Food, glorious food

I really love food. I love eating at fancy restaurants. I annoy Jeff by walking down city streets and stopping to read every single menu posted outside. The thought of a 5 star, 5 course dinner gives me chills. Despite clipping coupons and gripping about gas prices, it's an expense I can totally justify. I still think fondly (and often) about the few really stellar meals I've consumed. I even love reading about other people's fine dining experiences.

I love cooking, too, especially when I have someone other than my taste-less husband to cook for (and, honey, no--taste is not subjective, you just don't have any--sorry.) I spend a good deal of time looking at food porn and drooling; I must have 300 recipes bookmarked, and look at them throughout my days.

One person who shares my passion for food is my oldest and dearest friend, Jess. Thirty years ago, our moms were members of a gourmet dinner club together, and we're continuing the tradition. The last time she was here, she introduced me to the incredible Chicken Marbella,
and my life hasn't been the same since. She arrived last night for a 5 day visit and we already have each night's menu written out. Tonight it's appetizers, Thursday is crab legs, Friday is Mexican (and craft!) night and Saturday is strawberry salad, beef tenderloin, stuffed tomatoes and potatoes au gratin. Yum.

So much for not eating past 6 o'clock this week. It's just not gonna happen. But at least when I'm starving again next week, I'll have some really good meals to look back on. And until her next visit, some really yummy sites to visit and drool over.

A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

There are two camps of people, the cheek kissers and the lip kissers.
I'm not talking about romantic, open mouthed kisses, but simple pecks between close family and friends. I was raised a cheek kisser. My Aunt Sis was always a lip kisser and I remember thinking it seemed more loving than cheek kisses. I've always kissed my children on their sweet little lips, and been quite happy with my choice.

Until yesterday. Yesterday I was playing a little game where I kiss the baby on the lips and pull away to form an "O" with my mouth. He laughs hysterically and we do this for probably a total of an hour a day.
It's an easy way to get a laugh- I started it with my first born, and
it's worked for all of them.

I think this little game is over. Yesterday, just as I was forming my "O" and expecting a great belly laugh, he decided to spit up most of the contents of his bottle. Into my mouth. And it wasn't a bottle he'd just eaten, it was over an hour old. It was curdled. It was revolting. My response was to gag and spit it all over my shirt, which resulted in him laughing even harder than usual. Which was the outcome I was hoping for, but not at my stomach's expense.

Ick. Maybe cheek kissing is the way to go after all.

The best job I've ever had

What do you do? It's a question asked of me at least 5 or 6 times a week. It's small talk, I know, and an easy conversation starter at the play-
ground. People don't seem to know the inner turmoil it causes in me.

My answer to that deep, dark query is usually, I'm at home with the baby for now. Or, I'm with the kids and do graphic design on the side (um, yea... the last 3 things I designed were my children's birth announcements and party invitations, but don't tell.) Sometimes I'm vague, I work from home, I say, mysteriously. Or I pretend to spot one of my children tumbling from the jungle gym, and dart off to check on them, thus avoiding an answer all together.

The bottom line is that I stay at home. I am a stay at home mom. A, (God can I even type it?) housewife. A homemaker. I take care of the baby, the "big" kids, the lunches, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the dishes, the diapers, the errands, the scheduling etc.

And I love it. I love it like I've never loved a job before. And, admittedly, I've held some really cool jobs. I was an art director at a major department store where I got to direct fashion shoots with models flown in from NYC. We ate catered lunches and talked about their guest appearances on Sex in the City and Friends. I did store design for my favorite store ever, and got to dictate the entire look of the space (and get a big, fat discount to boot.) I've done graphic design for companies, large and small and seen my work flipping through magazines and on buses driving by. I was even, a million years ago, offered a job working for my idol.

I don't miss any of it. I don't miss setting an alarm clock. I don't miss high heels, nylons or or dry cleaning. I don't miss collaborating with other adults or water cooler conversation. I don't miss traffic or public transportation or conference calls. I don't miss having a desk, an office
or time to myself. And I really don't miss having a boss.

Maybe someday I will open the store I dream about. Or maybe I will actually utilize my hundred thousand dollar 4 year degree in graphic design. But for now, I am thrilled to spend my days in pj's getting crayon marks off the walls and eating grilled cheese sandwiches in my back yard. My co-workers are pretty damn cute, and the benefits can't be beat.

Happy Birthday, Jeff

I give my husband a hard time on this blog, because, as I've mentioned once or twice, he drives me crazy. But no crazy stories today, because today is his birthday, and there's no better day to pay tribute to the
man I love.

Our first date was in September of our freshman year of college. Unlike most college romances it wasn't a random hookup or quick coffee at the school cafeteria. It was a fancy Italian meal off campus that he drove us to in his friend's mom's minivan. He brought me a single rose (for friendship he said, so not to freak me out) opened the doors, paid the bill and walked me home. I knew after that night, that my college visions of
"Girls gone wild" Jill were out the window. At the young age of 18, I had found the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with.

He wrote me cheesy love poems and I made him juvenile art projects professing our love, they wall papered our tiny dorm rooms. He bought me a star (way before Baily on Party of Five,) my first gift of jewelry and frequent bouquets. He made lists of what he loved about me and wrote about us in the university paper. When we were torn apart by his fraternity pledging (five days spent apart, the drama!) he sent me cryptic notes and we had top secret, illegal meetings. We simply could not bear to be apart. I spent a week in Mexico and a summer in Florence feeling like my heart was left an ocean away. He spent a semester the next year miserable in DC because I was back at school (and because he lived with smelly roommates named Brock and Jose, but that's another story.) Countless sappy love poems and midnight phone conversations later, we reunited in St. Louis.

He proposed to me just months after we graduated. The proposal involved a "rose petal road," an insane number of votive candles and a trail of our mementos throughout the apartment. It lead to the bedroom where Jeff was waiting with the ring. Unfortunately, being the chronically early person I am, I arrived home prematurely from my botched hair appointment to find him fresh from a run, about to shower. Sweaty and in running shorts, he got down on one knee and tearfully proposed. After he showered, we spent the next 3 hours back at the salon returning my orange hair blond before celebrating. We knew, when sharing the news, that people thought we were too young, and why rush? But we knew better.

Thirteen years, 1 dog (well, 3 sort of,) 8 homes together and 3 kids later, he still sends me mushy love letters (although they are usually in the form of e-mail and thankfully no longer rhyme.) When asked to describe himself, he always lists "husband" first. He's a phenomenal father and ridiculously thoughtful and generous. He constantly tries to surprise me and keep me on my toes. I know he would do anything for me. And I would do anything for him.

Happy birthday, my love. And to many, many, many more.

Lily's little crush

(For the record, my little angel never tried to hop a fence before this hoodlum. She also had no clue how to turn on the garden hose and tear down tree branches. He's bad, bad news, this kid. But at least he's cute.)

(Edited to add: His mother reminded me that he also taught her how to crawl like a puppy and eat grass. Which she proceeded to throw up. I don't even think the little punk held her hair back for her. But he did pick her a flower, so he's off the hook.)