Milestones

This past week marked...

...AND...

(due THIS SUNDAY!)

And then here's a bunch more photos.

 

I hope Baby gets his antennae.

 

...Just practicing being the World's Most Embarrassing Parents.

The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 3

36 weeks! The bigger my belleh gets, the bigger his smile gets.

Let me finish telling you how I told HIM. [Part 1] [Part 2]

...

Somehow, strangely, Jason hadn't given a second thought to me asking to talk to the ER doctor alone. Jason walked around the corner and out of sight, and Dr. Linda started writing on her clipboard.

"Okay. I'm thinking that you're going to need antibiotics, but I have to make sure that you're not pregnant. Antibiotics can--"

"I just took a test before I came here, and--"

 "--harm your baby before you even know you're--"

"I'm pregnant."

"What?"

"I just found out."

"YOU'RE PREGNANT?? AHHH!!!"

She squealed, and hugged me so hard it was almost a tackle. All my anxiety faded after seeing her ecstatic grin, and I felt a huge teary smile take over my face as I happily tried to "shush" her.

"I just found out, & I want to tell him when we get home. So... can we just say I don't need antibiotics?"

She agreed and went to get Jason, practically skipping.

As Jason & I went to head home in our separate cars, he told me he had to stop by the store on the way home. PERFECT. I had an idea for telling him and I'd need to beat him home by a few minutes.

...

Amigos, it's time I told you all a secret. Mr. Matthews-er has had baby fever for yeeeears at this point. On the other hand, I'd been feeling far from ready. My perfectionist personality balked at the idea of trying to rear a brand new person to their fullest potential. He'd been patient with me... for the most part.

As he had spent the virtually sleepless last week crafting his doctoral thesis, I asked him again and again what I could get him for a "PhD present." He'd look at me, tilt his head with a flirty smile, and tease, "Bayyyybeee?"

HA. Nice try, Hubster.

...

Fast forward exactly one week from his PhD defense, and I was sitting at the table with a small gift bag in my lap, a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom, and the beep of Hubster locking his car out in the parking lot.

He opened the door and I held out the bag.

"I got you a PhD present, Dr. Matthews."

He didn't notice my shaking hand as I handed it over. He didn't see my chin quiver as I watched his face with a nervous smile.

He dug through the tissue paper, and found a pad of sticky notes.

He saw writing underneath, and tore off the first sheet.

He met my eyes with a curious smile and I had to stifle a sob of nervous emotion. He flipped the last sheet...

...and yelled,

"WHAT??!!?! .....you're PREGNANT?!"

He looked at me as if he were expecting a "juuust kidding, I bought a puppy," or something along those lines. But the instantaneous tears rolling down my cheeks answered for me.

I jumped up, crammed my face into his neck, and nodded as he kept asking "You're pregnant? You're PREGNANT?!"

He grabbed my shoulders and pried me away so he could see me. Not trusting my vocal cords, I just kept nodding.

You should have seen the shocked smile on his face. His chin started quivering along with mine, and we just beamed at each other with tears in our eyes.

(Then, after I slept for fourteen hours straight, we went to Barnes & Noble and bought about six parenting books.)



You guys, I love him so much. Sometimes it frustrates me that there's only so much you can do to show another person how much you love them.

But I felt like there was now a part of him living inside me; really, physically, literally living inside me. As close as you can get to another person. Giving oxygen out of my lungs and calcium out of my bones. And I would get spend months caring for and protecting and loving this little bit of Jason-ness, until it was time to share our little one with him on the outside.

Sneaky Baby, you were very, very sneaky. But I think you knew better than I did. I think you came along at just the right time.

The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 2

[Might I offer you a slice of Part 1?]

I truly, honestly hope our birth story doesn't turn out to be this dramatic. I feel like this whole day could be split up like a season of "24." Oh, what the hell.

The following takes place between 5pm and 7pm.

(WOW, was that overkill or what.) (And yes, that is a toe picture as requested by many. Sorry to those of you who would rather melon-ball out their eyes than look at it.) (Scroll, scroll, scroll. Scrolling heals all.)

Relatedly, I do have to warn you that this next installment is absolutely disgusting.

I had just stayed up all night, squeaked out a professional portfolio at the last minute, nailed an interview, came home to find my foot on the verge of decomposing, and found myself completely and unexpectedly pregnant. Whee.

For the third time in as many hours, I endangered my life by getting behind the wheel of a car on absolutely zero sleep and entirely too much caffeine. Time to haul this toe to the hospital.

Once there, the receptionist advised me to go straight to the ER. They set me up with a hospital bed and assured me a doctor would be there shortly.

I cannot express how slowly the next fifteen minutes went by. I was delirious from sleep deprivation, delirious from shock about Sneaky Baby, and deliriously in need of having my husband by my side.

I remember wild scenarios passing through my head... the doctor would say, "I'm sorry, we have to give you antibiotics to save your foot, but the baby won't make it." And my inner Mama Grizzly would snarl, "THEN CUT OFF MY GODDAMNED FOOT." (...to save our new little sesame-seed-sized sac o' cells. Quite the dramatic inner dialogue, as usual, and complete with alliteration.)

I looked up to see Jason rush into the room, and it took everything I had to not burst into tears. There is nothing like seeing your rock, your partner in crime (aHEM), your sweet, handsome fella whose smile dissolves all stress from your body... there's just nothing like seeing that person as a "dad" for the first time.

He thought I was really upset about my toe. Funny.

I decided I couldn't break the news to him in this cold, sterile, public setting. Instead, I buried my face in his chest as he stood next to my bed. He stroked the back of my hair, I melted into him, and time ceased to pass.

Perky Dr. Linda broke the hypnosis as she introduced herself, and promptly started baby-talking to my "poor, poor wittle toe."

She gave it a few pokes and decided we needed to cut it open. Urrrf.

My options were: I could get a super-effective numbing shot in a nerve between my toes, or risk less thorough numbing with a shot on top of my toe.

I don't know about you, but a needle going between my toes and deep into my foot is a prettt-ty horrific prospect. I decided I'd had enough for that day, and convinced her to shoot me up on the top.

Shot. Then,

Scalpel.

Slice.

HOLY FLAMING F***BALLS OF SEARING PAIN.

I'd forgotten that I'm some breed of drug-resistant freak, and usually need a double-dose of Novocain at the dentist. So much for having "had enough that day."

For some reason, I was more freaked out about another syringe to the foot than putting up with this pain. So I tried to keep my hyperventilating silent, and crushed the living dickens out of Jason's hand.

Dr. Linda wasn't done. She grabbed a miniature version of food tongs, and shoved one tong sideways 1/4-inch into my new toe-hole. The other remained on top.

barbecue anyone? [from]

She squeezed the tongs together in a quick, repetitive "snipping" motion and made her way all around the edge of the toe-cano. Several times.

This lady was a TOE-JUICING MACHINE.

Dr. Linda then explained that the next step would be to "pack" my nice new toe cavity with a long strip of gauze. She splayed the wound open with the barbecue tongs and started packin' that sucker.

I don't think I've ever been so close to passing out in my life. All this, and still no sleep from the day before. I looked down at the hospital bed, and at the gore-soaked pile of gauze next to my foot. I thought about the fact that I'd be back in a hospital bed in 9 months, equally sleep-deprived, and in a hell of a lot more pain.

Jason's crushed hand was holding out amazingly well.

"Alllll done!" Dr. Linda broke out of her silent toe-juicing zone and happily chirped her completion. She stripped off her gloves and looked squarely into my haggard, bloodshot eyes.

She said she had some "girl" questions to ask me. I knew where this was going, and my heart tried to explode out of my chest as I contemplated Jason having to find out this way.

But, bless her baby-talking, toe-juicing soul, she continued, "Would you like to have him go outside while we talk?"

I answered "YES" before she could even finish.

...

Okay, sorry amigos. I didn't realize this was going to turn into such a novel, but this exhausted mama needs to go to bed for the night. I promise this will get wrapped up next week! It gets a lot less gross, and a lot more happy, from this point on.

P.S. Dear Sneaky Baby reading this 12 years from now,
As a little bitty brand-new blastocyst, you were a freakin' CHAMP for putting up with all this. Good job. Love, Mom

I think we might be grown-ups now

Jason is officially Dr. Matthews! (Dr. Matthews-ERRRR. I never get sick of that joke.)

He RAWKED his PhD dissertation, and pretended to be embarrassed while his fan club held up signs and took too many pictures.

Not gonna lie, I'm pretty proud of that sign. Even Jason liked it... secretly.

Also, finally, I got a more career-related job!

Just kidding.
TWO career-related jobs. 

For the first, I improve lighting in University of Oregon's classrooms (I'm going to be in nerd heaven), and for the second, I get to do graphic design! I diyeee of excitement. 50 hours a week, here I come!

Oh, and also since I've talked to you last, I've survived:

• 30 days of eating strictly "paleo diet" with 60 other people from my gym,
• two (small) car accidents,
• a family member getting in a not-so-small car accident (she's recovering well, thank GOODNESS)
• a trip to the ER of my own,
• and finding out we're getting kicked out of "student housing." (For not being "students" anymore, or some nonsense like that. Pshh.) 
• And then, even MORE exciting stuff I can't even tell you about yet.  I need a muzzle.

Oh yes, it's storytime soon.
It's been a wild ride, this past month. Time to pat myself on the back and go take a nap.
Thanks for hanging in there, amigos.

Thermoelectric and Heat Flow Phenomena in Mesoscopic Systems...DONE.

Super duper crazy happy news!

JASON FINISHED WRITING HIS DISSERTATION. His thesis. His PhD paper. His ultimate Physics final.

Five years of post-grad schooling; countless nights stuck in his windowless laboratory; 215 pages of cold, hard physics.

So maybe this is a bit of preemptive celebration, because there are a few more hoops he has to jump through before he gets to call himself "Dr. Matthews." He has to have a Board of Really Smart People with Foreign Accents and Beards read it over this week, and then he has his "Doctoral Defense" next Thursday. Whoo!

Although he's been working his tail off on writing it all summer, these past two weeks were especially insaneinthemembrane. At first, he was averaging about 5 hours of sleep per night.

At that point he was completely nocturnal. He'd go lay down on the couch in the afternoon, and turn to me with pleading, bloodshot eyes. He'd beg, "April, no matter what I say, I want you to wake me up in THREE HOURS. No 'fifteen more minutes.' Do whatever you have to do... even ice-water. Get me up."

Sorry, buddy, there's no way I could throw ice-water on that.

I'd dutifully wake him up, and he'd open one sleepy eye with a look of desperate anguish. Then he'd lay down the Kryptonite in a cute, sleepy voice:

"Cuddle?"
"Sweetheart, you're supposed to get---"
"Just five minutes?"
"But--"
"I miss sleeping next to you."

aaaaaaand BAM I was in his arms, and he was instantly making happy little snoring sounds.

Oh, MERCY, our future offspring will get away with anything if they inherit those puppy eyes.

Soon, the five-hour sleep average turned into just two hours a night. I'd try to wake him up, and he'd sleep talk something about "anisotropic thermoelectrics in four-terminal ballistic junctions."

The last three days (or should I say day-nights), he really got in a crunch and enlisted me to proofread every. last. page. So I got to dig through THIS for missed apostrophe's and little typos.

(Bahaha I just had to torment all you grammar OCD-ers out there-- apostrophes!!^^ I feel like I need to go wash my hands or something now.)

Anyway, I got to dig through every last page--twice--for little things like this:

I wish you could've seen the look on his poor, sleep-deprived face while he tried to figure out why I was "writing in Russian."

For now, he sleeps all he wants. I no longer have to stress about my failings as a sleep Nazi. Then once he's caught up, it's Power-Point time! Go Jason, Go!


Want to read more about his research? I tried to sum it up in English-for-humans here.

Our Story, Part Three: My life was really hard but the Hubster was an awesome boyfriend, and then he proposed and I was really happy. Gaaag.

But first, might I offer you a small platter of Part One (first "date")?
Or perhaps a generous helping of Part Two (Hubster's side of the story)?

Alright amigos, I'm not going to lie. There's not too much to say about our first few years together without sounding completely cliché. I was finishing high school, Jason was starting college, and we were pathetically in love. The summers were magic; the school years were a steady routine: classes, then sports practice, then hang-out-with-Jason-and-somehow-manage-to-complete-homework, then walk-Jason-out-to-his-car-at-night-"to-say-goodbye"-AKA-end-up-telling-each-other-our-life-stories/making-out-in-his-car-until-1AM. Nearly every night my mom would walk out to the porch, flick the light on & off, and ring the windchime like a cowbell to remind me of my curfew. Poor, poor Mom... it was bad.

16 & 17 years old... totally mature enough to pick our future life partners, yes?

But as for my first years in college, away from home? They should have been the worst time in my life. They should have been absolute, effing HELL-- I was missing my baby sister & family, I was averaging 5-hours'-sleep-a-night  in Architecture School (battling unbearable workloads designed to "weed out" the undevoted), and I was terrified and heartbroken to know that my parents were suddenly on the brink of a divorce.

Couldn't have done it without you, buddy.

Yet instead, those first years away from home were some of the best I've ever lived. Jason was my rock. He listened when I needed comfort, and cracked me up when I needed distraction. He held me tight while I literally curled into a ball of stress in his lap, bawling my eyes out until 2AM. If I stayed at school all night, he'd drive to campus at sunrise with a home-cooked omelette.

Looking back, I can't believe how selfless he was for me during that period. (Yes, he had classes of his own as well.) Everyone in Architorture school neglected their relationships in place of schoolwork, myself included, and I watched couples break up all around me. But Jason was a champ-- instead of complaining abut how busy I was, he cheered me on.

I adored him like a little girl crushes on a classmate; I loved him like the long-term boyfriend he was, but there was a feeling beyond that, that continued to grow bigger by the time I went to bed every night. The feeling was familiar, yet I couldn't put my finger on it. I would introduce him to my friends as my "boyfriend," but the word felt so empty compared to how much he meant to me. Finally, I realized: I loved him in the same way I loved the rest of my family. A comforting, stable love that would still be there, no matter what he did or didn't do for me. When I was with him, it felt like "home."

And yet, true to my stubborn ways, I didn't want to get married quite so young. I wanted to rebel against the cutesy Disney timeline where the 'princesses' practically move straight from their parents' house to their new husband's. And deep down, I'll be honest-- I didn't want people to judge me for getting married in my early twenties. I didn't want them to judge me as naive. I didn't think it was "cool."

On a long roadtrip home from a friend's wedding, we had "the talk." I told him that in few years, he might start thinking about proposing. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted it-- I realized I didn't want him to wait. He kept on being amazing, I kept falling for him, and for the rest of the summer, I kept hoping he'd read my mind and surprise me. I even toyed with the idea of asking him myself. (I should have just told him all this, but remember what I said about being stubborn?)

A few months after "the talk", four years after our first date, we found ourselves 10,000 feet in the sky, perched atop the pointy peak of a mountain. It's one of our favorite places in the world-- we climb it every year when we help coach a high school cross country camp.
 
(Yes, you know where this is going.) (And yes, this means we were surrounded by dozens of squealing high-schoolers when he proposed to me. They freaking LOVED it. They had our wedding all planned out by the time we'd climbed back down the mountain.)

MT. McLOVIN'!! (So classic that I'm wearing a hoodie and holding a Gatorade bottle.)

I didn't hear the squeals, though; honestly, for me this moment with Jason on his knees in front of me was like a cheesy, slow-mo movie scene. Running through the waves Bounding through the flowery fields Looking into his teared-up blue eyes, I tried to capture the image in my mind forever. I finally remembered to choke out a "YES" through my giddy grin.

The hubster did well in picking out his proposal spot. You can see its snowy peak miles away in our hometown, and I smile every time I look at it.

(Next installmentt: Wedding video!! If you haven't keeled over from all the moosh yet, say your prayers.)

If you like 'mooshy,' then this one's for you

This Sunday marks the two year anniversary of the wedding that made Jason the "Hubster," and myself... (I didn't realize this was an embarrassing word until I tried to type it on the internet).... "Wifey."

Two years! I do believe some high-fives will be in order on Sunday.

& just for nostalgia's sake, I'll post a little somethin'-somethin' from our wedding. Before we exchanged vows, rings, and a scandalous smooch, we read our hand-written "this-is-why-you're-awesome-and-why-I'm-puttin'-a-ring-on-it" looove letters. Someday I'm going to have to post the video of us reading this to each other, with all the giggles and sniffles, but for now, have fun reading!

Jason's went a little something like this:

I marry you because you are now part of my life. In all decisions, you are a consideration. In all joy, you are sharing. In all sorrow, support. I look forward to calling you my wife, mother of my children, and my lover.

I admire your love for learning, no matter what topic;

I admire your love for life, no matter how small that life is;

I admire how you understand others' situations, even if you disagree with them.

I love how you turn nature into a storybook-- with dialogue-- whenever we go on walks.

And most of all, I love how I've never gotten along with anyone as well as I've gotten along with you.

I want to grow old and gray with you, experiencing life with you by my side.

And mine went a little something like this:

Beginning today and lasting my lifetime, I'm choosing my husband, my sidekick, my devil's advocate, the father of my children, my cheerleader, coach, and teammate. And although huge decisions usually freeze me up, you've made this one pretty effortless:

Because your love of life and curiosity inspires everyone around you, like a big happy puppy. Except a really smart one.

Because you're always working to make yourself better, like when you stay up late on homework you've assigned yourself.

Because you put up with my quirks... like putting your toothbrush on the same side of the sink as mine, so they can be friends.

Because even after six years, I keep realizing you're even better looking than I first thought.

Because you help me see what's best for me, and sometimes I resist even though I know you're right. Even then, you don't give up. Your patience and love amazes me.

Because even though you make me feel on top of the world, you still ask me if you treat me well enough.

Thanks for making my biggest decision the easiest. We're going to take good care of each other.

Happy July 10th, Handsome Hubster. High five!

Dairy Wars

This post begins with a word of caution: do NOT ever eat anything off my plate.

I actually have several stories which might persuade you to follow this advice, but for the sake of a concise plot and meaningful theme, here is the latest anecdote:

I'm lactose intolerant. Very. The fact that I, TMI-extraordinaire, won't tell you what "'very' lactose-intolerant" entails should be enough.

Okay, fine, since you INSIST-- this Pepto ad is a pretty adequate description:

So, lactose intolerance, folks. 'Moooooving' on. (HA) (Sometimes I take these puns udderly too far.)

So the really tough part about being lactose intolerant is that PIZZA IS DELICIOUS. Right?
However, if you have absolutely no dignity like moi, there are ways to get around this:

1. Pick yummy stuff off of cheese and eat it.
2. Pull cheese off pizza, and place in mouth. Suck all the sauce off.
3. Put cheese back on plate. If you want extra Klassy points, take the cheese out of your mouth piece-by-piece as you sucker-fish all the sauce off different sections.
4. Keep an eye on your plate.

And that's where I screwed up. I heard Jason say, "CHEEEESE," looked over, and saw him chewing. I looked down, and the de-sauced cheese had disappeared from my plate.

Ohhhh, dear. I know we make out & all that, but there are just some ways you shouldn't ever swap spit. He hasn't taken anything off my plate since.


He has since gotten his revenge, though.

I got out of the shower, like any other day (okay, more like "any other once-a-week"). I grabbed the dark red washcloth to dry my face off first, and Jason walked in.

 
"April... where did you get that washcloth?"

"The towel hamper. Do I... do I even want to know why you have that look on your face?"

"That's the towel I used to clean up all that chocolate milk I spilled."

.....?!

.........??!!!

.............??1?!!???!



"You mean the chocolate milk that you spilled two weeks ago?!! I've just been re-hydrating old milk and rubbing it all over my face for the past 20 days?! HOW DID THIS END UP IN THE BATHROOM??!"

"I guess we're even for the sucked-cheese incident...?"


I suppose that makes us even, but I'd prefer to phrase it another way: it's my turn, buddy.

Our Story, Part II: The Part Before Part One

[Want to read Part I first?]

Like most, our story hasn't been a flawless fairy tale (I guess even fairy tales aren't flawless-- because how boring would that be?!).

The honest, slightly scandalous truth? I was trying to figure out how to break up with an on-again, off-again boyfriend when Jason started putting the moves on me... and I didn't exactly discourage him.

Sure, I'd been admiring this curly-haired athlete (two grades above me) from afar since I'd started high school. But I'd had NO idea that all along, I was-- in his words-- his "dream girl." So since I was in the dark for most of this period, the Hubster gets to tell this part of the story (photos & captions added by me):

Your new narrator for the day-- Jason, circa 2003!

Once upon a time in high school, there was a hurdler (the so-called "hubster" to you all). During track practice his junior year, this hurdler noticed a freshman distance runner (April) that looked awfully cute. For the next two years I gazed in her direction during every practice. I didn't tell anyone for a long while, though, because I was afraid she'd find out-- she was my dream girl, and I was afraid to fail. Eventually I got brave enough to confess all of this to my best friend, and I decided I had to make a move before I graduated.

A few months before my senior prom, she broke up with her boyfriend and I started building up the courage to ask her to the dance... but before I could, someone else started dating her. Time was running out before graduation, and when I heard rumors that she and boyfriend #2 were breaking up, I started trying to catch her attention.

During our "team stretch" at the beginning of practice, I would look in her direction and if she happened to look back at me, I would keep eye contact for a few seconds and smile. Those times elicited some stomach tingles of excitement.

At the end of the track season, both April & I qualified to compete in the state track meet. The coaches drove us out of town to the big meet, along the other teammates who had made it. During this trip, everyone on the team (including the coaches!) knew that I was trying to get April's attention.... except April, apparently.

At the hotel the team played keep-away in the pool, boys VS girls. Of course, I guarded April the whole time; I'm not sure if she was guarding me back. Those stomach tingles came back anytime I jumped to block a pass to or from her and just happened to 'bump' into her. Both my competitive and lovey side were getting attention. Eventually, my 'competitive side' was replaced entirely by 'how can I block the ball in order to bump into her?'

Like a typical high-schooler, up until this point I had mainly been attracted to her because she was really hot, pretty, & won almost every race she ran. Now that I was finally getting to know her, I was excited to find that my dream girl was also smart, goofy, and the kindest person I'd ever met (she still is to this day). During that weekend at the state meet, April and I were almost inseparable. This was aided by the fact that everyone on the team knew I was trying to win her over, and were all working undercover to make sure we "ended up" sitting next to each other everywhere we went. The stomach tingles continued.

On the way back home, the team split into two vans and again, miraculously, April & I were in the same van. And so the "Matthews-ing" began-- I helped April with her math homework, "casually" putting my arm on the seat behind her, but not quite brave enough to touch her. I also knew that she was still technically dating that other guy (although others on her team asked her about it, and she said she was breaking up with him once she got back.) At some point on the way home, the other van passed us, saw my arm around her seat, and had a small riot over it.

Once we pulled into the school parking lot in our home town, April looked at me, said "goodbye" with a cute smile, and started to get out of the van. At the last minute I reached out, gently grabbed April's arm, and blurted out, "Wait."

I asked if I could give her my phone number. I shakily wrote my number on her hand, and I think some of those stomach tingles reached my throat at that moment.

Although I didn't see her at school that next week, one of her friends reported to me that she'd finally broken up with the boyfriend #2. I jumped three feet into the air in celebrate (her friend reported my reaction back to her). (Ah, high school.)

I saw her the following week in the library, and she apologized for not having called me yet. I told her it was okay. She pretended to look sad, and asked, "It's okay?"

Her sudden directness caught me off guard, and I laughed. I got her phone number, and called her the next week to go read in the park. Which went pretty damn well.

Spoiler alert-- he got the girl! (Us at MY senior prom).

P.S. Can you see the blue mechanical pencil behind his ear?!! Who shows up to pick up his prom date IN A TUX WITH A PENCIL BEHIND HIS EAR??!!! Classic Mr. Matthews-er.

Field Trip!

Feeling adventurous today? Eeeeexcellent.
Head over to She Got Married where my first-ever "guest post" is hangin' out! My girl Emma, one of my favorite blargy amigas, sent me a (self-proclaimed) "nosy" interview-- so you can read about all kinds of snoopy things like:

What do you argue about the most?
What is the one thing about married life that took some adjusting or getting used to?
Where is your favorite date to go on together?

It was SO fun, because you guys know I love spewing dishing out the TMI.
(& if you're interested in some fun vegetarian recipes & grocery budgeting tips, have a look around her blog! Since following her, she's inspired me cut my grocery costs by almost 40%! Shweet.)

Our Story, Part I: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Public Spit-Swapping

[I promise we're not naked...?]

Eight years ago exactly, a 17-year old, curly-haired boy called a lanky, 16-year old girl, and asked if she wanted to go read in the park.

"That's ALL I want to do. The fifth Harry Potter is coming out in two weeks and I'm re-reading the series to prep for it... I forgot how amazing the Goblet of Fire is."

"Good idea! I'll bring my copy, too. "

Putting her hair in a ponytail in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection and thought, "No boyfriends this summer. No boyfriends this summer. But he's really, really nice. No boyfriends this summer. But he has curly hair. No boyfriends this summer. But it felt so good to hug him the other day..."

She smiled. She caught herself smiling and punched the countertop. "NO BOYFRIENDS THIS SUMMER."

He'd brought a blanket, and they laid it out on a grassy hill at the park. They started reading their matching green books. Then, against the girl's claims that she couldn't stop reading it-- they started talking. Their faces got closer. No boyfriends this su.... dude's got some crazy-long eyelashes oh my gawsh he's gonna kiss me he's gonna kissmerightnow
He kissed her. It felt perfect. She kissed him back. A lot.

They were that sleazy couple making out in the park. She didn't care.
She'd never kissed anybody before officially "going out with them" before. That was okay too. In fact, it was pretty darn thrilling.
She was not a very good kisser. He didn't care. (Well, he thought it was pretty funny, but he didn't say anything.)

"So are we... 'together' now?" he asked, forehead against hers.
"I'd say so," she grinned.

Two years later, Jason admitted that I was a dorky kisser on that first "date." Eight years later, he's still a better kisser than I am. But I'd like to say that I've come a long way. (Considering that I'm 24, I've been practicing on him for a third of my life. How's THAT for some matth-ews-ing, eh?)

So that's Part 1 of our little "Love Story," amigos, and now I'm off to a romantical dinner to celebrate our eighth date-a-versary. I PROMISE that this will be the only one written in cheesarific third-person.

(Happy June 10th, Handsome Hubster. You make me excited to wake up every day.)

This is what happens to your face when you try to race the Hubster

One of those little things I somehow forgot to blog about:

Jason ran a half marathon last month (13.1 miles).  The dude hardly trained for it, and still managed to crank it out in just over 7 minutes per mile.

What?!!

But the best part? These photos of him & another guy duking it out on the home stretch:

Jason got passed! *cue look of intense determination

Jason passed him back! *cue victorious grin & stride like a RAPTOR GOING IN FOR THE KILL

Am I mean for laughing really, really hard at both of them?
...especially considering I haven't run more than a mile in about a month...?

Phone personality test

Do you ever wonder how people would judge you if they went through your phone photos? For instance, what kind of person do you think would snap pictures of:

Creepy figurines?

My favorite part is that they capitalized "Special."

Friendly pink balloons?

A very mysterious mystery girl, who appears to be so hungry that she wants to lick her dino tattoo and then eat the phone?

A dirty Easter card?!

Wait... is that a pile of...... CPR PRACTICE BABIES?

 
And then this handsome fella who appears quite concerned about the whole situation?

Yeah, I have no idea who would want to document all those 'special moments' either. Noooo idea.
(Care to share yours?)

On being an... "Environmentalist?!"

Eight years ago, when Jason & I were just starting to become good friends, we volunteered to put away our high school's track equipment at the end of the season.

17-year-old Jason lifted a sheet of plywood off the turf, revealing an underside caked with grass, dirt, and earthworms writhing in confusion*.

*("But April, they don't have brains!" ...Yeah, yeah.)

A teammate approached the plywood to scrape off the dirt with a sharp, glinting shovel. I dramatically threw my 16-year-old self in his path.

"WAAAAIT!!! The WORMS," I pled, as I started plucking them off of the wood.

Jason, who had done a fairly good job of avoiding "politics" & the like in his seventeen years, looked at me with wonder, fascination, and excitement.

"I've never been friends with an Environmentalist before!"

Ohhh, wee Jason.

***

It was funny then, and it's even funnier now. But to this day, I wonder if I know what being an environmentalist means. Am I one?

I wholeheartedly believe the sentiment, "Man is merely a strand in the web of life. What he does to it, he does to himself."

Combine that with us humans understanding, maybe, 1% of the global ecosystem and our affects on it-- and hoooo, boy, I get a little nervous.

Yet almost no matter what humans do to the planet, even if we make ourselves extinct, other species will adapt and survive. The new world that we've created will go on without us. We will have done it to ourselves, and that's that.

Sometimes, I honestly think: What does it matter if we kill ourselves off or not? If we go extinct, then we won't be around to be sad about it! Why care?

But as I'm typing this (gosh this is going to sound cliche), I hear kids laughing outside. Really little kids, with happy squeaky voices. And they remind me of yet another hippie bumper-sticker quote:

We don't inherit the Earth from our ancestors,
we borrow it from our children.

Life is wonderful. Earth is wonderful. For goodness' sake, look at this &*^$ ladybug. WONDERFUL.

Nature's propaganda at its finest.

Let's stop poisoning our planet; let's stop poisoning ourselves. We really are, and we really need to knock it off. Let's respect our future generations.

Enjoy celebrating Earth Day tomorrow ♥

P.S. This subject is one of my greatest passions in life. I would LOVE to hear your thoughts on any of the following: 

• What's your favorite way to not screw up the planet? 
• What's your stance on conservationism? 
• What's your favorite way to enjoy nature? 
• Did you write an Earth Day post, or enjoy someone else's? What's the link?

Let's have a little hippie convention, amigos.
[ladybug photo cred] 

Things I have in common with Tinkerbell

I vividly remember boxing up my shoes when I moved out for college, and being struck with the realization that I didn't own a single pair that would look strange if a man wore them.

{click to zooooom in on those flying mud globules}

Running shoes, Birkenstocks, and trashy Goodwill boots. That was it.

Ta. 
Da.

You know where this is going: I've come a long way in four years (or should I say, 10 pairs of girly flats later).

Surprise! I had two extra legs you didn't know about. And no, of course I don't have time to shave all of them.

Honestly, though, it's times like these I really appreciate the fact that Jason is extremely secure in his masculinity. And wears the same shoe size as me.

So, while I realize the following will irrevocably tarnish my tomboy reputation, I've just gotta say... THESE are now my favorite pair of shoes that I've EVER owned:

EVER. Which will forever be the one & only thing I have in common with Tinkerbell.*

I can't write about girly shoes without quoting a hilarious little musing from my pal, Kristie:

"Today I wore some flats (the cute ballet-looking ones that have been in style for a little while now) that I stole from my sister. I rarely wear flats because they give me the distinct impression of cross-dressing. I feel like a drag queen right now."

She nailed it! That's exactly what had constrained me to man-shoes the first two decades of my life. And PERHAPS this is even the same reason I had to bribe Jason to wear them...? Eh. Who knows.

I distinctly remember the first time I wore a pair of girly flats: Jason looked at me all day with a slightly-smiling, head-tilted-to-the-side "awwww" face, and I got over my macho complex. Apparently I'm a sellout for the "awwww."

Something that still makes me feel like a man dressing as a woman, though? PURSES. I don't care how much "awwww" gets sent my way, I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT carry a purse. I can hardly even hold them for my friends when they need a free hand... they make me feel as awkward as Sylvester Stallone in tights and a tutu.

And, while it's not exactly the shocker of the century: above all else, blonde wigs REALLY make me feel like a drag queen.

Although.
That's how this shoe thing started out.

*Unless a giant boy in green tights grabs me & shakes me up & down like a pepper shaker to get my Tinkle-powder-or-whatever-it's-called so he can fly. What a friend YOU were, Pete, what. a. friend.

This is getting bad

Last weekend my friend Stacy & I got together for a painting date (check out her super creative artwork here.) Lucky me, not only does she have a big adorable goof of a dog whom I followed around the whole time, but she also has four CHICKENS!

Meet Dogfood, Captain Morgan, Nugget, and Princess Parmesan:

Stacy's photos of her ladies : )

We just sat and watched them for about ten minutes-- or as she calls it, Chicken TV. Totally transfixing.

Apparently they really like hanging out around people, so she moved her work desk next to the big glass doors by the deck. She said they just sit outside the door and stare at her the whole time. Funniest mental image of the week, seriously. And sure enough, there's an artfully splattered Poop Zone a foot away from the door.

So now not only do I want dogs, cats, rats, rabbits, and a squirrel or two, but chickens are the latest coveted creature. I'm planning a full-"fledged" circus here.

(Bahahahhaa I "crack" myself up.)
(Okay, stopping. Sorry.)

Later that night at home, I excitedly told Jason about how "chickens like to stare at people!!!" Apparently this wasn't as hilarious to him as it was to me, so I just kind of trailed off and cut to the chase:

"Would you want chickens one day? Pleeease?"
"Maybe."
"COOL!!"
...
"...Would we eat them?"
"NO!"
"What if they died?"
"NO! That's... that's just awkward."
...
...
...
"...What if they died around Thanksgiving?"
"JASON!!"

I've got The Fever

I've got it bad. Just not for human babies.

But now I understand what baby fever feels like... because I've got FURBABY FEVER.   Every time I see a dog, I muffle myself from asking the stranger on the other end of the leash if they need a dogsitter. I slow my speed creepishly as I drive past the pound, telling myself it will only make things worse to "just go in and look." I'm even ready to raise some wild rat babies again... but that's a whole different blog post.

I'm starting to have weird dreams, too:

(Totally ridiculous, right? I mean, there's NO WAY my boobs will ever be that big.)

And then don't even get me started on Jason's obsession with cats. One night I was hanging out with a friend and her new baby kitten, and I called Jason to make him jealous. It started out as a normal conversation, and then I decided to drop the bomb:

"So guess what I'm doing right now, Jay? I get to play with Sara's brand-new little KITTEN!!" (Gosh, I can be really mean sometimes.)

"WhhHHAT??" he gasps, after the stunned silence required to wrap his mind around such a miracle.

"Yup! She's only a couple weeks old, and she's stripey with big blue eyes, and she's still got that really big, round, cute kitten belly."

"Awww..." (His voice is reduced to barely a whisper at the thought of this little furball.) And then he says, tenderly, his voice almost cracking with sincerity,
"Send her ALL my love."

To this day that is the funniest thing I have ever heard Jason say. I know, I'm lucky to have snagged such a sweet and caring guy-- but I have serious concerns that once we get a cat, it will get more cuddle-time than me. The man LOVES CATS.

For now, though, we can't have any pets in our apartment. We can only have stupid "aquarium fish," and to me, those might as well be houseplants. (So keep them away, because I quickly & efficiently kill everything in that category within a month. Our apartment is a sad collection of brown leaves.)

I can't wait until we can buy our very own, VERY fur-and-claw-and-bark-and-chew-and-poop-stain-friendly house. Because at this rate, I'll start hoarding mice in our bathtub within the month. And then they'll multiply. And then we'll get evicted, and we'll live under a bridge with 28 mice on leashes. And I need to STOP with this little story because I'm getting all warm-and-fuzzy-excited over the idea of 28 mice on leashes.

It's time to install a video camera in our bedroom

Chill out, pervs. Not like that.

But some majorly weird stuff happens in our sleep.

Back when we had pet rats, one of them figured out how to open the cage door. Ignorant of her conniving little ways, I kept blaming myself for leaving the door unlatched. (After all, to open it she'd have to hang upside down, push the just the right spot with her nose, and slide open the door.) We finally realized what was up after one night when we both double-checked the cage before going to bed. She found her way into our bedroom, jumped on the bed, and curled up between us to sleep. Awww. (Or-- "shudder," for the average, non-rodent-rearing person.)

The culprit herself

This next strange happening wasn't really in our bedroom, but when we stayed in his grandma's living room. We awoke the next morning to notice that the foam pad we'd BOTH BEEN SLEEPING ON was haphazardly rolled up on the couch, tied in a loose knot with a belt. Neither of us had any idea how it got there. I always knew I married a neat freak, but... wow.


Sometimes it will happen in the morning:

A:  Jason, it's 8AM. Do you want me to wake you up?
J:   grunt.
A:  Okay, what time to you want to get up then?
J:   Tents and horses.
A:  You just said tents and horses.
J (indignantly, but eyes still closed): I know.
 










A (trying reeeally hard not to laugh): What time to you want me to wake you up?

J (eyes still closed, but sounding seriously irritated): Tents and horses!!!
A:   Dude. That's not a time.
J (sighing, eyes still closed): Oh, yeah. Ten degrees. I meant to say 'ten degrees.'
A (having some serious issues holding in my laughter): What?!
J (really angrily): It makes sense. And I'm right.
A: (completely loses it, which finally wakes him up with a very confused look on his face.)


Here's the latest and final straw that made me sit down and write this post:

Last night, I was dreaming that I was brushing my teeth. How responsible, right? As I was about to finish brushing in my dream and lean over the sink, I slowly started to wake up. I gained just enough vague consciousness to notice I was actually doing that funny sucking thing that gathers a wad of spit at the front of your mouth. Suddenly, with a life of its own, my head pulled up off my pillow and HAWKED THE SPIT ONTO MY CHEST.

WTF, SUBCONSCIOUS?!

{second photo from here.}