When Life Was Perfect, and My Writing, Far From It

In a previous post, I mentioned a letter I wrote to The Partner to be read on the eve of Y2K--pre-graduation, pre-wedded bliss, pre-baby, pre-wedded non-bliss. A commenter who just might be sorry she asked expressed a desire to know more about this message. Because I love to accomodate the faithful, I will post the text of the letter in its entirety. Please excuse the un-honed grammar, faulty logic, and any and all references to sequoias as metaphors for the enormity of my love. I won't change anything, as much as it pains me.


Here’s a little millennium message for you. I’m going to conveniently disregard the fact that this new year doesn’t technically herald the dawning of the new millennium. There’s still something momentous about moving into a whole new set of numbers, like when the odometer in a car turns over form 99,000 to 100,000. I mean, that’s exciting—does it really matter if the countdown began at zero or one? I’m too impatient to put off all the millennium-related partying and philosophizing on the little technicality that it doesn’t really begin for another year.

Okay, so let’s go over a few key events of the last thousand years. There was that whole black plague thing, the invention of moveable type, the discovery of the New World, the beginning of the United States of America, and the election of Ronald Reagan as president. And then there was the day I met you.

I think it’s pretty cool that this new chunk of a thousand years begins just as we are getting ready to start the new chunk of our lives as grown-ups. I mean, up to this point, we’ve pretty much been kids. Now we’re getting ready to graduate, get Real Jobs, sleep in our own huge fluffy beds and live lives that aren’t dictated or scrutinized by our parents. And here’s this new millennium, like a cosmic metaphor for the less earth-shattering but more personal and equally important changes in our lives.

There are a lot of things I’m leaving in the last millennium—places I used to live, friends I used to have, things I used to do but don’t anymore. I’ll be taking with me only the memories. I had a lot of good times and knew a lot of good people, but I won’t be taking them all with me. In a lot of cases, the memories are good enough. And where they won’t suffice, that’s where I’ll find the people who are going to come with me into the next part of my life.

I’ll be leaving a lot of mistakes, too. And from those, I’ll bring only the lessons learned—and I’ve learned a lot of them. I hope I know enough to make the right decisions now that my choices will be my own and will have more and more of an impact on my life.

So this millennium thing is big on all kinds of levels. There’s the level of you-and-me, which I think is big, too. And, just as this year means so many changes in so many facets of our lives, it means a lot of changes for us. Though, in this case, maybe the concept is more of growing than of changing. Because my feelings for you aren’t different than they ever were, they’ve just gotten bigger. Like, if my feelings were a tree [Editors note: Yes, it says “if my feelings were a tree." It gets worse.] I swear they’d be a fledgling Sequoia—big already, but getting bigger and bigger every day. I know I don’t often tell you how I feel [Editors note: thank God, if that’s the kind of clichéd imagery you’d resort to] and that’s probably not going to change anytime soon, but right now it seems like a good time to let you in, at least a little bit, on what goes on in my head (don’t worry, it’s not that scary in there, really!).

What I think is that my hand fits so perfectly in yours, and my head fits so perfectly against your chest or shoulder, and your arm fits so perfectly around me. Basically, your body is like the big, comfy bed I dream about. Your body is a place I can retire to when I’m happy, sad, tired, wide-awake, busy or bored. But just like I have to wait till I graduate to get the bed I want, I will have to wait till then to have you. There are a few more feelings of excitement, anxiousness and nervousness about waiting for you than waiting for a bed, though.

And it’s perfect the way we get along. Your mom says we don’t have anything in common, but she couldn’t be more wrong. Hey, that rhymed. Anyway, we wouldn’t have been able to talk for hours and hours each night for those six months before we even met in person without having a lot in common. You couldn’t understand me nearly as well as you do if we had nothing in common. I have no doubt that our minds are definitely in sync. It feels so good to have you to relate to [Editors note: What? It doesn’t feel “perfect”? It just feels “so good”? I think you should use the word perfect a couple more times].

So, it’s New Year’s Eve and even more than any typical first night of the year, this one is about looking to the future. That’s really scary to me. I’m not afraid of the future itself, only of getting my hopes up about events I want to happen that may or may not come to pass. I really need to get over that. If I don’t, that big metaphorical Sequoia that is my feelings is going to be really stunted, wanting to grow but being afraid not only of the view from so high up but also of being cut down.

So pass the sparkling wine and let’s make a toast: here’s to New Years 2000, to a new century, to a new millennium, to AOL, to school, to jobs (300 grand a year?!?!?) [Editors note: ha ha], to family, to friends, to big cozy beds, to Sequoias, to Suburbans, and to everything you could ever want, need, or dream of.

I’ll drink to that!

Blueberry Surprise

My family does not know about my blog. The secret was not threatened until TrueBlue came along.

A case of the blueberry juice arrived at my door after I was approached about the possibility of reviewing it on my blog. As a sucker when it comes to free stuff, and with a daughter who's a sucker of juice, I was more than amenable to the idea. Tearing into the case upon its arrival, I stored one bottle in the refrigerator (per the kind gentleman's suggestion to let it chill before drinking) and left the rest of the case in a corner of the kitchen.

Over the next few days, members of my household became well acquainted with the virtues of blueberries in liquid form. The Partner drank it undiluted. The Boss got a half and half mix of blueberry juice and water. When she went to bed, I drank mine with vodka. TrueBlue was a hit.



Then Easter came, and along with it, extended family. The case of TrueBlue remained in its corner, a little more than half full. That's when I made the mistake of opening a new bottle to fill a glass for my mother.

"This is the best juice I ever had!" Yes, that is what she said. No exaggeration whatsoever. It pains me to say it, because...

"Where did you get this?" came next. Keep in mind, she does not know about my blog. She cannot know about my blog.

"Um..." I looked around with a frenzied and twitching face for The Partner. I needed backup. But he was in the other room, tending to a fireplace that was spewing ash all over the room and causing random bursts of the fire alarm. "Umm..." I stuttered, again. "The Internet?"

"Oh, it came from the Internet? A whole case? Was it a good deal?"

"Yeah, it was a great deal!" I sighed with relief. That was totally believable, right? I mean, why wouldn't I buy juice in bulk off the 'Net? Me, who has never had so much as a Costco membership.

"How much was it?"

"I can't remember."

"Where'd you find the deal?"

"Hmm. Can't remember. I guess it just came across in an email or something."

"Oh. I get a lot of those emails and I've never seen this juice before."

I hoped my face wasn't getting red. Why was she grilling me?

"Well, I'll just go in with you on a case next time you order," she chirped. "I don't even usually like juice, but this stuff is fantastic."

Dammit. I listened to the fire alarm go off again and silently cursed The Partner's absence. He'd have been much more mentally quick than I. "It was a one time deal," I hedged. "But, uh, I think you can get a dollar off coupon on their Web site."

She looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows and shrugged, unimpressed. Then she walked out of the kitchen, the ice in her blue glass clinking as she went.

I sent her home with her own bottle of TrueBlue later that night. As she and the rest of my family drove off in the mini van, I prayed that she wouldn't someday take it upon herself to Google "TrueBlue" in search of an "Internet special" and stumble upon this very review.

The Edge of Reason

It was sunny out, which was strange in itself. There was little context against which to compare the brightness after so many months of winter. Odder still was the fact that The Partner was standing on the edge of our property, staring at the roof of our house. He held a hand-visor to his forehead, the shadow falling in a rectangle over two scrutinizing eyes.

I watched him from the doorway until his thoughtful confusion conveyed to my own raised eyebrows. "What are you doing?" I asked him. I stepped outside. There was a towel wrapped around my just-showered head.

"I think I've developed a fear of heights." I'm sure his balls shriveled into themselves just a little bit as he said it. He fancies himself a man's man, afraid of nothing. Able to jump tall buildings in a single bound, repairing faulty chimney construction mid-leap.

"I can't make that step from the ladder to the roof." He shook his head. "I stood up on the final rung for five minutes, but I can't make that final move onto the roof. I'm mentally ill."

I opened my mouth to speak, but no connection with my brain was made. In almost ten years of knowing this man, I never once heard him articulate weakness. Everything was out of kilter.

"It's like my balance is all off," he said.

"I don't know about that. Maybe you were on the right track with the mentally ill thing." Finally, the switch in my cold, hard brain kicked in.

He just shook his hanging head again.

I should've expressed some sort of empathy for him, but my emotions had not had enough time to filter through to the more feeling parts of my torso. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

If I know The Partner (which I thought I did, but which, in light of this most recent event, I am questioning) there is no way in H-E-double hockey stick that he would allow anyone else to do something he should be capable of himself. This is the man who single-handedly removed the engine from inside the maze of my German-engineered car and replaced it with another (without a lift). But I guess, for him, the fear of being crushed by a wayward transmission pales in comparison to falling off a roof. The way I look at it, he'd be more likely to survive the descent from the top of our story-and-half Cape Cod.

I waited for his answer but got none. He just stood there, staring his foe in its shingled face.

So I switched my weight from one hip to another and readusted the soggy towel on my head. Inside that 100 percent cotton enclosure, my mind reeled as I tried to comprehend a world in which The Partner wasn't always, without fail, the strong one.

Hokie Hope

"We have lost the sense of peace that comes with learning."
~ Zenobia Hikes, Virginia Tech's vice president of student affairs

My four breathtaking years in the blue ridges of Virginia were colored by freedom and discovery. They were infused with low mountain air recycled in the exhale of less than a thousand women undergraduates at one of the last remaining estrogen strongholds in the south. On that insulated campus, some found peace. Some found themselves. Some, like me, found a piece of themselves that they would only come to understand later. But almost all of us felt safe to search.

The following is a message from my alma mater, Hollins University, in Roanoke, Virginia:

Hollins University joins colleges and universities across the nation and around the world in extending our thoughts and prayers to the students, faculty and staff of Virginia Tech, and in expressing our deepest condolences to the loved ones of those killed or injured during the horrific events of April 16. Many in the Hollins community have friends or loved ones who are students, alumni, or employees at Virginia Tech.

Please join us on Friday, April 20, for “Hokie Hope” – an alumni-led effort of wearing orange and maroon colors in support of Virginia Tech. This Friday will be an “Orange and Maroon Effect” day, which has been traditionally held for athletic events. Tech alumni invite everyone across the country to be a part of the Virginia Tech family this Friday and wear orange and maroon to support the Tech community.

We want everyone at Virginia Tech to know that they have Hollins’ utmost sympathy and support as they begin the process of healing in the face of this unimaginable tragedy.

Nancy Gray

President

Hollins University

This Old House

Apparently, I should be more specific when I talk about my desire to sell this house.

What I need to be saying is: "I'd really like to sell my home to someone who does not plan to take 200+ years of history and feed it to a wrecking ball."

Yes, we have someone interested in our property. He's a developer looking to take advantage of the fact that the lot is zoned commercial in an area undergoing a booming business transformation. Down the street, a big-box shopping center is under construction. The highway, visible from our property and with an exit less than half a mile down the road, oozes potential profit.

Our house is currently not used in any commercial capacity. We just live there. It was built at the tail end of the 18th century and is filled with well-preserved nods to history. Its tie to the past extends to the appellation of our section of town, which comes from the family name of the home's first inhabitants. Though the house is not registered in any national, state or local registries, it is only paperwork that separates the wood sided walls from historical-treasure status.

I should be grateful that the gentleman contemplating an offer was honest with our real estate agent when he told her that he is seeking approval from the town historic district commission to level the home should he purchase it. He didn't have to tell her. Our ignorance could only be beneficial to his business bliss.

Though I think it's unlikely that the historic commission will grant his request, we need to be aware of the situation so that we can do everything we can to protect the moral high ground from demolition.

V-I-R-G-I-N-I-A

I woke up this morning as wordless as the day before. I watched the news. I unfolded the newspaper. Sentiments swirled. Then dark, tiny print gave way to the color of the comic section.

The Family Circus cartoon of the day featured Dolly, with pencil in hand and and two neat pages of letters spread out before her. Her mouth was an oval of concern as she spoke these words:

"I know all my letters. Now, how do I line 'em up to say something?"

Dolly, that's exactly what I want to know.

Part Two: 60 Minutes at 24/7

Jen, from one plus two, has some questions. I have some answers. Join us for the convergence.

Jen: How do you define The American Dream?

Me: Like this...

American Dream.

Pronunciation: &-'mer-&-k&n, 'drEmFunction: noun

1. A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occuring during wakefulness and sleep that is colored by the United States of America's ever-changing skies, unending landscapes and the short, shared history of our own making.

2. A strongly desired goal or purpose made attainable in the United States of America by those who've come before and secured by those who stay on.

3. A belief in change, and one's power to effect it.

Jen: Describe your perfect five course meal, and the perfect place to eat it.

Me: I've already had the perfect five course meal, at a French restaurant I remember mostly in white light refected off the glass of chandeliers and wine goblets. I was there to celebrate the 95th birthday of The Partner's grandmother. He wasn't my husband at the time, but grandma never acted like I wasn't family.

It was the perfect five course meal, so I should remember what I ate. I don't. I know I tried foie gras, which I told the table I would hate, and I did. Liver in any of its incarnations was not something I could swallow. I know the meal ended with a dessert soufle. I know there was wine throughout. It was rich and red like the center ruby in a princess's tiara.

I know it snowed outside, which made the warmth within even more charged with toasting energy. We drank to a century of grandma, minus five. Her cheeks were plump, and as deeply colored as the merlot she sipped through a smile. When we sang "Happy Birthday," the eyes of every patron were on her vibrant contradiction of so many years. When we stood to leave, they stood, too, and there were well wishes everywhere. They clasped their hands to her gentle touch. And there were wishes they kept to themselves: that they could someday hope to dream of a night like this.

Jen: You have just been nominated to sit on a focus group on global warming. Your first task is to decide what people need to do to reduce our damage to the planet. What is one of your ideas that the "average" person can do to participate?

Me: I would put it out there that having two children who play soccer does not necessitate the purchase of an oversized sport utility vehicle. The same would hold true at a focus group on road safety.

Jen: New Years Eve 1999. Where were you, and what did you do?

Me: The Partner and I were staying with friends at a chalet-cabin in the Poconos. It was not the year he stole the urn. I wrote him a letter that he read in front of me as Y2K turned. I wonder if he still has it?

Jen: Any rock star. One night only. Who and why?

Me: Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse. Because I'm craaaaaazy like that. And because I doubt I could handle more than one night, anyway.*

*The closest I came to such intimacy with Joe Bruce in real life was when he autographed my ass at a Manhattan in-store.

Holding Hands

I scraped my knuckles on the concrete lip of a pool at a Connecticut campground when I was eight. The rural hideaway seemed like the middle of nowhere, then. My skin didn't heal. I thought I'd have the mark forever, but when I searched for it today, it was almost gone.

Now I live an hour away from where I grew up--close to the central nowhere campground that seemed so far away--and I realize my state is small. My skin is wizening in infinitesimal degrees and the folds cover scars. I am almost 29, the age at which my mother had me. After being born, I always noticed her hands. I compared them to my own lineless fingers and found her old. She was not, of course. But 29 separates us still and, with each passing year, the wrinkles deepen.

Take Me Home, Country Road

For anyone wondering about my lack of posting regarding our house selling adventure, let me tell you that no news. . .is no news.

We have a contract in on the house we are hoping to buy, but the attached Hubbard clause expires at the end of the month. The owners have taken the home off the market for now, but will actively market it again if we don't sell ours within the next three weeks. I have no doubt the beautiful bow-roof cape with a pool will be snatched up by one of many families relocating to the area at the behest of one of the country's largest pharmaceutical employers. And we'll be back at square one. I'm just optimistic like that.

I'll be sending my agent updated pictures so that our MLS listing and newspaper ads will look spring-like and new. Beyond that, I'm fresh out of freshness.

Lucky for me, the term "home" offers no lack of cliches and song titles with which to title blog posts as part of this never ending saga. It'll be awhile before I'll really need to get creative.

The 40 Days' Report

Another Easter has come and gone. So has the not-quite-successful Lenten promise that preceded it. On six separate occasions, I failed to light up the Blogger dashboard with my daily reflections. Being, as I am, of the opinion that 34 out of 40 ain't bad, I cannot quite muster up too much disappointment. I blogged a helluva lot more than I would've otherwise. And I did it during the months of February and March, which are perhaps the least inspired pages on my creative calendar. I may not have come through with flying colors, but I came through. I'd like to thank God, The Partner, and whomever invented the Meme.

In related news, I am looking for another gimmick to entice me into blogging on a daily, or at least 6-day-a-week, basis. I have no self motivation whatsoever and must rely on outside sources. That's just how it is.

I imagine what I'm looking for is something like the bikini that inspires dieters to go through months of deprivation so that they can fit into it come summertime. A fashionable, sexy and expensive piece of attire. A blogging bikini, that's what I need. Something that makes me even more invested in paying attention to my, er, body of work.

I thought about signing up to attend the Blogher conference as a possible motivator, but then I had a horrifying flashback to May, 1988, when a Girl Scout sleepover in the belly of the USS Massachusetts battleship left me stranded in an empty cabin because nobody wanted to share a bunk with the girl who had bad hair and no sense of style and whose eyes--all four of them--were incessantly glued to a book.

So the Blogher idea was quickly ruled out.

I'll let you know if I come up with anything else. Your input, as always, is welcome. How do you motivate yourself to blog on a regular basis? How important is consistency to you?

Get The Straight Poop Here

The Diaper Fairy has been dropping by our house monthly since The Boss was born. Our magical nymph takes the form of my lithe, spry and French-accented mother-in-law. She comes, she dotes all day, and she leaves in a flurry of triple kisses, a trail of bulk-packaged diapers in her wake.

It never occurred to me to question the diapers we never had to pay for. So, when The Boss woke each morning, covered from head to toe in thick smelling urine courtesy of fleece pajamas with an uncanny synthetic ability to wick moisture from the middle to all points north and south, I tried to grin and bear it. Or grin and swear it, under my breath.

Imagine my pleasure when a separate fairy descended on our front porch in the guise of the FedEx man. I tore open the box to reveal a package of Huggies Overnights. The plastic wrapped around the thick size 4s promised "unbeatable leakage protection." I rushed them upstairs to the place of honor under The Boss's changing table before coming back down to pour a tall sippy cup of water for the unsuspecting test subject. That night, she went to bed with her thirst quenched and her tush tightly wrapped in extra absorbency.

She woke the next morning, dry. As it was the weekend, I took her back to our bed and plopped her next to The Partner's head. She was butt level with his nose. "Ugh," he said to The Boss. "Who's in town? Urine town."

He could be witty, that man of mine, even when not quite awake. "Yeah, she still smells, but at least it's coming from inside her diaper this time. No leaks. The Overnights worked."

"That's good." He patted the outward dryness of her rump and then rolled over.

I've been using those diapers for the two weeks since, and only once was the volume of her dentally-induced diarrhea (what the connection is between teething and pooping, I don't know, but it exists) too much for the diaper to contain. Since no man-made product in existence could've held that mess at bay, my belief in the effectiveness of these diapers remains unwavering.

Does this mean I am going to go out and purchase them myself? Um, no. But lucky for us, our Diaper Fairy takes special orders. You can bet I'll be placing mine forthwith.

"Oh la la, my poor bebe! Why didn't you tell me zees before? All those nights of wetness! Ze chafing! Ze rash!" I can hear her now, amidst the slamming of her car door and the roar of the engine as she high tails it to Costco to buy Huggies Overnights in bulk.

Why I Vote For Sanjaya

If I may: American Idol is no sacred cow. It may moo like one, but it is not. It drinks from the trough in the barnyard of pop-culture entertainment and waits for the farmers to come milk it for all it's worth.

I don't for one minute believe the show is a "singing contest." It never was. Any show that relies wholly on unrestricted calls from the viewing public is not going to be an honest evaluation of voice, pitch, phrasing, resonance, or any of the other musical terms me and the most of the United States know nothing about.

What we all know is personality. Shock value. Fun. Diversion. Rumor. Intriuge. Good hair. Boobies.

Even before campaigns such as Vote For the Worst, which gained popularity when Howard Stern got behind the old farm tractor of subversion, it was a popularity contest. By definition. Votes got tallied and the most popular won. Not the best singer. Not the most gifted showperson. Just the guy or girl with the most supporters in his or her stable.

This season, I called in my votes to American Idol for the first time ever. I did it because I was finally excited about the outcome. I wanted to participate in the mass market sociology experiment designed to test the meaning of "reality" entertainment. How far would it go? How close to the "best" would the "worst" take it? At what point do those concepts flip? Is there a place where they merge? And, most importantly: what the hell is reality, anyway?

No matter how you look at it, the controversy is good for ratings.

And that's entertainment.

Did You Know. . .

. . .that I'm part Irish and part Polish?

Yeah. I get drunk and act stupid.


Ba-dum-bum.


It's funny 'cause it's true.

The Boss Gets Promoted to Mayor Of Tantrum Town

I don't know what to do with The Boss. Literally and figuratively. Any which way you look at it, smell it, taste it, hear it or touch it, I do not know what to do.

So I improvise. I read to her, a lot. I know I can do that much. We read Dr. Suess after Sesame Street after Happy Baby board book, because books don't cause tantrums. Then we read the "I Love My Daddy" book and my mind wanders to The Partner at work, who's probably right now thinking he has it so tough. Thinking I do nothing at home but shirk laundry duty and post to my blog. Thinking The Boss watches too much TV.

Eventually we leave the book case in favor of the open road. I strap her into her car seat and slink in front of the steering wheel. Since making eye contact only serves to rile the beast, I look ahead. I consult the rear view mirror in a traffic assessment, but I dare not even glance at The Boss. I know from experience that her mannerisms will be calm, her gaze all-seeing. Sometimes she folds her hands in front of her as the countryside rolls by. Other times she sprawls out, her arms hanging over the sides of her seat so that she looks like my dad watching football in his recliner. In my leather lemon of a car, we are relaxed.

Then we come home and again, I'm clueless. She's mad. I don't know how to make her eat or sleep. So I wing it. And maybe she eats. Maybe she sleeps. It's a crapshoot. Which reminds me of the diapers, which are the only easy constant. Then I remember that I should be teaching her to use the potty.

For twenty months she was docile and sweet. I illogically concluded that her behavior proved I was a good mother. Now I realize that I was not good at all. I was lucky.

And I have no idea what to do now that my luck's run out.

On Bosses and Boobs

A few weeks ago, The Boss and I sat up watching American Idol. The oldie-but-goodie singing sensation, Lulu, came out to perform "To Sir, With Love," fake breasts hiked up to fake chin. Her presence commanded The Boss's attention. After staring at the screen for several moments, a smile lit my daughter's face.

"Boobies!" she squealed. "Boobies! Boobies!" Her glee was evident.

I laughed at the clarity with which The Boss expressed herself. Words like "feet," "cat," and "please" are muddled by her lips, but "boobies" comes out with complete artistry. If it was wrong to feel proud, it was even more indelicate of me to consider it the ultimate in flattery when she turned and jammed her pointer finger into my chest amdist a flourish of "boobies, boobies, boobies!"

I'm no Lulu, but if my daughter can find similarities in my own flat rack, who am I to correct her?

The Story of How My Mother Accidentally Ingested My Breast Milk, or The Funniest Thing that Happened while I was in Pittsburgh

Every night Sam gets a proper supper before his bedtime breastfeeding. We have some type of fruit and rice cereal. For those of you who aren't familiar, rice cereal comes in dry flakes, kind of like instant mashed potatoes, and you add the liquid of your choice to make the cereal your desired consistency. Commonly, the liquid is either water, formula, or breast milk. Since I never leave home without my handy dandy breast pump, I use my own milk to mix with the cereal.

At home, Sam sits in his high chair while I spoon feed him and Dr. SOB watches Star Trek. Dr. cannot tolerate the inherent messiness of feeding time and I cannot tolerate William Shatner, so this works out well for the both of us. My parents do not have a high chair, so instead Sam would sit on my lap and my mother would spoon tiny mouthfuls of goo into his chew hole. Occasionally the lad would get rambunctious and start flapping his little arms. During one of these instances, he knocked into the spoon, delivering a small dollop of cereal onto my mother's leg. Without a moment of hesitation, she wiped the cereal with her finger tip and stuck it into her mouth. She then informed me that it tasted sweeter than she would have expected. I was practically busting at the seams. I wasn't sure how she would react, so I tried to be as gentle as possible when I informed her that the sweetness was probably due to fact that breast milk is sweeter than cow's milk. She blanched. I waited, breath held, to see what she would do. She looked around in a wild panic and spotted a 2 liter bottle of soda on the counter. She leapt up, ripped the cap off and began chugging generic caffeine-free diet soda right from the plastic bottle. After a few good pulls on the soda, she set the bottle down, burped quietly and came back to finish feeding Sam as though nothing had happened.

I don't know if we'll ever talk about it, but the memory of my mother eating my breast milk will always hold a special place in my heart.

If you were expecting Binky, then April Fools! She is the guest of honor today over at the Cheese Party, where Amy Jo is the host-est with the most-est. You are all invited to come on by and read the best that she has to offer! Click on over to the Blog Exchange to read the cream of the crop from the whole blog blog exchange crew.

[Note from the proprietress of this site to all the Blog Exchange naysayers (you know who you are) in which I make it very, very easy for you to access my best post, ever: CLICK HERE! ]