Happy birthday, Dave!

I asked Mabes this morning why she liked "Horsey Daddy," and her response was fast--"Because he's SILLY!" Further prodding revealed that she likes him because she loves him and because he's silly. Very insightful and helpful, Mabes, thanks.

Dave shows off his silly side and strawberries.

While we may not be able to list all the great things about Dave, I'd like to mention a few highlights. First, he's hilarious. Dave has a quick wit and dry sense of humor, people often tell me how funny Dave is, but how they missed it at first. Yeah, me too. But once I "got" him, we became great friends, and I've been laughing daily ever since. Also, he's incredibly smart and hardworking, another thing I didn't truly appreciate until getting to know him. He analyzes everything (which can be annoying when we're ordering dinner, but it's good in a school/business environment), and has a memory for facts and trivia worthy of competing with my dad. Despite an apparent case of food poisoning, he's spent his birthday hard at work when not doubled over in pain.

And finally, he's there. In college, I thought it was funny that Dave was always the last one to go home. After Mabes was born, I blamed Dave for her wakefulness, insisting she got the fear of missing something from him. But for as much as I tease him about it, I really do appreciate how much Dave wants to spend time with us. I hear so many moms complain about how their husbands come home from work and then go out with friends, or golf all weekend, or just ignore their kids and watch TV. I've never had that issue with Dave. If Dave watches ESPN or Jeopardy while Mabes is still awake, he's building trains or reading books with her at the same time. I try to get him to go golfing on Saturdays, but he doesn't like the idea of missing out on family time for Dave time. We appreciate this.

So happy birthday, Dave. Hope you feel better, and who knows? Maybe I can talk you into going golfing on Saturday.

Getting my huggin' arms ready

When Laura came to visit last year, she was third in the line of four family members visiting in a month. We had a blast, but it was kind of like "here's another visitor, let's show you where we live, eat some fried food, hug, okay bye!" Mabes was usually thinking about the next guest, wondering where Louie (my parents' bichon) fit into the lineup. This year, it's been a long time since we've had a guest, so Mabes is ecstatic. She made a welcome poster yesterday, but when I asked if she wanted to write "Welcome Aunt Laura" she told me no, she'd rather just write "I love Aunt Laura." I like hers better. (Don't be afraid, Laura, it's a welcome poster, not a ransom note.)
When I was talking to Laura the other night, I asked if there was anything in particular that she wanted to do this weekend. She said no, maybe just hang out, eat, play with Mabes, perhaps go to the park or something. Sounds exciting, huh? But then I remembered "nothing" is apparently what I do best. So I guess I'm just preparing myself for Monday night, when I'm thinking "what did we DO all weekend?"-- and then remind myself that it's not about what we did, but how much fun we had. And let's be honest: we couldn't not have fun if we tried. Just thinking about us trying to not have fun makes me giggle.

Through careful meal planning that may or may not have required a spreadsheet and inventing new meals, I think I've figured out a way to maximize delicious food. When I asked Laura if she had any requests, she asked if I had ice cream. Um, yes, I also have water. My freezer is actually just the ice cream cupboard into which vegetables and meat sometimes make their way. Now I just need to go grocery shopping...

Happy birthday, Ricecake!

I think I may have mentioned that Mabes love birthdays. LOVES them. Some days, I think she'll grow up to be a waitress at Chevy's just so she can sing to anyone who might be celebrating that day (not to mention the giant birthday sombrero). So I wasn't surprised when I heard her singing to her toys, but I was curious as to whose birthday it might be. I mean, we all know Rocket's birthday isn't until August. I peek my head in, and see this:

It's Ricecake's birthday! She's turned two! Of course Ricecake is younger--none of her toys can be older and therefore cooler than she is. And what two-year-old's birthday party isn't complete without a cake (on the right--it's the pile of wipes smashed into the pan decorated with plastic ice cream cones) and new potty chair? Mabes informed me that that's what Ricecake is sitting on; it's not a wipes container. And the little button in the middle is the flusher. I'm just glad no one at the party felt awkward that Ricecake was sitting on a potty chair while blowing out the candles.

And more pictures of Mabes and her BFF of the week, Ricecake:

In matching dresses, but because Mabes is spinning, you can't really tell.

Eating breakfast together, while Rocket looks on enviously.

See, I *can* stick up for myself

This week has been a week of lots of little headaches that, when compounded, make for a week that...well, I'm glad is almost over. One of the highlights was having my car hit again, though it was parked, we weren't in it, and it's just the rear bumper. Not a big deal, but I just hate dealing with car things. My car was parked in front of my friends house, a guy in the house across the nice wide street backed his car out of the driveway and into my car. He fully admitted that he just didn't see my car, which is silly because my car was not wearing an invisibility cloak nor is it a matchbox car. So he failed to use his rearview mirror or look over his shoulder; it's not like the street is really narrow and hitting my car was inevitable.

He seemed really irritated, since he was going to be late to work ("trust me! we'll deal with this later!"), but I insisted that we exchange info. He called later and asked that I use a certain body shop that would repair, instead of replace, the bumper. I didn't want to drive the 70+ minute round trip there, so I emailed the shop pictures and asked if that could even be repaired there. They said yes, but they'd recommend replacing, since it would be cheaper. I called back Mr. Can't-look-backwards with the $500 estimate, and told him I'd get another one closer to me. He responded with "Well, why don't you come to my house, I'll order your bumper and paint and put it on?"

Uhhhhh...seriously? He's got a thick accent, so I'm thinking I must have misheard. "I'm sorry, you want to go to the body shop and order the bumper yourself? I think they can do it all there."

"No, no...I'll order it, order matching paint, and put it on your car myself."

"No, I---"

"I'm really good at that kind of thing. I painted my car myself. You can come see. I did a good job."

"Really. Do you own a body shop? Are you a mechanic?"

"No, but I know people. And body shops charge a lot for overhead, so I'll just do it myself."

"No, you won't. Are you ASE certified? Do you have any sort of guarantee? Because most places will stand behind their work, so if something happens, I can go back and have it fixed. If I let you fix my bumper and it falls off in a week, I have no recourse."

"You just have to trust me," he said indignantly.

"No, I have to do what's best for---"

"You have to trust me!" he interrupts, obviously irritated with me at this point, but I was ticked.

"No, sir, I don't HAVE to trust you. You hit my car, and it needs to be fixed. By a professional. Granted, it's in your best interest that I trust you and let you fix it on the cheap, but I have no reason to trust you. I would be happy to go through your insurance if this is too much for you, but my car will be fixed in a body shop, not by you." I wish I had thrown in you can't be trusted to use your rearview mirror and yet you want me to trust you to fix my car?

He suddenly switched back to Mr. Polite, "Okay, okay, so you'll get the car fixed and I'll write you a check."

"No, I'll get a quote, then we'll discuss the next step as far as payment goes," I corrected him.

I was hopping mad by the time I got off the phone, but also laughing at myself for how worked up I got. The day before, Dave was worried about me letting him bully me into using a certain body shop, doing things this guy's way, etc. I assured him I would stick up for myself. See, when I know I'm right or really care about something, I'll fight for it. Getting my car fixed right, I care about. Where we eat for dinner--not so much.

And since I don't want to end on that rant, here's what you really came for:

On my birthday, with flowers from Dave & Mabes and my Young Women

Dave and Mabes proudly displaying the Chocolate Delight they made--it was fantastic!

Mabes and Dave show their jumping skills

Walking on the greenway--it seems like you're in the middle of nowhere. There are so many trees, you can't see much of the houses that are really close.

Sisters

The summer before college was a pivotal time in my life. A week into what I thought would be the most fun summer of my life, my parents strongly encouraged me to get a job. I didn't want a job. I wanted to enjoy my last summer as a kid. However, boredom, peer pressure, and parental pressure won out, and I begrudgingly got a job with a company that was a client of my dad's. I was particularly unenthused because my sister, Sarah, had been working there for just over a month before I started, and didn't exactly skip off to work each morning. Also, she would basically be my boss, a role she had tried to claim for most of my life (how many times did my mom say "Let ME be the mom!"), and one she would relish. I wasn't excited.

I don't mean to make it sound like we hated each other--quite the opposite. We played well together as kids, and were pretty good friends. Of course we had our moments, followed by my mom saying, "Be nice to each other--you'll regret this fighting some day." (We don't--looking back, those fights are funny!) But by junior high and high school, we had our own sets of friends, and she was 3 years older and therefore much cooler than I was. Since we shared a room, we'd talk about boys, school, etc., but would never hang out together on weekends. We were sisters, we were friends...just not great friends.

That summer changed everything. Because we were working on a super secret law suit, our boss had us hidden in an office and we couldn't talk to anyone about what we were doing. Sounds exciting, huh? Basically we had to organize countless boxes of thousands of discovery documents (seriously--by the end we had hundreds of 3" binders full of documents), index, tab, and then create a database. It was tedious work. But through that tedium grew a friendship, one with silly inside jokes, stupid songs about tabbing (we still sing it occasionally), conspiracy theories about our Jelly Belly-hoarding coworkers and their large underpants, and laughing so hard about our anonymous departmental complaint box and fighting to regain composure when our boss walked in. And yes, we were the only two people in our "department."

I think that was when we realized that we genuinely liked being with each other, not because our parents made us, but because we had fun together. That friendship grew as we went to school that fall, and though I lived in the dorms, I spent a fair amount of time with Sarah both on campus and just hanging out at her apartment. We even took a French class together (ma BONNE soeur!), we'd go out together, she'd let me tag along with her friends, only it never felt like "tagging along."

I used to roll my eyes when my mom would say we'd be best friends someday. But I can admit when I'm wrong, and I'm so glad I was wrong in this case. Though I wish we lived closer, I tell myself it's for the best, as our shared love of food and TV would leave our kids neglected and our posteriors enormous. Sarah is one of my best friends, someone I can call when I want to vent, whine, or just chat. She has an enthusiasm broadcasted by the color of her hair, and I can count on her to celebrate my joys with more enthusiasm and mourn my difficulties with more sadness than I do. She makes a good time better. Happy birthday, Sarah.