The Midwest, Part 2

Michael's parents have an apartment on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Mississippi River. One night, Michael's dad said that if he stands at the window, he can see almost all of the places that have mattered to him over the course of his life. And he wasn't kidding. This is a family that is deeply tied, over generations, to a community.

Sometimes it seems like everyone knows everyone, and this six-degrees-of-separation quality cracks me up. Here's a version of a typical conversation when we visit Michael's family:

Family member: Do you know Peggy O'Flaherty?
Michael: No, but her brother Seamus was in my class.
Family member: Oh! Seamus married Maureen Flynn, and did you know that Maureen's aunt, Maeve, went to college with me?
Michael: I know Maeve. Her cousin, Patrick, and I were altar boys together.

But it's not just about knowing the neighbors. Tradition is at the heart of this culture. Some of those traditions are pretty funny, most notably the annual trip to the Minnesota State Fair. You should have heard Michael's dad wax poetic about his teenage years at the fair. Michael has his memories, too. So far be it from us to deny Blue and Green a chance to participate in this family custom.

When I was growing up in Michigan, I don't remember the state fair being any big deal. I think I went once, ate some junk food, rode some rides. But it wasn't a BIG THING that made me feel connected to my fellow state residents or turned into a ongoing family story. For Michael, though, it's different. When he talks about the fair, his eyes get this faraway look, as if he can taste a bucket of mini doughnuts in his memory.

Before we went, my friend, Sarah, gave me some advice: 1) Bring lots of money; 2) Bring lots of patience; and 3) Bring closed-toe shoes. "Closed-toe shoes?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. "For walking in the barns." I must have looked blankly, because she elaborated. "Poop," she said. "Poop is everywhere."

Well, isn't that fabulous? That's the kind of thing that keeps a person going back year after year. In the end, I did wear appropriate footwear, but we didn't even make it to the barns. We got stuck in the vast snack area. Streets and streets and streets full of food. And there were people dressed up as food! We were just minding our own business, and a guy walked by dressed as a giant ear of corn. Okey Dokey. I suppose it's difficult to pass up the opportunity to wear a good costume.

It was in this food extravaganza that I came to really understand the fair. Here is a place where the uncool becomes cool, where gluttony is celebrated rather than scorned, where you don't have to feel shame about your extra roomy rainbow stretch pants.



And of course, at the fair, even little men get to carry big sticks. Every imaginable food option seemed to be on a stick. It was a joke, but then again, not really a joke. You could get waffles on a stick:



Or spaghetti on a stick:



Or, if you're feeling hip and urban, you can order Puff Daddy on a stick:



Actually, what amuses me about the picture above is the small print in the lower left hand corner. It says, "Sausages made by special women." I love that! How do you get to be a special woman? Sign me up!

But what I enjoyed most about the food section wasn't for sale. Deep in the Dairy Barn, just past the House of Cheese, was a special revolving, glass-encased show room. Inside was the likeness of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. "Who?" you might be asking. "Is it another Barbie?" Nope. Princess Kay is the winner of a special Minnesota pageant. Every year, young maidens from across the state compete to become county dairy princesses. The lucky local winners then vie to become Princess Kay. They are judged on their communication skills, their personality and enthusiasm, and their knowledge of the dairy industry. Moo!

Don't get me wrong -- this is serious business. The St. Paul Pioneer Press claims that Princess Kay has "the equivalent of Queen Elizabeth's role as the physical embodiment of the British Empire." Well, then. If she's so important, why not carve a sculpture of her head out of a 90 pound block of butter?



And you know what's funny? Guess what Princess Kay gets as a reward for all her efforts? Do you think it's money? Scholarships? A new car? Nope. At the end of the fair, she gets to take the butter sculpture home (and presumably, she can butter her toast with that all year long).

When we arrived back at our house after our week in the Midwest, I sat down with Blue and asked him what his favorite part of the trip was. When he answered, he didn't mention the baseball game we went to, or our visit to the science museum. Instead, he said, "I liked the guy in the corn suit." Huh. Maybe on some deep, subconscious level, Blue is already part of the larger tradition. He might be a west coast boy, but Minnesota appears to be in his blood.

The Midwest, Part 1

Do you remember hearing about the heat wave that burned the Midwest this summer? You know, temperatures near 100 with humidity that could drown you? I certainly did, and I used that knowledge to guide my packing for our journey to see Michael's family. I brought the usual summer supplies: sunscreen, bathing suits, sandals, tank tops. But my challenge in that climate is always my hair. I may be a modern girl, but my thick, coarse hair is from the Old World, meant to be covered up by a babushka (Plus, ever since the kids were born, it's gone all curly on me. Has this happened to anyone else?). So I thought ahead, adding my flat iron and a range of straightening potions to our jumble of luggage so that I wouldn't scare all the farm animals.

And so we arrived. There was pouring rain. The temperature was 59 degrees.

This was bad news on a number of levels. The most pressing problem was that we were spending the first part of our trip at "the cabin" in rural Wisconsin, with seven other kids, six other adults, some dogs, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. Now, I think it's pretty funny that they call their lake property a cabin, because that's not what it is. Cabins are made of logs and have no running water. Michael's family owns a big house on a lake, with several bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, 2 televisions, and an air hockey table. (Oddly, I remember that the Michiganders that I grew up with called their large vacation homes "cottages." What's up with that?).

But still, that's an awful lot of people sitting inside watching the flood coverage on TV. Fortunately, efforts were underway to build the world's most delicious vegan Barbie cake. When time came to parcel out slices of Barbie's sugary skirt, the kids argued about who was going to lick the frosting off the now-naked doll. Party games have certainly become more exciting since I was young!

I explained to the family that hanging out in the house sure was fun, but that I had blog fans to entertain. I needed to experience some of the culture of this part of the country, to get a feel for the people and their interests. Michael's father wrinkled his brow and scratched his head, and Michael's sisters looked perplexed. But this is not a group that says no to a challenge. We put on some warm coats and headed out into the rain in search of something Wisconsin-y.

And here's where we ended up:

Now this is my kind of place. We don't really have an equivalent in our city. Sure, we have something that's called a flea market, but it's really a place where hip artists can sell their eco-friendly jewelry. At the Pea-Pickin flea market, you can buy old gas cans:

Or license plates:

Or plastic bull heads:

I asked one of the vendors how he came to sell these types of things. He said that he simply knows people. He scours garage sales and rummage sales and can always find stuff that people will purchase. And lucky for him, I'm not just an anthropologist; I'm also a shopper. Here's what I bought:

For 50 cents, I am now the proud owner of this 1980s vintage choose-your-own-ending teen romance novel (Don't confuse it with its sequel, "Boys! Boys! Boys!"). Here's the book jacket description:

Find your own boyfriends, your own adventures, your own romance -- it's up to you! Every few pages you can make new romance happen -- go back to the beginning and follow the directions until you find just the romance you want. You can spend a romantic year in Venice or move to the breathtaking Colorado mountains! Either way, you'll meet more boys than you've ever dreamed of! Will you go on a moonlight gondola ride with Marzio, a gorgeous Italian artist...climb a sky-high mountain with fun-loving Russell...or explore ancient Italian castles with dark, handsome Dario? No matter what you decide, that special boy is waiting for you. And you can always start a new story...until you find your own true love!

I haven't read it yet, but I think I'd go with Marzio. This book brings back memories of that Intro to Women's Studies class I took in college, where I wrote a research paper comparing teen romance novels to adult romance novels. Seriously. I even got an A minus (Thanks for all that tuition money, Mom and Dad!).

Anyway, the flea market filled my soul, but it didn't fill my stomach. So I asked, "Where does one go to combine wholesome recreation with good local food?" The answer: the bowling alley. The big gaggle of us (minus the dogs) headed out for a competitive game of bumper bowling and some hot plates of cheese curds:

In general, cheese curds baffle me. Who wants to eat something that's called a curd? But you know what, they really hit the spot when you embarrass yourself in front of a large crowd of people. Here's what happened. I was losing, and I thought that a lighter bowling ball might help improve my score. I decided to try out a kids' ball, which is about half the weight of the lightest adult ball. Smiling at my own genius, I put my thumb and fingers in. Then I got into position, whipped my arm back, and....spun around in a violent circle. The ball would not come off my fingers. It was completely stuck. I inspired a whole lot of laughing, and I suppose it was only fair that I could entertain Wisconsin after Wisconsin had given so much to me. But still, bring on those curds, man. I had some pride to mop up.

The next day, we headed back to the city to prepare ourselves for a trip to the Minnesota State Fair. I know you're on the edge of your seat to hear about that, but you'll have to come back next time. Part 2 is on its way.

Journey

We're heading off to Minnesota later this week, so you'll notice a little pause in my blogging. But I've decided to start a recurring feature called "Field Notes from the Midwest." Those of you who think that Minnesota is "back east" will learn a lot about the distinctive local culture of the middle part of the country. And those of you who, like me, grew up in the Midwest but set roots elsewhere can re-experience the joys of bugs, humidity, hot dish, and games of "duck, duck, grey duck." And for those of you who live in the Midwest now, I'll try to include some funny stories that feature my inlaws (But only the ones who admit that they don't read this. That's the rule -- if you don't read the blog, you might show up in it). So please come back -- I'll have something posted by Monday August 27.

Bad Saturday

I'm afraid I don't have any clever little stories for you today. I had hoped that we would have been able to do one of our family hikes yesterday, which would have generated some hearty outdoor anecdotes. But, no. The universe conspired against us.

First off, the kids woke up possessed by the devil. I don't know why. It all began when Michael tried to do some work on the computer instead of giving the kids his undivided 6 a.m. attention. Blue and Green are perfectly content to play by themselves, unless the supervising adult tries to get something done. Then they join forces to destroy the adult: hitting each other, jumping on the couch, farting loudly. It wasn't long before Michael put down his computer and was dragged into a game of ZINGO, which is bingo with pictures (Did I ever tell you the story about the time when Green sang the bingo song in the grocery store? You know, the one that goes "B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-O." Well, anyway, Green had the tune down, but not Bingo's name. At the top of his lungs, he bellowed, "B-I-M-B-O, B-I-M-B-O, B-I-M-B-O, and Bimbo was its name-O." I was very proud.)

Back to the Zingo board game. Michael was sleepily doing his job, trying to lose every time, when WHAM! He miscalculated and won a game. Green erupted in that special way that he has, weeping hysterically. Michael commenced his sportsmanship speech, the one that goes something like, "It's not important whether you win or lose. It's about having fun!" Yeah, right. Green is smarter than that. Winning is totally important, and losing sucks.

But the screaming. God. It was enough to drive me to get a cocktail before the sun came up. We needed to get out of the house, and fast. But there was still a problem -- we hadn't fully settled on what the day's activity was going to be. Should we go to the mountains? If so, which hike -- the waterfall or the water slide? Those of you who have been around us know how loooong it takes us to make decisions. The process goes something like this:

Me: So which hike should we do?
Michael: I don't know. What do you think?
Me: Well, there are pros and cons to each one. If the boys refuse to go in the water, the water slide will be a bust. But the waterfall one is awfully close to the freeway, so it might not be as pretty.
Michael: Will you do me a favor and just pick one?
Me: All week long I have to think up activities and make plans. I just don't think I can do it today.
Michael: OK, let's do the water slide one.
Me: I don't think that's a good choice.

Since both hikes were in the same general direction, we decided to decide later. First, we needed to get ready to go, a process that included 2 showers, the boys' second breakfasts, getting the kids dressed (and the ongoing butts-on-pillows battle), and packing the backpack. Michael took the first shower, and I immediately had to give Green a time-out for smacking Blue (who had taunted him with an under-the-breath chant : "Mean, naughty Green won't get dessert at lunch! Mean, naughty Green gets NO TREATS!"). The time-out is supposed to involve 5 minutes of deep reflection about the error of one's ways, but usually it involves cataclysmic screaming that will someday generate a visit from Child Protective Services. Strangely, this time Green was quiet in his room. "Good for me," I thought. "I am a downright effective disciplinarian." But when I smugly went to get him after the time was up, I was in for a rather rude surprise: Green had disassembled the entire curtain/shade apparatus. Needless to say, I was the one who did the cataclysmic screaming this time.

Somehow, we all managed to get through the showering and second breakfasts. Afterwards, I presented Michael with another issue: where to find the required parking passes that you need to buy if you want to use one of the Forest Service trails. No information was available on the internet, and you can't buy single use passes online. Michael came up with the idea that we should stop by a ranger station to find out how to get one (remember how he loves a pretty ranger?).While we were figuring out how far the detour to the ranger station would be, Green came into the room with a smile on his face. "There's a problem with the toilet," he said. "What kind of problem?" Michael asked. "Well," Green answered, "everything that's supposed to be in the toilet is on the floor."

Oy. An overflow. Too much toilet paper stuffed into the bowl. What a mess.

I have to admit that I was beginning to lose my cool about the day's activities. As I was gathering up spare clothes for the boys (assuming we were to go to the water slide), Michael sat down to tell them about our plan. "Today we're going to do something really fun!" He said. "We're going on a hike where we get to play in the water!" Green said, "I'm not going. I don't like hiking." Michael resumed his pep talk. "It'll be fun!" he chirped. "You can bring your buckets!" "I'm not going," Green said.

At this point, I chucked the whole pile of clothes I was carrying across the living room. "I'm not going either!" I shrieked. I ran back to the bedroom and slammed the door. I heard Blue ask, "Why is Mama throwing things? We're not supposed to throw things in the house."

Soon thereafter, we were on our way to the beach. Who can argue with the beach? The boys can dig, the adults can read, the sun can shine and warm all of our hearts. But guess what? As we were about a mile away from our house, we could see big, dark clouds rolling in. No joke. But there was no turning back. We had finally decided what to do. We packed the bag. We gathered the toys. We were on our way. We were going to ENJOY OURSELVES, DAMMIT!

It didn't rain, but it sure was cloudy. I put on my jacket, and covered myself with a beach towel. "Go dig a hole," I told the boys. They wandered over to the water, half-heartedly tapped the sand with their shovels, and came back. "There's nothing fun here," Green said. "When can we go get ice cream?" I made a face like I was going to start throwing things again, so Michael came up with a new rule: No busy = No ice cream. The boys were required to be busy for one hour, and for the sake of a sugary treat, they obliged.

One hour. I had a book. Michael had a nap. Blue and Green had some busy.

And then we ate.

Aging

When Michael and I were out to dinner the other night, our waiter was this strapping young guy named Andrew. He was "taking time off" from college to, you know, figure stuff out. All that deep reflection was taking place while he hiked and kayaked his way around the Olympic Peninsula. By day, he was a figure-outer, and by night, he earned a little money to buy some great fleece outerwear.

When Andrew was safely out of ear shot, I leaned over to Michael and asked, "Do you remember that time in college when we stayed up all night to watch the sunrise?" Michael looked at me romantically and said, "Of course I do." "Well, guess what?" I said. "Andrew wasn't even born then."

That put a bit of a damper onto Michael's enjoyment of his seafood caesar salad. Getting older can be a beast. One day, you're at a party, talking about all the latest bands and the best clubs, and the next? You're at a potluck, sharing insights about the best kind of sod for your backyard with some guy in too-tight Dockers.

Some of the problems related to getting older are conceptual. You still feel like you should get carded at the grocery store, but then the 16-year-old checker says that you remind him of his mom. One time recently, I was driving our teenage babysitter home, and I asked her about her SAT's. She mumbled something about getting ready for them, and I launched into my own SAT tale, as if my important life experience in 1987 would be relevant to her. As I went on, blah, blah, blah, I could sense her eyes rolling. She was probably thinking to herself, "Did they even have No. 2 pencils back then?"

Of course, the rest of the problems related to getting older are literal. And physical. After a couple of kids, a couple of plates of nachos, and a couple of nights on the couch watching Weeds, suddenly things you expected to be high up are now down low. Ladies, you know what I mean. A doctor recently mentioned that I have a "half-moon shaped navel." Huh? I went home and checked out my stomach. Sure enough, the belly button that was once as perfectly round as...well...a button now looked like a frown. It's not fat, exactly. It's just sinking.

I've belonged to a gym for a while now. I love this gym, because most of its members are schlumpy. People wear their big old sweats, no makeup, and some even bring their oxygen tanks. I learned a few years ago that the payoff for going to the gym is that I get to read a lot of trashy magazines. 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer, and I get to find out if Britney really is a bad mom. Usually, gyms are places where people try to reclaim lost youth, but my gym seems to be filled with people just trying to get through the day. Need a break from your kids? Take them to the child care place, and sit with your head down in the locker room for a few minutes. Need to get away from the humdrum of your assisted living facility? Walk on the treadmill while watching Murder She Wrote reruns on the attached TV.

This summer, I've taken up a new exercise hobby: spinning. I'm strangely addicted to this activity, because it makes me feel like a brute (of course, it also makes me want to go home and eat a tub of ice cream, which sort of defeats the purpose. Oh well). But, see, my gym is a cheap gym. Just $15 a month. So unlike fancy pants-y, expensive gyms, there's no big screen that entertains you with scenery as you ride your stationary bike at high speeds. Instead, you have to use your imagination while the instructor screams out, "Now we're going up Ravenna Boulevard! It's a big hill! Do you feel it?" Once we get to the top of the fake hill, she yells, "Are you effervescing yet? You should be effervescing by now." I think she's talking about sweating, which I usually do very effectively. And I wonder, if I effervesce a lot, will my belly button return to form?

Regardless of what happens to my stomach, my goal is to age gracefully. One of our friends, Shawn, is a master at aging well. His trick seems to be to reinvent himself. Sometimes, he's a professor. Sometimes, he's a famous novelist. Sometimes, he's a screenwriter. What's neat is that he does all this while masquerading at being a normal guy. If you saw him on the street, you might think he's just a regular dad with a gas grill and a van. He might seem to be a tired working fellow who falls asleep at 9:00 pm in front of the golf update on ESPN. But, no, look again. Doesn't he look kind of familiar? Yes! He does! You've seen him somewhere before...Was it on your Wells Fargo banking brochure? Yes! Yes! That's because Shawn, our scholarly famous friend, has chosen yet another career direction, this one designed to make him feel sexy and youthful no matter what the calendar says. He is...A MALE MODEL!!!

Now, I tried to get the actual photos to post here. But it seems like Getty Images is not so keen on parting with its stock footage just to entertain the masses. If you're interested, do a search for "Asian Real Estate" or "Mature Couple." These keywords bring up my favorites, especially the one where he is hauling what seems to be a very heavy carpet on his back. Who says that academics can't be macho, too?

(Shawn, I just checked the official America's Next Top Model website. There's a casting call for season 10 in our very own city on August 14. To be eligible, you have to be under 28 years old. That's how old you're turning this year, right? Lie a little. Tyra will never know. Happy birthday on Saturday, and many more).

Time Away

I love my kids. I really do. But I have to say -- 24 hours without them is heaven on earth. Blue and Green had their very first overnight with my parents this weekend, and Michael and I took off for the sunset (see above).

I was a bit nervous about leaving the kids, because I feared an epic scene at the departure. Green, in particular, has a few issues with independence. Well, to be frank, Green has a few issues in general. For instance, he has a bunch of random, unhelpful rules that he follows (e.g. he won't eat peanut butter on sunny days). And he has taken my inclination for the dramatic to a whole new level. Most of the time I compare him to a teenage girl (without the good parts, like having someone to shop with), because he gets irrationally upset over dumb things. When he can't find a pair of socks that is lighter in color than his brother's, he'll scream something like, "I'll never wear socks again! Never!" And then he'll throw himself down onto the bed and sob. Or if his shovel breaks at the beach, and I give him the spare purple shovel, he'll holler,"MAMA! I can't dig mud pits with anything that's purple! I'll never use purple! And I won't come to the beach with you ANYMORE!" What can I say? It's not easy being Green.

Anyway, in preparation for our getaway, I used an old trick I learned from Bill Clinton. If you don't say what IS is, then it's not a problem. Right? So last week I started saying stuff like, "We're going to Grandy and Grandpa's house this weekend, and guess what? Daddy and I are going hiking on Saturday. And then we'll see you on Sunday morning." I just kind of left out the part where we LEAVE THEM BEHIND. This seemed to work! HA! But really, it was my mom who saved the day. On Saturday morning, she started talking about all the presents she was going to give them once Michael and I left. After an hour or so of this, Blue said to me, "Mama, will you disappear now?" So much for grief about being separated from us.

Michael and I took off for Olympic National Park. Our plan was to go out to a groovy hike along the coast. But there were two problems. First was that it would have taken 4 hours of driving. And second was that those four hours of driving would have prevented us from finishing the hike before the tide came in and washed us out to sea. This was very disappointing to me, and I commenced whining. So we stopped at the ranger station, where Michael sized up trails with his favorite ranger. He loves this ranger, and I don't know why (Is it her tight, brown, polyester government pants? Or that sexy Smoky the Bear hat?). It seems like we talk to her every time we go hiking, and she always sends us to a steep trail that doesn't leave the trees. This time was no exception. It did end up at a little lake, and that was nice, but it wasn't a crystal clear alpine lake with huge snow-capped spires on top of it! I threw myself down on the ground and wailed, "I'm NEVER going to ask for help from that ranger again! NEVER!" (No, I didn't really do this. It's a joke. Ha.).

But then we went to Lake Crescent, where we stayed the night. And there were rowboats! Rowboats! This was terrific, because I love boating, and also because there are lots of ghost stories about this lake. Apparently, there are missing people buried in its depths. AND, if you drown in the lake, your body will supposedly turn into soap! Soap! (Think I'm kidding? Go read "The Lady of the Lake: Tale of the Corpse Turned to Soap Keeps Lake Crescent Bubbling with Intrigue," Seattle Post-Intelligencer, October 30, 1990). Anyway, Michael and I went rowboating (well, he rowed, and I took lots of close-ups of his head), and it was fabulous. We didn't see ghosts or corpses, however.

What's really neat about getting away from the kids is that our sense of time changes. I knew that we had been living on their schedule for years, but it's not until we had distance from it that I realized how little time has been our own. Even when we go out, there's still the tick, tick, tick of the babysitter's watch. And the mornings -- we live them in five and ten minute increments. Here's an example of our typical morning:

6 am: Kids wake up.

6:15: 2 bowls of Cheerios are consumed by each child.

6:20-7:30: Kids bug each other and whine at parents.

7:30: Arthur comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I make sandwiches for lunch box (cheese if sunny, peanut butter if cloudy).

8:00: Curious George comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I shower.

8:30: Kids eat second breakfast. I start screeching, "Put your yogurt cups in the trash! Put your spoons in the sink!"
8:35: Kids start getting dressed. I yell, "Don't put your naked butt on your brother's pillow!"

8:45: I yell at kids to put dirty underpants in the hamper.

8:47: Kids pack lunches in lunch boxes, leaving underpants on the floor.

8:50: I wrestle kids to the ground to get sunscreen on them.

8:53: I scream again about underpants.

8:55: Kids fight over whose lunchbox gets to sit in which position by the door. I scream, "We're going to be late for school!! Go! Go! Go!"

9:00: Drive to school, which starts RIGHT NOW.

9:03: Return to house to get forgotten lunch boxes.

Day after day, these same things happen, and the clock starts to become an oppressive tool. But this weekend -- no clock, no lunch boxes, no hamper. That was the biggest anniversary gift of all.

When we returned to my parents' house, the kids didn't even look up from what they were doing. My mom said there wasn't any crying, screaming, fighting, or dirty butts on pillows. There were also meals made up of brownies, lots of new toys, and constant attention. When we got into the car, Blue and Green waved goodbye cheerfully and were appropriately thankful. But once the car turned the corner, Green started to cry. "What's the matter?" I asked. His crying escalated. "What is it?" I repeated. He wailed, "I'm NEVER going home. NEVER! There's nothing fun there!" Sigh. It was time to watch the clock again. All I can say is that I'm counting the hours until we can drop them off again.

Eleven

Does anyone remember this? It was one of the classier moments of our wedding. I recall that the professional photographer was up too close, trying to capture the romance of the cake-cutting. And I thought to myself, "Why do we need a picture of this? This is not particularly exciting." Then it occurred to me that my mother smushed cake on my dad's face at their reception, so hmmm.....I smeared a little on Michael, just to keep the tradition alive.

What's interesting about this photo is that it came two seconds too late. If it had been couple of beats earlier, you would have been able to see the RAGE in Michael's eyes. And if it had been just one second earlier, you would have seen him crush a huge piece of cake onto my face, and then more of it down into the front of my expensive silk dress.

So here's the thing about wedding dresses from the 1990s. They weren't those light sheath things that women are wearing these days. Dresses in the 1990s were heavy. Plus, the ladies at bridal shops impressed upon vulnerable brides the need for "appropriate foundational garments," so in the end it was like wearing two whole outfits on the big day.

When Michael did his cake trick, he managed to wedge the cake underneath the fancy foundational garment, making it impossible for me to get it out without stripping off the whole ensemble in the hotel bathroom. So I didn't. The rest of the evening, I had to feel the squish, squish of buttercream every time I moved. The first dance? Squish! Throwing the bouquet? Squish! The Big Exit down the stairs to the getaway car? Squish!

Ah, love. I don't think our wedding was the first time that Michael realized that I can be really annoying, and I've certainly taken annoying to new levels since then. Who controls the clicker in our house? Me! That has meant that Michael has watched a lot of Celebrity Fit Club this summer (Come on, Marcia Brady was on it! That's hilarious!). Who won't go see any movies with violence, gore, or death-by-serious-illness storylines? Me! That's a lot of WhenHarryMetSally-esque films for the poor man. Who gets crazy cravings around 11 pm? Me! Our household conversation goes like this:

Me: I want french fries.
Michael: Now?
Me: I can't stop thinking about them.
Michael: (sigh) Do you want me to go get you some?
Me: No. It would be really bad of me to eat french fries this late.
Me: But I'm really hungry.
Michael: I'll go get you some.
Me: No! I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm just sharing my feelings with you.
Me: But I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep.
Michael: I'm going to get some.
Me: Can you find an organic kind?

But really, we've had so many good times, too. There was that week on the Redneck Riviera, when no one else was there. It was like we owned our own little piece of Alabama -- eating out at Bubba's and then drinking gin and tonics on our white sandy beach! Or how about that backroads trip across Spain, where we went looking for ruins (and skulls! So many skulls! We found one building that was made out of 1,245 of them). And then there was the day that we found out about Blue and Green, when we shared that combination of exhilaration and panic (Michael got pulled over leaving the doctor's office, and he showed the ultrasound pictures to the cop! No ticket that day.).

So Michael, we've known each other a long time. I remember when you wanted to be like the guy in the Strawberry Statement, and I remember when you grew your hair long so you could wear a ponytail. Today, even though you like to play fantasy baseball just a little too much, I still think you're the coolest cat around. Happy eleventh anniversary (tomorrow)!