I met Funny Ol' Becker 14 years and 51 weeks ago. He was sitting at a table in the cafeteria of our high school with a handful of other people. A very nervous, very scared Mr. Lady was introduced to everyone at that table, including the illustrious Molly and the subject of this post. I remember that Jon O. and Donga were eating blueberry yogurt and squishing it through their teeth that day. I remember Molly, I remember all of them. But mostly I remember Funny Ol' Becker.

I think he had braces then, and I am certain that he had some very sweet helmet hair. He made almost no notice of me that day, and that day is the day I fell completely in love with him.

Let's just say he didn't so much reciprocate.

We spent the remaining year and a half of our high school experience in this weird, awkward love/hate sort of thing. We ran in the same tight circle, so we were constantly in each other's company. He was always polite to me and I was always a crazy stalker to him.

At least we were consistent.

We graduated and I never, ever expected to hear from him again. Well, I did. He called a few months after graduation, because every single other person he could possibly think of to hang out with was away at college, and he needed someone to talk to, and being the only option, I got the call. We went out. On something closely resembling a date. I can't recall exactly what we did but afterwards we climbed the hill to where the train tracks lay behind my house and we sat until very late talking about poetry and literature and all sorts of things. It was, in a word, lovely.

The next day a note arrived on my door while I was at work; a random, kidnap/ransom style anonymous note. It had a poem inside and nothing more. Knowing full well that there was no way this could possibly have come from Funny Ol' Becker, I called him and had him help me determine the author and possible origin of the letter. A while later he confessed that it was indeed from him after all.

We were together for 3 years. I remember our first kiss, my first real kiss. I remember our first, um, well, maybe that's not appropriate for a mommy blog. Anyway, we had three years full of too many moments that I will never forget. He always had a way of taking my breath away.

And then I dumped him (badly) and then we didn't talk for a few years. And then, one day, for no real reason, we talked again. And we have talked ever since.

Dear Scott, you turn 32 years old today. That fact alone blows my mind. You were a kid when I met you, and now you are this very grown up man and it totally trips me out. The more amazing thing is that I have had the honor of watching you do all that growing up, and played a role in it, sometimes a lead, sometimes a cameo, sometimes merely inspiration. But I have always been in your picture, and I know that, and I cannot imagine for one single second why you let me stick around, but you do and I am forever grateful.

We talk often, sometime too often and sometimes not often enough. We talk about Star Wars and X-Men (in depth) and music and poetry and philosophy and breakfast cereal and everything in between. I think what I love about you the most is your consistency. You know exactly who you are and what you are and you have never faltered for a second from it. And oddly enough, you know exactly who I am and you stay anyway. I think it is safe to say that you know me better than any other person in the world. You have watched me got through every phase of my life so far and you have stood beside me through it all (well, except that seeing other people phase, but that's totally understandable). I have cried more in front of you than any other human on earth, I have told you things I have not told another soul. I laugh with you and I feel with you and I am never, ever afraid with you. You are the one, the ONE, that I know for sure will never leave me. If you were going to, you certainly had plenty of opportunity. But here you are. You have listened to my heart break over and over again because of this guy, this guy I dumped you for, and you have always just been there, no judgements, no I-told-you-so's, no nothings. You are just my friend, and you just care about me, and that is just that.

You and I have managed to salvage what was a rocky teenaged relationship that should have bitterly ended and turn it into the kind of friendship that people dream of having. I love you for every single little thing that you are. I love your bad jokes and your constant innuendo and your Dan Folgelberg thing and because I cannot picture you on that bicycle though I know you ride it everywhere and because when I close my eyes really tight I can still hear you sing and I have never heard anything in the world more beautiful than the sound of you singing and because you are amazingly talented and gifted and funny and clever and beautiful and mostly because I know with no doubt that I in no way deserve you and yet you are still here and my constant friend and you ask nothing in return and you never will.

I just love you. And i am not really allowed to say that anymore, given our history, but nobody said I couldn't type it. Scott, I love you. I am always, always going to love you. I promise you that I will try my very hardest for the rest of my life to deserve the friendship that you give me so freely. I will be the very best friend I can be (and sometimes that isn't so very great at all, but you already know that, don't you?) I will never, ever take you for granted.

I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

holy mary mother of god

Here we go again...


I am going to start drinking water and taking Midol now in attempts to avoid the hangover that will surely follow this.

If you live within the Rocky Mountain region (or the city of New York *wink wink nudge nudge*) I strongly advise you to attend. Good times should be had by all. Times we may have trouble recalling the following morning, but good all the same.

Good, blurry times.

(Oh, go tell David what a freaking genius he is, what with the funniest Blogger Bash graphic of all time.)

on the new year

So, I have this friend named Molly. She has a little blog. She also has this friend named Sarah. And now I have her, too.

Sarah and I have been stalking each other on the internet for a while. This is nothing new; I stalk lots of people on the internet. The new thing is that I not only met her, I kinda got shitfaced drunk with her.

I had this great big long post all typed with in-depth details of our late-night meeting, but it kind of made us all sound like crazy drunks, so I deleted it. Rest assured, there was whiskey and Veuve Yellow label, there was The Roots, Erykah Badu and Radiohead, there was dancing and serious talk of old shared boyfriends, and at way-too-late:30 we all realized that there should probably also be bedtime. And then there was a sleepover.

My last morning of this horrible year was spent with good friends. Coffee and Ibuprofen comprised our final breakfast of 2006. Sarah met L, Sarah loved L, I met Sarah, I LOVE Sarah. Molly puked, but that's L's fault for eating old congealed ham and cheese sandwiches in front of her. And I love her for it. SOMEONE had to puke. Way to take one for the team, Molls.

I am happy that I know what Sarah looks like now. Finally I can stop e-stalking her and do it up proper. In person. Mmmmm.

I am happy to have a new friend, a real-life new friend, and new friend that feels like a really, good old friend.

I am happy that my friends and Molly's friend are starting to intertwine. Did I ever tell you that MY friend Nicole and MOLLY'S friend Sarah totally went to high school together? Ahh, circles and how they can grow.

My new years resolution is to develop my relationships with my girlfriends. I have a great circle of truly amazing women in my life and I don't spend nearly enough time with any of them. Nicole, we are SO going to The Roots. It's, like, a date, yo. I may take you to dinner first. I may also try to make out with you after. Be warned. Molly, we are doing lots more of this, this being friends and not just co-moms thing. I miss it. I miss it with you. Oh, and Sarah, how am I supposed to live without you?* Just move back to Denver, already.

So here's to a New Year. Here's to a year that's going to be done right. I hope yours is good. Who knows, maybe I'll meet you, too.

*Hey, if it works for Michael Bolton...

on christmas

Hullo.

I am back. Tee hee!

Woo hoo internet! Woo hoo 21st century!

So, Christmas. You saw the pictures. The kids had a great time. I did, too.

We started Christmas Eve in a tizzy. I had worked the night before, so I was a bit sleepy, and then I had to pack bags to move into the house I was housesitting, pack bags for an overnight stay on Christmas Eve at my friend ASchoolYardBlogger's house, have Christmas with the family I am living with, go to the in-laws house for Christmas with Josh's entire extended family, move into said housesitting house and get all Santa's presents to ASYB's without the kids noticing. It was crazy. But, well, I'm good at crazy and so maybe I smelled a bit off and maybe my hair looked like utter crap, but I pulled it off. We got the kids to bed, the presents out, the stockings stuffed and were off to bed by maybe 11:30, maybe closer to 12.

I have been less concerned with the whole "first Christmas without dad" thing than I think maybe should have been. I have never put too much stock into the whole Christmas thing and was fairly convinced that I would skate through this one.

I was wrong.

By the time I hit the in-laws house I was beyond frazzled. I was mad because I had to do all this running around all by myself. I was mad because my kids would not wake up in their own beds on Christmas morning. I was mad because they did not have their ornaments or their tree for that matter. I was mad because they kept asking what Dad was doing for Christmas. I was mad because Josh's family all gave me that look, that look, that "poor her" look. And they all talked around me, but only one person there, the least likely one, that one person was the only one to actually talk to me. I was mad because I was sitting there with his family knowing full well that if the tables were turned he wouldn't come within 5 time zones of my family. I was mad because this was the first Christmas I didn't get to cook and the one, the one thing I like about Christmas is the dinner and the fancy dishes and the nice wine. I was mad because we were not going to get to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas and Elf and then Christmas Story after the kids went to bed while I wrapped presents, which is the one and only real Christmas tradition we have.

I was mad. I was, like, crying mad. I had to go outside three times at the in-laws to cry. And I'm not a crier. I was sad and lonely and tired and I just wanted it to all be over.

Nice way to go into your kids biggest holiday, no?

So, we left the in-laws and mozied on over to my friend's house. And that's were things picked up. My friend and her husband (who is equally as friends with me, I just see him less, so she takes top billing) they are, well, good for the soul. They are smiles and hugs and quiet and kind and not in that horrid condescending way but in the 'you are family and get your asses in here' sort of way. So maybe I didn't get to watch Christmas Story but I did get to lay out Christmas with two other people who were totally happy to be doing it with me and didn't seem to mind so much the toy-bomb exploding in their living room.

Josh has always worked on Christmas eve and so my job has always been the wrapping and the stuffing and the cookie laying out and eating and his job has always been to lay the boys stockings at the foot of their beds when he gets home. This year, I got to do it. It's kind of fun, in a James Bond sort of way. One has to be quite stealthy when one is Santa. One also should be certain beyond a doubt which stocking goes with which child, but I figured I had a good 50/50 shot at getting it right, so I was most likely ok. We got it all out and ready, ate the cookies, shuffled off to bed and I slept like a baby. A rock. The dead. I slept.

The next morning I awoke to a bit more sunshine than I thought I should be waking to on Christmas day, and upon investigation found that it was indeed 7:15 or so. I went upstairs and saw my kids with my friends, stockings torn through and giant smiles on a lot of faces. I guess they walked past my friends' bedroom door a few times, trying to get someones attention, and then in hushed voices informed them that the big guy in the red suit had indeed arrived.

Oh boy had he ever.

It took them a minute to see the guitar and the keyboard, what with the wicked awesome stocking stuffers Santa totally hooked them up with. Pocket knives, watches, candy, not one pair of socks. Santa, you rock.

Anyway, T got Les Paul Pee Wee electric guitar complete with bag and amp. Santa could have brought headphones, but that would be far too nice to mom. Bygones. B got a Yamaha keyboard thing complete with sustain peddle, stand that Santa broke just a little during assembly, and headphones. The one who can read music and play it got headphones. Jimi Hendrix over here may have to borrow them.

The godfather arrived around 8, the god auntie and god Dunkie shortly thereafter and breakfast was had, games were played, dogs were shamefully dressed, a bazillion gifts opened, coffee drank, beer drank (L sure does like Stella), fingers sliced open and new outfits drenched in blood* and then the extended family arrived around 4 for dinner. The 8 and 10 year old niece/nephew/cousins came with their mom and the uncle/brother/grandpa. Dinner was grand and yummy and beautiful and the company fine. More presents were opened, yawns exchanged and then Christmas was over.

It was, I kid you not, the very best Christmas ever. Like, in the history of Christmas and shit.

I spent all this time getting myself all worked up because our holidays were so hectic and all I wanted to do was be home. That night, I sat around a table and looked and listened while my very favorite people in the whole world giggled and laughed and told stories and, well, celebrated, and I realized a very large thing that night. I realized that I was home.

Finally.

*If Santa should ever feel the need to bring your offspring pocketknives, be sure to ask him to bring a knife safety manual as well.