who did the smart thing this year... and stayed home. Whew.

Hot Men in Tights. My Kind of Circus.

Going to see KOOZA tonight.
As an early Valentine's Day date... any way to avoid the mandatory, lame dinner date on the 14th.

Being spoiled is a good thing. When you're the Mom.

My husband says I'm spoiled. I am. And it's mostly his fault.

He gives me more than I deserve and tells me I've earned it, when I think I am just doing my wife-mother-homeowner job. From expensive clothes and jewelry to a new car and trips away... he is a good good man.
This weekend he took me here, to this suite, to see the Atlanta Falcons kick some Panther ass. Meow.I say my husband is mostly responsible for spoiling me, because I grew up with three sisters and my parents gave us alot, but let us know what a lot meant, and later, I had boyfriends who spoiled me in their own ways.. usually that meant me getting my way, and them sacrificing their needs before mine.
God, put that way, I do sound spoiled, selfish even.
Let me say, I am grateful for everything I have ever received and like to give in return. My husband and I are alike in that way, and we hope we are raising children who think similarly.

There may be a difference in "spoiling" when it comes to guys and girls. I never really figured out the whole boy thing- which was very confusing when my son was born and I was new to a strange town, living 3500 miles away from family. Those were some long phone calls.
I still think I favor him more than my daughter, because I grew up knowing that the woman has to handle a lot more than the man. The man, he goes to work and does work things. He comes home and has his drink and his dinner and his TV. ( yes, yes, I am exaggerating.. relax)

The woman- she does all the rest.

So, when I tell my son to do all his chores, sure I check on him, but I also give him some slack- not expecting perfection or even great attention to detail. With my daughter, who is four years younger... I come down much harder, asking her if she thinks she's completed her task well or merely good enough. She needs to learn good enough isn't always enough, if you don't have a woman behind- spoiled or not- you picking up the slack.

If only I didn't have a thing about short men.

I could have been rich four times over. Short men like the Linda.
It's too bad I like my high heels, too bad that I grew up with the notion that my ideal lover would be able sweep me off my feet, carry me away to the bedroom- or Morocco- a notion for this tallish girl that features an over six-foot tall, well-built man.
It's doubly unfortunate for me and my small mindedness, because as you may have noticed- out there in the world- short men are compensators.
Which is lucky for the short women who marry these men, as one of their compensatory gifts is the acquisition of wealth.
Perhaps...because you can't buy height? Though you can buy these.
Yes, It's too bad that I am in love with my tall husband, that I will never be able to get over the short factor, because I really liked this short guys house yesterday... and man, I bet he has a fast red sportscar or two in his 5 car garage. Though, hey, we can be friends, right?

Funny thing was, from all the photos in the house, the owner looked tall...but when he walked through the sports bar on the terrace level, I knew instantly who he was and nudged my girlfriends, saying, "That's the guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy that owns this 12000 square foot 4 million dollar house, the guy who hung Braveheart's sword on his wall, signed by Mel Gibson, the guy who left the mess in the workout room shower."
And after we met him and complimented him on his house and his college football team's success, we walked out his back door, past the pool house and sighed, all agreeing, "Figures, he'd be a short guy."

We saw two other houses, one was a designer home where each room was decorated by a professional design team.
here's a sample of the price list in this home that's for sale:
The only thing I would have bought from the room was a folk-artsy aviary painting, which of course, I neglected to photograph. it was only $825. A relative bargain.
Upstairs we met another fabric designer and asked her if she had anything to do with the $2700 library drapes.
We all took her card when she rolled her eyes and said, "Honey, my husband was unemployed for 5 years, I understand a budget."
She created these:and had the cajones to put a cow rug in a bathroom. I know. I love her.In the baby's room, I was impressed with the trompe l'oeil artwork, ( not this impressed - hey, that guy's hot.) but was floored when I saw the classiest diaper bag EVER.
I asked the younger gals if they knew the brand, and they didn't. I went through the short list of recent births and came up with a cousin, but thought since she didn't bother telling me she was pregnant, or that she'd HAD the baby, she wasn't someone I was going to send a $140 diaper bag to- even if I did find it online for $105.

Is there a wrap up to this post? From short men to cow rugs to diaper bags, suffice it to say, I had a fun day with two friends I don't see enough.

Sensory Overload. I mean that in a good way.

There was fantastic food. Taste Touch Smell


There was an event that tested our senses: tactile, hearing and scent-- and fear.
There was beautiful bright daylight and warm sweet wind,- forget about hearing anything.
an amazing day.

Today, You're number 1.

My husband says he knows he's not number one on my list.
He says that most days he knows he's not even number two or three or four, but hey- he's just happy to be on the list- at all. He's only partly joking.

But today, I bump him to the top of the list- or at least we share the spot as we celebrate our 9-11-92 wedding with a day of surprises.

Allow me to recap...

Last year was his choice, and we did this.

The year before was my plan, so we spent the weekend driving one of these around and leadfooted it to a luxury time here.

2005 was the first year we had full day availability. I started the "surprise me- and NO gifts. Just adventures." So, he chose to do this! on our 13th anniversary. Yes, off that ramp.

So today, I will take him on a funky lunch date followed by the most unique museum experience in the world and wrap up the day with an hour doing this... well at least wrap up the public part of the day.
Then I'll brush my hands together and pass the torch.

Similarities between MY wedding anniversary and the anniversary of 9-11.

1. They both took place on September 11th.
2. Quite a few people were affected.
3. Foreigners were involved. (We were married in Italy.)
4. There was confusion, worry and sickness.
5. Things got lost.
6. Even with all the advance planning, nothing went exactly as anyone had predicted.
7. Settlements were made.
8. There was fear and blame.
9. People took leaps of faith.
10. With the death of old lives, new lives were born.

Kidnapping can be funny. Right?

My husband likes dwell on his past.
My daughter likes to dress up in a dog suit I made for her brother.
I like to point out that the dog suit was made in 1998 and is still in good working order.
My son likes to convince his sister to do stupid things. "C'mon. It'll be fun!"
My daughter likes to please her brother more than she should.
My husband was a military Police officer who made some enemies.

That's why THIS SIGNon the garage door when hubby came home from the gym caused him to go racing into the backyard in a panic.
( and yes, she had real duct tape on her mouth- with lips drawn like on Charlie's Angels- and rope from wrists to ankles- uh, yeah, it was 84 degrees)

My life as I know it, is about to change.

By this time next week I will be on my 4th family-less day and hopefully loving it.
I used to have a daydream where I ran away from my family with pockets full of cash, a one way ticket to Paris and a pilot case stuffed with great shoes.
Then I settled for the 8:30-4pm school/work day reprieve. But, even as much as I LOVE my house, and the quietly productive time I spend there, I also have to deal with telephones, animals and all too obvious chores.

Beginning Monday, I will spend more than 2 weeks away from home, 12 days by myself (BY MYSELF) among writers. I know. I can't believe it myself. I am waiting for the ball to drop, the firework injury to fester, the leak in the tub to rot out the ceiling, the hamster to die, the unpredictable shitty thing to happen that will predictably ruin what might be the best break I have gotten in a long long time. Okay, maybe that's too negative. Maybe that's my guilty for leaving my family feeling coming to the surface.
Maybe I should take the approach that
1. I earned this.
2. I deserve this
3. They are not babies- any of them and it's time they learned to take care of themselves. The husband has got to learn to use the remote one of these days right?

My writing friends tell me I will get a lot done without HOME getting in the way. that this is a great opportunity. I want to make them proud. I want to succeed. Back me up on this, internet. All moms need a personal getaway. All writers need space to write without anyone breathing over their shoulder, asking them to find their flip-flops or make a four course meal. Tell me it's okay.

I'll let you know how it goes when I'm here.

Lysol: How to Keep Your Man

The writing is pretty hard to read in the second ad, but it closes with:
"I wouldn't be satisfied now with salt, soda or other homemade solutions! Not with "Lysol," a proved germ killer that cleanses so gently yet so thoroughly. It's easy to use and economical."

Okay, I'll do the meme holiday list thingy.

Let's call this list: Holiday Things I Hope to Do More Often.

1. Go to noisy bars and exchange naughty gifts then tell stories about why our waitress is crying in the bathroom and not bringing us more beers.2. Go hear more live music, especially when the guys in the interesting and talented band know your name and the owner of the bar is Johnny Depp cool- buying your table drinks and sending over free food from his home country:
( just next time go earlier with a bigger appetite and a little more energy, and maybe a personal smoke blowing fan.)

3. Have more families over for football parties and wine tasting and CatchPhrase, the music edition, even if your husband the birthday boy washes dishes for a hour and you have to vacuum three times the next day.
4. Make husband this happy more often.

spending what I ain't got and togas.

Talking like a redneck makes it easier to admit that I spent more in past three days than I made in the entire year of 1989.
Bless my heart, no, check that. Bless my husband.
It's not like I don't or won't have a lot to show for my expenditures. You'll see. Just wait.

Meanwhile, I am enjoying my new ride- pix to come- and planning a fun night of bunko with the broads in togas--Crap, I need to find the Ouzo.
Which reminds me of my first DUI. I'll tell the story if someone reciprocates.

Being right about someone's ass can be fulfilling.

My husband says I should be happy. Usually being right makes me very, very happy. In this case, i should be doubly happy, because not only was I right, I was proven right by a DOCTOR.

My husband has no ass.

It's true. The chiropractor, an ex- trainer for the San Francisco 49's and former champion body builder has confirmed:
My husband has no ass.

*wrings her hands in glee* as she devises monstrously painful glute exercises...

You might think this is Greece, which reminds me of a story.

DSC02870.JPG
Originally uploaded by Another Good Thing

Almost 15 years ago, after we were married in Florence, it took us 23 hours to get to Athens, Greece via ferry from Italy. We were cheap and almost broke and had to run to catch the last departing ferry boat/large ship. We paid the passage, only to learn they had no more cabins.
This was our honeymoon night.
We drank and talked in the small dining/bar area of the ship, meeting new people biding our time until everything closed down and the people who were lucky enough to get rooms went off to sleep in real beds.
We made our way around the ship looking for a place to sleep where A. no one was puking. B. it didn't smell like diesel fuel or exhaust and C. we could both fit.
We ended up in the dark and deserted movie theater. The chairs were small and bolted down, but the rows between them were roomy enough and pretty clean. We laid our sheets on the floor, used our backpacks for pillows and reached through the legs of the seats to hold hands, promising ourselves that the real honeymoon would start when we disembarked at Naxxos.
Thing was, we were okay with this. To this day, I don't know what it would have taken to get a cabin room. It might have been $100, which was - for us- 2 days worth of living expenses, and today, is something I piss away at Costco in the first 15 minutes. But at that time, the choice was the right thing and gave me a unique story, a MOMENT unlike anyone else's. Something I will cherish forever and remember everytime I reach across the movie theater seat to hold my husband's hand.