It's the WEEKEND, BABY!!!

We're heading out tonight for the Great American Beer Festival. My friend Kath went on Thursday night and had great stuff to say. Can't wait to see for myself! I'm not a huge beer person, but I'm a "get-away-from-this-house-and-have-adult-conversation-please-and-thank-you" person, so it all works out.

I hope you are having a fantastic one doing whatever you fantastic people do on days like this.

Hasta pasta!

The Plumber finally shows up the day after he was supposed to. My husband called and chewed ass. The lady who answered said she offered "your wife" another technician. BULLSHIT! Never offered. I would have taken it, Dummy. Who wants to waste 48 hours waiting for people if you can get it all done in ONE DAY? Idiots.

When the Plumber DID finally show up, he hit on me. I think. I say, "I think" - because it was a strange blubbering bunch of words, followed by, "If you catch the underlying tone". Only thing I caught was the door handle on my way out of the room.

We have a college buddy of my husband's here for the week. He overhead it, too, and said, "Yah, I think that's what happened". Ack. Fix the fucking leak already.

Speaking of CollegeBuddy, he got completely olbiterated last night and didn't finish making dinner. I had to send him to bed because he was yelling, "FUCK YOU FUCKING FUCKERS!" to the Pokemon cartoon with my son sitting there. We cuss, sure. But we are curbing the F WORD.

And on a very serious note:

The day kind of ended up really sucking with the news of another shooting at a high school in Colorado. I remember Columbine. I think it was the first thing all of us thought when we saw the SWAT team poised and ready to bust into the school on live TV yesterday. Columbine was horrible. I was working at a hospital in town where the victims were taken. I remember the rush of activity, the pagers going off for on-call doc's, and the news out front waiting for any word.

But morever, you wondered how those parents must have felt. And now to have a child, and naturally find yourself thinking, "OH MY GOD. WHAT IF THAT WAS MY BABY??" ....

I will not lie. My husband and I sat on the couch, cried together, and promised as best we could we'd keep our baby safe as safe as possible.

Our hearts and prayers go out to the family of Emily Keyes, and I hope you will in turn remember them, as well.

So ...

Once upon a time, there was a patient wife (and beautiful, and lovely, and all those things, of course). She had a husband who had a beautiful fish tank. She knew how much the fish tank meant to her husband, so she supported all the things her husband did to make the tank beautiful.

And then around 1:40 a.m. on a Monday morning, her husband shook her awake saying, "WE HAVE A PROBLEM! THERE'S A FLOOD!".

Fish tank + leak = water in basement

Patient Wife is really more pissed that she got woken up at 1:40 in the morning and how it took her two hours really to fall back asleep. Not happy about the flood, but more pissed off about lack of sleep. Sleep is important to Patient Wife. She went through a year without it with her baby and cares not to ever experience it again. Patient Wife has plumber on schedule for Tuesday.

And to make light of the disaster, sends page to husband that says, "How tall are you again? I'm digging a whole in the backyard ...".

Husband does not find this funny. Boo.

On Tuesday, Patient Wife is woken up around 6:00 a.m. with "Okay, I think I broke the washing machine ...." - and then the sound of husband high-tailing his shit out of the house for work. (smart) Sure enough! Husband got upset that door wouldn't open and ripped it apart.

Plumber is supposed to arrive between 1-3.
Repairman is supposed to arrive between 1-5.
Start time for baseball game is 6:35.

Plumber calls, won't be here until tomorrow.
Repairman will 'hopefully' be here by 4:45-5:00.
Start time for baseball is still 6:35.

Patient Wife is then lauded with a lot of kick ass martinis and a good time at the baseball game - if they ever get there, of course.

THE FUCKING END

My first addition to "Love Thursday" ... an older photo of my son, taken last year about this time. He was so excited to have this pair of goggles on, and the Nuk was a constant staple in his mouth.

My husband left the country. We drove him that crazy!! He went HERE for a meeting. At last email communication, HDHusband was about to go have an Italian dinner and hopefully - but likely - get lost a few times getting there.

HDToddler and I are throwing parties NON-STOP. I'm pounding the Pinot Grigio and he's knocking back the apple juice, sippy cup style.

While my husband is gone, the following things usually (or sometimes, don't) happen:

I don't bother doing the dishes. Even more than usual.

I sleep on his side of the bed because it smells like him (aaaaaaw, shucks!!).

But I wash all the sheets and pillow cases before he gets home so he has nice and un-stinky sheets to sleep on. I'm nice like that.

I turn on the fireplace in our room and sleep with all the covers on. Sometimes, I even wear socks to bed, too

I still shave my legs. And pits. And the nether regions.

I mess up and forget to take out the trash on Trash Day. Like today. (sorry, HDH)

I order as much take-out as humanly possible. Fuck that cooking shit!! (like I really do much of it anyway)

I dance around naked and do the Chicken Dance. (um ... not really)



He usually brings us back something of interest from wherever he's visiting. HDH has had all of these lovely trips since the birth of the KID, so I haven't been able to join him in London, Paris, Rome, Lisbon or Prague. FUCK THAT. Soon, I will make my way to Europe and it will not be the same.

The trip he's currently on was of great debate in our marriage. He left yesterday evening (Wed) and will be gone to Sunday afternoon. He wanted me to go. I would have loved to have gone, truly. But the idea of going, getting acclimated to the time difference, him being in meetings and working business dinners, then coming home, reacclimating with a toddler who wasn't on the wrong schedule ... I would have much rather had a root canal than gone through all of that.

He said I just didn't 'do anything hard' in life. I told him I'd break my foot off in his ass.

Today, HDH's email said (and I quote): "Turns out I won't have much time after all".

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOYAH!

Men! Just LISTEN the first time to us!! SO. MUCH. EASIER.

Off to make pizza.

We're batchin' it after all.

We had lunch in La Jolla the first afternoon. This was our view. That's an empty wine glass, of course. We watched some swimmers try and compete with the currents, and the currents were certainly winning. The Coast Guard was boating around quite a bit.

We had some great dinners in Del Mar, too.

I also read my ass off. Drank wine, read, and slept ...

Happy girl, party of one.

First things first: We had a great trip to California. We stayed in La Jolla, had dinners overlooking the ocean, shopped, read books (I knocked out two, as well as the Atlantic Monthly and Conde Nast that have been sitting in the corner), went to Sea World (got soaking ass wet), skipped the fancy dinner for a great one at a place called Fresh.

We relaxed and had a great time. I did threaten to kill my husband on more than one occasion, so we weren't THAT far into Paradise.

But I digress.

The biggest THING that happened to us was at the airport, leaving on Friday. We had checked in our luggage, gone through security and were walking through the terminal to our gate. As we're walking along, we walk straight into ... my husband's ex-girlfriend.

For those of you needing a refresher course, it would be THIS EX-GIRLFRIEND.

(No, really. Read up. I'll wait.)

Now, to back up for a quick little bit, she had sent my husband an email the end of August. She was droaning on and on about her upcoming high-brow trip she had planned to France with girlfriends and how she would be doing all sorts of high-brow things. Her purpose (a term I use loosely) was to ask my husband for a book title she thought she needed for this trip.

She signed it "Au Revoir, PyschoEx". PUKE!!

I wasn't THRILLED that she'd emailed him yet again, but asking for a book title ... meh. It was the PS part that got me. She mentioned she had purchased the latest India.Arie album, and how there was a cover of "The Heart of the Matter" that she loved, and she thought he should hear it - and could she burn him a copy? She also mentioned how she 'danced and sang' all over her living room whenever she heard the song.

HELLS NO.

I have the CD. I made my husband reply with the name of the book, and that HDW (using my real name) has the CD.

(And really, my husband does not CARE if she has forgiven him or not. He didn't do anything WRONG. He broke up with someone who didn't flush the potty and was generally really nasty to everyone who didn't have a Masters Degree. Which, of course, has gotten her really far, but we'll get to that another time. And for fuck's sake, my husband didn't do the 'read between the lines' thing on the email - so I had to point it all out to him. Which is fine. But did she fucking think he would get that shit?? HELL NO!)

Back to the airport.

We realize that she's likely leaving for France. While we are laughing that the woman that used to be the triathlete and was telling my husband how ugly and lame I was six years ago has gained - at the very least - 60 lbs. She has no more cheekbones. All gone. Bye-bye, see ya! She's really and truly let herself go. I normally could care less about weight, but after everything this woman said about me, I think it's justified.

While at the airport, she is paged over the loud speaker. We both think she had herself paged.

As we were making our way to the gate (after HDHusband had his shoes shined), we find she's at the gate RIGHT NEXT TO US.

HDHusband to GoliathWoman: France?
GoliathWoman to HDH: YES!!

Her face lit up like a damn Christmas tree. She didn't give me her usual "I hope you rot in hell" look. It was simply ... resignation?

Awesome.

I got to thinking that really, she had never seen us together. Not once in the six years she's been flying around like the bat she is. I don't know if that will change anything; I really doubt so. She has moved in to our neighborhood. She still works where he works.

I guess if a person really wants to be that miserable and reminded that often of the "heart of the matter", then ... I guess that's their own cross to bear.

I stood in line behind this young woman the other day. She was probably 23-ish? Very pretty. And damn, if she didn't have the NICEST LEGS EVER. While I'm thinking to myself that my legs pretty much suck and how hers kick complete ass, I see that she has the scaliest, dirtiest, grayest and nastiest elbows I have ever seen. (and I have seen some - growing up on a ranch with dirty farm kids, you know??) Competely grossed me out. Great legs or not, some sugar scrub could be your very bestest friend.

We're heading out tomorrow for this mini-trip to California. Business, but hopefully some kick back time in there, too. I'm bringing some books and my MP3 player. We are leaving the Bug behind. As much fun as it was to bring him along on the last trip (to Oregon, Tahoe, and back to Oregon), I didn't really relax. I dealt with a screaming kid and was, you know, THAT MOM with THAT KID on THAT PLANE.

No thank you.

Momma's gonna kick back and relax and come back MUCH happier and a whole lot nicer.

Until next week!!

My dad was a huge football fan, specifically for the CSU Rams (as he played for them) or the Denver Broncos. My earliest memories of my father are sitting next to him, me in the little yellow rocking chair, him in the big chair, watching the football game on a television with crappy reception.

When I got older, he had tickets to the games he shared with some other guys from our town. They would trade-off, and when our name came up, dad would either take myself or my little brother, and if the other two tickets came up, we'd go as a family. On one occasion, I remember leaving the stadium, my dad leading the way and me holding his hand. Someone from our left got back and someone to our right, jumped between us and I got lost in the crowd. I saw my dad push, shove, yell and force his way back to me. I don't remember the words he said to those men, but I'm sure they weren't pretty.

But back to football ... my dad loved the Broncos. He died before Elway could bring a Super Bowl to fruition. He never stopped cheering. And we spent every Sunday afternoon in the basement watching the Broncos.

My husband and I were invited to a gala this past week. It was to honor a former Denver Bronco player who had made it his mission to make sure alumni of the Broncos (and everyone else) knew about heart disease. I was really looking forward to it, and told our friend that planned the shebang, that I'd love to meet this player. She said she'd make sure it happened.

As my husband and I were standing around, enjoying a glass of wine during the "go bid on the silent auction and spend a lot of money", she came up and said, "We've put you at our table, so we'll get a chance to chat more". We went up to the table, put down our placecards, and waited.

We were wondering who would be at our table, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was this player! He introduced himself to us, and said he looked forward to eating with us.

WHOA! Eating with us??

I realize what table she has put us at. I realize I'm sitting across from one of football's greats, and someone my dad loved watching play. I was a bit star struck. He was talking about games he'd played in, how he thought the Broncos would do this year, his opinion of the Raiders team now, among other things. I just listened. I was truly in awe.

An older gentleman sat down next to me, introduced himself and his wife. We did the introductions among ourselves, and about, oh, three minutes into it, I realize I'm sitting next to Coach Red Miller. (he was the Broncos coach before they brought in Dan Reeves) He was extremely wonderful. His wife was lovely. Again, I sat back and listened.

And then, I got a bit teary-eyed. I thought to myself how incredible it would have been to be able to have called my dad and told him who I'd met. More importantly, to have invited him along to this banquet. We bumped elbows with Billy Thompson, Haven Moses, Doug Widdel, Coach Miller, among others.

My dad would have been over the moon.

It was about then that I looked around the table. I thought back to my dad's funeral twelve years ago and how my mom insisted we leave one empty seat 'for my dad'. It was the only empty seat left in the gymnasium.

The night of the gala, we an extra seat at our table, and the last empty one in the room. I saw my dad sitting there, listening, laughing, and loving.

It was fantastic.

My son will be three next year, and will no longer be able to be at his current daycare.

Yesterday, I started the hunt for preschools. Why now? Because there are waiting lists and applications and this PROCESS unlike no other.

Do you want a preschool that is structured? Do you want a preschool that isn't? All of these REALLY GOOD QUESTIONS for a mom or dad to have. But then, I am finding out ... what I want really doesn't matter. It's about all this other SHIT.

One director told me we could still be high up on the waiting list, but if they needed more girls than boys, mine would be cut.

Another told me it was really unlikely we'd get in - that the waiting list is so long - but we could 'try'.

The last said they'd have their accepted list ready by March, unlike the other schools that wait a bit longer. This is fine, but what if by the summer, your top pick opens up and you get in? WHAT THEN!?

AAAAAAH!

(insert sound of me banging my head on the desk)

So, I signed up for three tours. I am filling out applications. I am going crazy.

I told my husband about all of this, and he said, "So, it's like Rush Week for Toddlers, then?".

Yes, I think so.

Mommy and Le Bug
Originally uploaded by hotdoctorwife.

I am honoring Robert J. Mayo, 46, of Morganville, NJ. He was a fire safety director for OCS Security. He was married to his wife, Meryl, and had a son, Corbin. Robert was a dedicated husband and father.

On September 11th, he left WTC Building 2 to join and help the other fire safety officers at WTC Building 4 help evacuate the frightened office workers. His wife spoke with him on the phone, begging for him to come home. Instead, he stayed behind to help, and in that, lost his life.

Robert and his son, who was 11 at the time, were HUGE New York Giants fans. They couldn't afford tickets to the games, but would sit at home surrounded by banners and such, and watch the games from home. Robert would leave notes for his son. And on the morning of the attacks, he left a note for his son regarding the loss to the Denver Bronco's the night before and signed it, "I love you".

After a story ran in a local newspaper about Mr. Mayo and the love he and his son shared for the team, offers poured in for Corbin to attend a Giants game. Team owners offered their corporate boxes. He went, and was able to tour the locker room and meet his favorite players.

President Bush honored Corbin with the Medal of Valor for the sacrifice and heroism he showed that day. The award reads: “For heroism, valor and the ultimate sacrifice, Robert Mayo.” Corbin was also one of the children that read the names of the victims at the tribute at the WTC site a year later.

What an incredibly unselfish and strong man! He helped so many people. Truly, an angel to so many on that day. Five years later, I would like to honor Robert J. Mayo for everything he did that day, and to honor his family, and thank them for allowing us to know more about this incredible man.

May God bless you and keep you always.

FALLEN EMBERS
A tribute on YouTube, with a beautiful song by Enya.

Note: To see more tributes to the victims of the 9/11 attacks, please visit 2996, We Will Never Forget. Other tributes have been or will be done by The Lilly, FreshAir and Fyrchk. If I've forgotten anyone, please let me know!

When I get the newspaper from my hometown, it takes all of about five minutes (or less) to look through. You check out the latest gossip (they really do have that section), the obituaries, and then you skim to see if there were any babies born to anyone you know. You then realize everyone having babies were most likely in the Third Grade when you left the town, so you then feel really old.

The town I grew up in had/has a population of around 400 people. We have a blinking stoplight. I was generally late to school on account of Kenny driving his tractor down the oil road (yes, OIL ROAD), or Emily's chickens were out and I didn't want mashed up chickens in my car grill. When we went out to lunch after church, we went to the Café. When I'd help dad on the weekend's by sitting with him for endless hours bidding and buying cattle, we'd have lunch at the Sale Barn. I stomped through shit for the majority of my childhood. When my dad died years later, the town shut down, the churches weren't big enough, and we had 200 casseroles at our house before noon. It's just the way it is out there.

I opened the mailbox the other day, saw the paper, and the headline read: "MASKED GUNMAN FOUND IN LOCAL HOME!" across the front page.

.... THE HELL ????I honestly checked to see if I had the right paper.

I read the story and knew the family. In fact, I remember babysitting their two boys. This woman had been outside, heard her dog barking at something, went to investigate, found a 'masked man with gun' in her bedroom, and he pointed the gun at her. She ran outside. He ran after her. She screamed for him to get away, and eventually, he ran off.
The town went into lockdown. Businesses closed up and the schools were locked down. Parents were told to come get their children, but had to show proper identification or they wouldn't release them. A neighbor offered his airplane to do an aerial search. The shit was happening here, folks.

They eventually found him later that night, and in the process, busted his friend for drugs.

But I got to thinking - all of this wasn't THAT much of a surprise. This is about par for the course in my hometown. Every so often, we have crap that happens, and it puts us on the map - rather unwillingly.

1. When I went home last year for my 10 year class reunion, some guy had busted into someone else's house. He was obviously a little out there (drugs, they think) - and was wielding a knife. When he wouldn't put the knife down and was threatening the lives of some folks, they shot him. There were helicopters from DENVER flying over our town. My high school classmate was a deputy then, and he saw the dead body. That night at the reunion, he wasn't doing too well. This just doesn't happen, you know? We get people who speed through town, not expecting Johnny Law to be there.

2. When I was in high school, my classmate's parents found a guy in their house. He was naked and bleeding. The story was that he was a drifter that had come off the highway, and when the noon town whistle went off, he freaked. How he ended up naked, I don't remember. I do remember that he was bleeding from trying to jump through their dining room window.

3. When I was in elementary school, I remember standing with my dad and brother in our kitchen. It was a Saturday morning. My mom had gone into town to pick up donuts, and we had the television on. Cartoons, and all. The next thing we know, there is breaking news and our donut shop in the backdrop for the reporter. My dad scrambles to turn up the television, and this is when the camera pans over to my mother, in her red feed jacket (yes, FEED JACKET) and she looks quite bewildered and puzzled, holding a big box of donuts. Turns out ... some NEIGHBORS of ours - a father and son - (living a mile or two away) had been killing people. A lot of people. They'd been knocking off illegal immigrant/transient folks. They'd go to Denver, pick them up, bus them out, have them do some manual labor, and instead of paying them, they'd kill them. They'd been doing this for a while, apparently. Somewhere in there, one of them had killed a truck driver and it ended up getting back to the police. I don't remember the whole story now, except that when they put the son away, he tried to arrange to have a helicopter flown in to the prison so he and his girlfriend could fly to Mexico and assume the identity of an American family there. That didn't work out so well. And the father? He got off after a while and married the chiropractor's ex-wife.

Listen very closely: SMALL TOWNS ARE NOT THAT BORING. We might not get the newest movie releases for a good ... six months ... but dammit, we have some drama.

(And, apparently, a great Bake Sale coming up, too.)

We're headed to California next week. Mostly work-related stuff. We'll be in Sacramento for a night, and the rest of the time in and around San Diego.

Any recommendations on places to eat?

Please and thank you!

HDHusband and I finally got around to watching some of our Netflix movies this weekend. We were primarily stoked to go downstairs and watch something (anything) in the very space we'd just busted ass cleaning. Or maybe that was just me??

REGARDLESS.

I had picked out a movie a month or so ago mostly because Mark Humpalo was starring. This is reason enough alone for me. My husband rolled his eyes, agreed to watching the movie, all the while making little snarky comments about The Man Who Does Not Know He Needs Me Yet.

Because I'd probably only picked out this movie due to his hot ass being IN it, I hadn't piad much attention to WHAT the movie was about.

I was floored, people.

The movie was essentially the relationship I have with my little brother. Me, the big sister, keeping shit together and worrying sick over where he is, what he's doing, if he's okay, and always - never failing - to be the one trying to help him back up when he's fallen yet again. Him, the one that was taken down after our dad died, never getting his shit together again, always a bit lost but possessing such a good, strong heart.

It was us.

HDH paused the movie, looked over and said, "Jeez! How does it feel to be watching your relationship with your brother on the big screen?"

At one point in the movie, he says to her, "It's nice to know no matter where I go and whatever I do, I know you are still at home, rooting for me". My brother said something like that to me once. He said he knew that no matter what, I was in his corner and the loudest one cheering for him.

I have that message saved on my phone.

My brother was 14 the night my dad died. He was home with my dad and mom when dad had his heart attack. My brother attempted CPR until the paramedics came. He was awarded the Citizen Award for Valor for trying to save our dad's LIFE. He was FOURTEEN. I remember coming home, seeing him standing by the window in our basement, and crying. I hugged him. He hugged me. And I can tell you at that moment, my brother changed into a kid that needed more than a hug.

My mom kicked him out in the next few months (nice lady, huh? Hating her.) and sent him to military school because she couldn't 'help him'. HE WANTED HIS DAD. He didn't want to be five hours away. How fucking shitty of her. He hasn't forgiven her for that, and I'm not sure he should. My brother would call me from the school at 5:30, when he was allowed, and beg and plead for me to come get him. I couldn't. I had no way of busting him out, but I drove almost eight hours ONE WAY almost EVERY WEEKEND to watch him STAND ON THE SIDELINES for the football games. He got out of that place a year later, told her he wouldn't be going back and didn't.

He's made a lot of mistakes and he's gotten in trouble for most of them. I don't enable him, and I certainly don't stand by when he fucks up again. He knows how I feel.

But Lord, I love that kid. He's still the little boy that tried to teach frogs to jump (and charged us .25 cents to watch) in my eyes.

The movie? You Can Count On Me.

It's a great movie. It's got a great message. Good music (especially if you like Steve Earle).

Rent it and enjoy a heartwarming story.

Good Lord in heaven, HDHusband and I busted BALLS this weekend.

We learned not long ago that the Builder o' Our Casa is bringing the Architect o' Our Casa over to take photos of said Casa. Lovely!! Come on! But first, we had had to clean up this bad boy.

We moved into our house five years ago. We combined two different apartments. We put a lot of crap into the storage room downstairs. A LOT. In fact, we would - under general princple - just throw things in there and close the door. Not organized, not even by a long shot. They won't be looking in the room, persay, but after a leak the first part of the summer, a lot of that SHIT was out in the hallway, and neither my husband nor I were really that inclined to go down and clean/organize.

Until this past week, that is.

I went down into this room on Thursday of this last week, complete with a few too many cups of coffee in my system, and HAULED ASS. I threw out things I can't even imagine why I had in the first place, or why I hadn't tossed them during one of the last moves. Because I lived alone and had a lot of second-hand stuff, I probably saved that stuff out of force of habit. Or laziness. Maybe both.


Among what was found (and kept) during the weekend clean-out:

1. A bracelet I thought I lost about 325 moves ago! My mom bought this bracelet for me in Santa Fe, NM, right after the dinner where she told me she'd be marrying Bildo (sound it out). I didn't really like the guy, and not even due to the fact that he was the 'first guy' since my dad died (a few years prior). They were married less than a year, too. The bracelet? I discovered a little tin can heart thing. I'm ecstatic.

2. A photo of myself and my high school best guy friend ever. He was my Preacher's Kid. We went with our respective dates that year, but my mom managed to get a picture of us. Love this guy. Still do. (I fell down in that dress. The jerry-rigged 'fountain ... or HORSE TANK ... was leaking water, and I slid and split my dress. Another mom fixed it with duct tape on the backside. Small town, unite!)




3. A bunch of notes from 5th and 6th grade. Honest to God, PASSED NOTES. My girlfriend and I would come up with a 'secret code' and write to each other back and forth. I should ask her sometime if she remembers with the BOMB drawing means ... hmmm.

4. This photo of me and a friend from college. After my dad died (a few days into my second semester of my first year in college), I would come back and visit the college. I don't remember having much in the way of purpose when coming back, except I think I didn't want to lose touch with being only nineteen, y'know? This photo was taken on one of those trips back:

(on the back it says, "So you will always remember your Latin Lover, 1000 Kisses". I remember no 1000 kisses. Not even a one!)

5. Lots of letters and cards from all of my crushes, and crushes that would become really good friends in the future. I scanned the names on the envelopes, and seriously felt as if I was standing at my mailbox, seeing their names, getting that tummy flip-flop all over again. I haven't allowed myself yet to sit down and read through them, but I am quite sure with a great glass of wine, I'll have some fine memories.

6. All of my Bible-thumping stuff. My workbook from Dr. Dobson making me promise not to DO IT before marriage (um, broken) and not to drink and do drugs (sort of broken again there, happy santa!!). I will have to do a post on this. It's hysterical. I would write mean thing to my mom in the answer section, so when she'd snoop through to see if I was still "purse and wholesome" (really, who would want to mount my Molly Ringwald haired up self - COME ON!!), she'd read, "I hate you" instead of, "Jesus loves me".

7. A photo album from high school. Good Lord. EASE UP ON THE SALON SELECTIVES, HDW!! That's all I really need to say to my high school self. That and RE-LAX. My dad was the school board president and I was mortified pretty much all of the time. I was shy. I wasn't good at sports. I kicked ass at music and theater, and that - my friends - was pretty much it until I got OUT of the town (albeit a wonderful one) and experienced the world.

8. My Junior High/High School poetry book. HOW BADLY I wanted to write angst ridden poetry. I tried channeling Dorothy Parker, but to no avail. Later in life, I'd kick fucking ass on this shit, but in the 8th grade? Not so much. I have plenty of cheesy songs quoted in my book, though. Who doesn't need to hear Journey, Foreigner and MICHAEL BOLTON!?! Good God. I am ashamed writing that.

9. Speaking of cheesy music, I found my old cassette tapes. Debbie Gibson. C&C Music Factory. The Bangles. The soundtrack to Pretty In Pink.

and finally ...

10. I am on a brochure that somewhere in the world floats through truck stops and tourist traps, inviting you to see the Can-Can Show! I am sitting squarely in the middle of a peanut barrel, and my arse was sitting directly on a nail.

We found tons more things. HDHusband tossed out some ex-girlfriend crap and hauled big heavy things up and out of the basement for me. I stepped on a thumb tack in my BARE FEET. HDToddler held the broom and mostly learned the phrase, 'If you hit me with that ONE! MORE! TIME!".

There's a lot more of Memory Lane comin' up. I know there are cards and letters in a box that I saw from my dad. I'm sure I will bawl like a damn baby, but man - it sure felt good to hold these things and remember where I came from, and how far I've come.

Editor's Note: STUPID BLOGGER. It let me upload one photo, then I had to do the rest from Flickr. I'm still not smart enough to get it all to look right, so whatever. I HATE BLOGGER! You dirty, dirty bitch.