Missing Chapters

Sean got a new brother about a year and a half ago. Not a new baby brother. A new big brother.

It's funny how you can think your story reads a certain way, but then you find out there were some chapters missing.

********

Sean’s father had been married before. Everyone in the family knew that. There was even an older sister out there somewhere. No one had ever spoken to her, though. No one knew where she was.

The family has always had an old black and white photo of her in a tiny oval frame. She was about three years old in the picture, and she was wearing a little white dress. This was all they had of Rebecca.

One day, when Sean and I were both in the office on our computers, he mentioned something about the long lost sister. He said he felt like there was a missing piece in their family, and he wished he could track her down.

Why don’t you Google her?

“I’ve tried. I just come up with thousands of sports results, with her first name in one spot and her last name in another.”

“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to put quotes around the words you want to appear together?”

“Huh?”

“Put quotes around her name and try again.”

So he did. And he found her. Just like that.

Rebecca seemed a little hesitant to communicate at first. She had always known that she had some step-siblings out there. But she hadn’t heard much about her biological father, and what she had heard, well, I guess her mother hadn’t spoken very highly of him.

But lately she’s been talking more with Sean’s younger sister, and they even met up in Boston over St. Patty’s weekend last month. So the connections are being made.

And she had a bit of information that no one in the family had ever known: Rebecca was a twin. Her sister had died when they were young. No one even knew.

********

It was just a few weeks after finding Rebecca that we received the phone call. It seemed Sean wasn’t the only one who felt the longing created by a fractured family.

We had just gotten back from dinner, and Sean was checking the voicemail. With a confused look on his face he brought the phone to me. “You have to listen to this.”

A thick southern accent came through the receiver: “Hi. My name is Steven G, and I’m from Charlotte, North Carolina. I’m looking for information on my father, TB. If you have any information on him at all, please call me back…”

“Um… Honey? He’s looking for information on his father… His father is your father… This is your brother!”

The thing about it was, though, everyone knew about Rebecca. Although they had never met her, and they hadn’t known about her twin, they did think of her often.

Steven, on the other hand, was a complete surprise.

And since Sean’s father had passed away 8 years ago, there was no one to answer the questions.

Sean emailed Rebecca: “Guess what? You’re not the oldest anymore.”

********

Steven had lived most of his life believing that the man who raised him was his father. Why would he think any differently? He came from a big happy family. But after serving his country in Desert Storm, someone brought it up one night when the family was gathered together at his mother’s house.

“You should tell him! He could have died over there.”

“Hush!”

“Tell me what?”

And so somewhere in his late thirties, Steven learned that his life story didn’t read quite the way he thought it did. Well, for the most part it did, except that he had missed the prologue. And no one had ever told him that his story had a prologue at all.

It took him a few years to decide what to do about his prologue. But eventually, he got enough information from his mother to track the family down and make that phone call.

Unfortunately, he never got to meet his biological father.

But believe me when I tell you, you have never seen anyone happier to have found his new family. Steven is the sweetest guy.

He came up to visit and meet everyone just before Christmas that year, and he was absolutely overjoyed. Hugs for everyone. Christmas presents, too.

“C’mon, let’s start catching up on everything we missed growing up.”

“What do you wanna do?”

“Well we’ll each pick something. I pick Snowball Fight.” It was time to start writing new chapters.

********

Then we went to North Carolina to visit Steven last summer. While we were there, we got to meet Steve’s sons. The crazy thing is, Steve’s oldest son doesn’t just LOOK like Sean’s father; he looks like he IS Sean’s father (when he was young). Genetics are pretty amazing.

I wonder if any other new siblings are going to surface?

You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them. ~Desmond Tutu

Rambling in Barcelona

Sean and I enjoyed a trip-of-a-lifetime Mediterranean cruise for our honeymoon. I've already blogged about some of the fun we had in Venice here. Today I've been thinking about Barcelona…

********
Because it was the final port of our two week trip, we feared we might be too exhausted to explore another city, but Barcelona turned out to be a surprising treat.

After checking in at the Hotel Barcelona we decided to head first to La Sagrada Familia, the Roman Catholic basilica worked on by Antonio Guadi. Although this work of art is still in development, it was magnificent to see.

Then we sauntered down Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s famous pedestrian walkway lined with restaurants, shops, street vendors and performers. I love people-watching, and Las Ramblas was a fabulous place for this diversion.

We had lunch in a Spanish fast food restaurant. What I really wanted was some real deal, bona fide Spanish fare.

“I want to eat in a place where I have no idea what the menu says.”

Well, we were in the middle of a tourist trap, so although we did find some Spanish food, the prices were high. And the menu included big photos of the food next to the names. No matter… I was most interested in people watching from the windows upstairs while we ate and sipped sangria.

We found a table on the second floor that overlooked the river of people and colorful markets on the street below.

Then we decided to explore the Barri Gotic (Gothic Quarter), the older section of the city.

After weaving our way through narrow passages and graffiti covered alleyways, we came upon an archway over the street which was illuminated perfectly by the moody light.

It was then, reaching for my camera, that I realized my bag was not on my shoulder. I’d left it in the restaurant. Besides my precious camera, the bag contained all of my identification, the very same identification that I would need to board the plane in the morning and return to New York.

We ran. We ran up the winding alleys and passageways and through crowds of weekend shoppers. We were gasping for breath but we didn’t stop.

Since Las Ramblas is a haven for pickpockets, I didn’t hold much hope for finding my little brown backpack. The thought of being stuck in Barcelona made my chest tighten up and my head feel dizzy – I hadn’t seen my daughter in two weeks! But I kept running. So did Sean.

We could see the restaurant up ahead. Sean was bee-lining for it; I was scanning the crowd on the street as we neared our lunchtime eatery. If anyone was holding my bag…

We dashed up the stairs to the second floor of the restaurant. There next to the windows was a woman, an employee of the restaurant, holding up my bag for me and smiling.

“Gracias! Thank you so much! Muchas gracias!”

********


For dinner, we had reserved a spot at Tablao Flamenco Cordobés for a dinner buffet and flamenco show.


The dinner was an enormous buffet of Mediterranean specialities, and I was intent on sampling each one. The quality far surpassed what one usually expects from a buffet-style dinner. Everything was delicious! And the attentive wait staff ensured that the wine and champagne glasses never emptied.

After dinner we were lead into an adjoining room full of ladderback chairs snugly surrounding a small stage.


The tiny theater was engulfed in the din of many languages until we heard that first sensual strum of the guitar.


From that moment on, we were mesmerized.

Each dancer had their solo time on stage as the others sang and clapped.


They stamped; they frowned; they made intense eye contact with the crowd.


Their gestures were bold and passionate, their steps intricate and concise.

We were close enough to the stage to see the sweat beading up on their brows as they exuberantly performed their numbers.




The energy was intoxicating.


Each dance intensified with colorful spins and stomps and strums from the guitar until building up the final swing of the arm, stamp of the foot, and shouts from the crowd of “Ole!”

What an experience! We would love to return someday.

"Please, I’m begging you.”

When he saw the phone bill, he grabbed his cell phone and smashed it on the floor.

We have 3 cell phones on our plan, one for Sean, one for me, and one for Mandy, our teenaged daughter. We have a certain amount of minutes to share, and a certain amount of money that we feel is enough to throw towards cell phone usage. And that’s it.

When we received last month’s bill it was abnormally high, partly because we had exceeded our minutes, and partly because I had been making calls to Mandy while Sean and I were vacationing in Jamaica. So Sean gave Mandy a warning that she needs to limit her usage before nine o’clock during the week. Nights and weekends are free, and we only really need it for emergencies anyway. “When you’re at home, just use the house phone,” he told her.

It was the first time we had ever gone over.

So when the phone bill arrived this month, and it was $330 more than it should have been (bringing us up to a whopping $417), my dear husband became a raging bull. And his cell phone suffered the brutal consequences.

Sean wanted to withhold Mandy’s birthday presents next month to repay the overage. I said I’d rather have her work off the excess phone charges. Not giving her any presents just makes a sad birthday and doesn’t necessarily teach her anything. Doing chores around the house might give her a better understanding of just how long it takes to earn the kind of money that she wasted chatting on the phone with her boyfriend. $330 worth of vacuuming, mopping, dusting, and scrubbing the bathrooms is a lot of work. In another week or two there will be yard work to do as well. It will probably take her until the summer to repay the money, even at the very generous rate of $10 per hour. Sean agreed.

********

The next day Sean went to Best Buy to plead his case. He showed the guy behind the counter his mangled mess of a phone and explained that he needed a new one.

“Did you… drop it?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“When I saw the phone bill, I grabbed my cell phone and smashed it on the floor.”

“Well who used up all the minutes?”

“My teenaged daughter.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Listen, you have to help me out here, man. From January until now, I’ll be spending about a thousand dollars on the cell phone bill. I just can’t justify another fifty bucks to replace my phone. Please, I’m begging you.”

“Alright, let me see what I can do.”

So he went into the back and came out with a new phone.

“Here you go. I’m just going to tell them that it wasn’t working properly and needed to be replaced. I feel for ya man. Good luck.”

Once again, honesty is the best policy.




"You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance."

– Franklin P. Jones

Single Mom on Match.com, Part II

Yesterday’s post was a brief account of my becoming a single parent and my first attempt at Match.com. It ended with my future husband emailing me through the service and me ignoring him. A year later, I decided to try again and I renewed my subscription.

My tag line read: Adventure Girl seeks Adventure Boy. Hee hee!

I was still only checking my email account once a week and having a little trouble keeping up, but Sean’s email and profile stood out to me.

His tag line read: Clark Kent Looking for a Phone Booth.

I replied to his email, and he responded right away. So we chatted for a while through the email that first night…

**********
Hi Sean,

Thanks for your email! Your profile did pique my interest, and I'd like to learn more about you. What do you like to do for fun? What kind of dog do you have?
Hope to hear from you soon...

Tammie

**********
Hi Tammie.. Thanks for responding. Lets see.. for fun I travel a lot.. love the water ..love the sun...I have a timeshare in Aruba.. and love it there. I play golf - not too well, but I play. My dog’s name is Scruffy and he’s a 12 y/o cockapoo. So what are you up to tonight? Sean.

**********
Hi Sean,
That was a fast response! I'm only online every few days, so tonight I'm just checking the mail :) I like to travel too. I've never been to Aruba, although I've heard it's beautiful. Do you snorkel or scuba dive there? I just got into snorkeling this year, and I'm planning on getting certified for scuba. What are you up to tonight?

Tammie

**********
I was thinking of making some popcorn and watching a movie...would love company... how fast can you get here? Yes I LOVE to snorkel. What are your passions?

**********
Hmm... popcorn and a movie... very tempting!! I enjoy anything outdoors - hiking, the beach, biking - you name it. In April I took my daughter to snorkel with the manatees in the Crystal River, Florida. It was fantastic! We were signed up for scuba class and completed all of the course work, but we both had major colds that week and couldn't go under. We snorkeled instead, and I can't wait to go again!

I would say I'm most passionate about travel and photography. I love to go anywhere new - spontaneous day trips, weekends away, and those week-long excursions that are a wonderful hiatus from the daily grind. I just got back from camping in Canada on Lake Erie, about 1/2 hour from Niagra Falls. The next trip may be to Maine. There always has to be a next trip in the works - something to look forward to. What do you like to do for fun?

**********
I'm a fairly physical person.. I like anything outdoors.. even in the winter depending on the company. Yes I bought the DVD "Final Destination 2".. and I make a great bowl of popcorn and I share well :) Do you read? Like movies? If you had to pick the only vacation you would get for the rest of your life where would it be and whom would you bring? Am I on that list? :) What would you do for a Klondike Bar? S.

**********

Even in the winter? Do you ski? I just tried skiing this past winter for the first time. Not bad for my first time out - I'm pretty athletic. I'm going to start earlier next season.

Only one vacation?? You're hurting me. I love it out west - the Rockies, the mesas, the arid climate. But I love the ocean, too. I've never been to an island, and I haven't been to Europe... I don't think I'm qualified yet to make a decision like that, but I promise I'll work on it :)

Who would I bring? So far my daughter has been an excellent travel buddy and an Adventure Girl of the highest order, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't consider an aspiring Adventure Boy.

I do like movies, and I do read when I'm in that mode. Sometimes I'll have three books going at once, other times I put them all away so I can work on some artwork. There aren't enough hours in the day.

What would I do for a Klondike Bar? Have I mentioned that I'm an Adventure Girl?

Something tells me we could stay up all night talking...

**********

Well my profile does say I'm looking for someone who could keep me up til 4 am talking.. so this may work. To be very to the point.. I do visualize a family in my future… a premade one is GREAT but would love to add to it.. What are your feelings on that? S

**********

Oooh… the serious questions (usually reserved for after midnight)... Actually, I'm a fantastic mom and enjoy every minute of it. I've always thought that if I ever married, I'd gladly have more children (and I'd have a built-in babysitter!). And if not, at least I have my sweet girl, who is absolutely precious to me.

Now you have to answer some questions! Do you read? Who would you pick for your one vacation? What would YOU do for a Klondike Bar? What kind of dog is a cockapoo???

**********
Yes I love to read.. but seems like I only get the time while on vacation. A cockapoo is 1/2 cocker and 1/2 poodle. I on the other hand am 1/2 Italian, 1/4 Irish and 1/4 English. Well I go to Jamaica in October with a bunch of friends.. but my dance card is empty for my trip to Aruba in January. The whole Island is very family friendly, that's why I love it. Take care Tammie...hope to hear from you soon, Sean.

**********

I'll write back tomorrow. Have a great night...Tammie

**********
(The next night…)

Hi Sean, Did I mention I don't go online very often? But you've got me back on the very next day! I really enjoyed our email chat last night :) How was your movie?

I'm 1/2 Irish & 1/2 Italian, my dog is a yellow lab.

Some other random little-known facts about me: I know how to pitch a tent and start a campfire, I've been in a major earthquake, I have a mean round house kick, and I make perfect pancakes. I graduated 4th in my class from high school, I like rollercoasters but not ferris wheels, love popcorn with a movie and sugar cookies with a glass of milk.

What else can you tell me about you? Hope to talk to you soon...

Tammie

**********

Do you know a good caterer? :)

If you’d like to talk a little before we elope.. you can call me (phone number removed to protect the innocent). I’m up til at least 12 every night.. I’m off to watch that movie I never got to last night.. but please call.. I'd love to hear your voice :) S

**********
Soooo…. I called. We spoke for hours. We chatted for hours at a time every night for the next several nights. Then we decided we’d better meet to make sure there was Spark before we became too emotionally invested.

We met within a week of that first email at a restaurant near me for some appetizers and drinks. After chatting and laughing for hours over some soggy mozzarella sticks and yummy cocktails (he had a gin and tonic, I had a woo woo), we kissed in the parking lot. No, Spark was not a problem. We definitely had Spark. Sparks were flying like crazy.

On our 3rd date, we actually said the L word!

Within 3 months Sean had purchased a ring and asked Mandy’s permission to propose.

Three months after that, on the Natural Bridge in Aruba, Sean asked me to marry him. Mandy, who had kept this big secret for 3 whole months, was there to snap the pictures.

Mandy was also my maid of honor when Sean and I got married 10 months later.

Single Mom on Match.com, Part I

I was a single mother from the day my daughter was born, during my senior year of college. I knew it would be that way, just the two of us.

Not that I didn’t try to work things out with my boyfriend, her biological father. Heck, I gave it more than the ol’ college try. I gave it way more time, patience and leeway than I would most relationships. I thought I owed her that.

I even thought I owed him that. Or maybe it was more selfish. I know I didn’t want him to ever be able to blame me for calling things off between us, or for being the cause of our little family unit being separated. If Mandy grew up not knowing her father, it wasn’t going to be my fault. I gave him every chance in the world to step up to the plate and be a responsible, contributing part of our relationship and her life.

It didn’t work out. He left us. And other than a few sporadic dialogues where he tried to use Mandy as some sort of pawn with which to try and get back at me, I never heard from him again.

I dated here and there. I even had two very serious relationships that I thought would lead to marriage. For one I moved across the country. For both I moved us in, and we functioned as a family unit. Both men loved my daughter with all their hearts. Neither relationship worked out.

My daughter was and still is everything to me. When she was four years old and entering pre-school, I decided that I didn’t want her to be adversely affected by a string of serious relationships that ultimately failed. I didn’t want her to feel as if one father figure after another was abandoning her.

So I swore off dating. Not that I was swearing off men, or loosing faith in finding someone out there that was The One for me. I hadn’t become jaded and bitter. I just decided to take a break and concentrate on being the best mother that I could be. I’m a secure and independent person. I’m not needy. I didn’t feel lost without a partner.

So it was just the two of us for the next 7 years.

But then Mandy entered the 5th grade. There were Girl Scout camping weekends and sleep-overs with friends. There were weekends when she was out and about, and I was home alone watching a movie.

I wasn’t meeting anyone in particular as I went out with friends or through work. What to do? Join a club? Take a class?

A friend at work suggested Match.com.

So I tried it. It seemed fun, kind of like shopping.

At the time, I was checking my email account about once a week on the weekends. During the week was just too busy with work, and then helping Mandy with homework, preparing dinner, bedtime stories.

By the end of the first week I had received some emails from potential suitors on Match.com. I didn’t have time to answer them all.

By the following week there were more. I started to make a list of those I had replied to and those to whom I still owed responses.

By the third week the list was longer. By the fourth week I gave up. If I can’t keep up with emails, I reasoned, I don’t have time to date. So I cancelled my Match.com subscription.

Somewhere in there, during that month, my future husband had emailed me. I had never replied.

And so I was single for another year.

I spent that year taking care of Mandy and focusing on my career. Oh, and getting out of that debt that is so easy to accumulate when you’re a single parent from a young age, with no financial help. That took a while.

When I felt like I was in a good place, debt paid off, career going well, Mandy entering into the 6th grade as a happy and confident young lady, I took stock of my current dating situation. Or more accurately, the lack thereof. I had nothing going on. No prospects. No nothin’.

So I decided to try Match.com again. Maybe this time I could keep up.

I found some interesting prospects. There were a few guys that seemed well-rounded, intelligent, and open to the fact that I was a mother. I even met one for coffee one afternoon on my lunch break. Sparks didn’t fly, but he was nice enough.

Meanwhile, after contacting me that first time, my husband-to-be had found someone to date and had left Match.com. He came back to it a year later, though, when things didn’t work out.

He noticed my profile and decided to try again...

Tomorrow... Part II.

A Night in Venice, Part 2

If you missed yesterday’s post, it was Part 1 of my Venice story. In it, my husband flashes his package for a bunch of awe-stricken Venetians in the kitchen of the Hotel Cavelletto. You should check it out.

***

So it seems that my husband’s weak bladder has resulted in a stroke of good luck for us. As the last couple on line, instead of sharing our gondola with another couple, we have one all to ourselves.

We snuggle together under a plaid woolen blanket at the back of the craft, just beneath where Roberto, our gondolier, is perched. Sean uncorks the champagne and pours us each a glass. We toast to each other and drink heartily. This ride will only last 30 minutes. We need to drink up!

Besides, it is a little chilly, and the champagne will give us that nice warm feeling.

“Salute!” (sa-lootay) Roberto calls out. Cheers!

We offer some champagne to Roberto, but he confesses that he has already imbibed plenty of vino prior to arriving at work this evening. He removes a bottle of red from his coat and takes a hearty swig. This should be fun!

“You are honeymooners? Congratulazioni!” He tells us.

As the caravan of gondolas exits the station, Roberto is already causing a commotion.

“Antoniooooooooo!” he calls up to another gondolier in a very Tarzan-ian manner. “Antoniooooo! Te amooooooo!!!”

Yes, he is amusing himself by telling Antonio that he loves him. I can’t be sure, but Antonio seems to be replying to shut the hell up.

It is a beautiful night. As Roberto maneuvers through the narrow canals, he is teaching us some basic Italian.

“Say ‘te amo’ (I love you) to your bella,” he tells Sean.

“Tay yah-moah.”

“No! ‘TE AMO!’ Say it like you are Italiano!”

We both have to practice this a bit, but finally we earn a smile and a “Bravo!” from the young, drunken Roberto. He pats Sean on the back heartily.

Young Venetian woman are smiling from the windows above the canal.

“Buona sera” (good evening) he calls up to them. “Come ti chiami?” (what is your name?) The girls are giggling. Turns out Roberto is quite a flirt. He is writing down their phone numbers as he steers us around the corner and out of sight of the pretty girls.

Farther down, there are more cute girls standing on a bridge. Roberto is making plans to meet them for drinks after our ride. “A che ora?” (what time?) they call. This guy is good.

We are several glasses in. Is this the best champagne ever?

We are absolutely drunk by the time we enter the Great Canal. Roberto is pointing out places of interest. We are not entirely comprehending what he is saying. It’s all just too awesome.

These photos are a very good representation of what it all looked like through our fuzzy eyes.

We are all singing now, all three of us. Roberto has taught us a song that remains in our hearts to this day.

Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Ciao Ciao!!
Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao!

Ciao can mean hello or goodbye, kind of like aloha. So I’m not sure if we are saying hello or goodbye to Venice. All I know is that this all seems like a dream.

So every few minutes, instead of pinching myself, I turn to Sean and shout “We’re in effin’ Venice Fother Mucker!” And then we are singing again.

We return to the gondola station, bid farewell to our Roberto, and sneak him a nice tip so that he doesn’t have to pool it with the other gondoliers.

“Grazie! Buon viaggio!” (Thank you! Have a nice trip!)

And now, onto our next mission. Our plan is so simple, yet we feel it is the absolute pinnacle of brilliance. Yes, we have downed a bottle of champagne. So naturally, here’s what we need to do: We need to find ourselves some more alcohol.

We find a small café in St. Mark’s Square. Funny, St. Mark's Square looked a little fuzzy too.

After perusing the menu for a while, we decide on red wine.

When they serve us the wine, they bring us a tasty little cracker assortment for free. We feel this is most certainly due to the fact that we are exuding coolness and an understated yet clearly evident importance. Perhaps we are some sort of royalty. We are sure that they do not do this for just anyone. We are probably experiencing illusions of grandeur at this point. No matter.

I am taking goofy pictures, as always. Sean says he’ll be right back.

“I have to find the Cucina.”

“Don’t you mean la toilette?"

“No, kitchen first. It’s more fun that way.”

A Night in Venice, Part 1

I am waiting in line behind a gaggle of happy couples. Happy couples holding hands, kissing, waiting in unmasked anticipation to embark on an adventure that will surely become a treasured memory. One that will be filed under the category of Most Romantic Night Ever.

I am waiting in line with all of the happy couples, and I am alone.

****

My husband and I are in Venice. What a place to begin our honeymoon! Venice is just oozing with romance. It pulsates romance from every street lamp, from every narrow passageway and footbridge, from the glistening moonlit canals to the sparkling puddles in St. Mark’s Square. We are giddy with excitement as we make our way from the water taxi, through the square, and over to the gondola station.

We are about halfway to the front of the line, where couples are being assisted into the gondolas two by two. They are being covered with thick blankets, as it’s a bit chilly this evening, and they are offered a bottle of champagne to share.

We are holding hands as we inch our way closer to Honeymoon Adventure #2. Adventure #1 has already taken place back in the cabin on the cruise ship ;).

Because my husband has the bladder of a small child, he needs to find the facilities. As soon as we’re done? No, pretty much now. Immediately. Even though we are on line waiting for our gondola ride? Yeah, sorry.

The translator suggests he try one of the restaurants or hotels nearby. Sean dashes off down a passageway and across a bridge.

The line seems to be moving pretty quickly. I am almost to the front of the line, so I let a few couples go ahead of me. And then a few more.

Eventually, I just step out of the line and wait.

*****

Sean is running along the canal, looking for a place to relieve himself. There are shops here and there, but none offering a restroom. Many are already closed for the evening.

Finally, he finds the entryway to the Hotel Cavalletto. He dashes inside.

“Bathroom? Restroom? Water Closet? Loo?”

He is directed to the back of the building with a dismissive gesture and rolling eyes.

When he sees the sign on the door, he is so relieved! Well, almost relieved. He is already unbuttoning his pants. They have fallen to his thighs by the time he bursts through the door.

There are many astonished eyes looking at him in awe. Venetian eyes. Eyes that are not accustomed to seeing such a sight so abruptly thrust upon them.

The room falls silent.

Faces turn red.

Time stands still.

Sean is generally commando. And apparently, Cucina does not mean bathroom.

*****

The line is getting shorter and shorter. Only 6 couples left. Where is my husband?

Finally I see him, dashing back across the bridge and down the passageway towards me. As we rejoin the line, I realize that there is an even number of couples ahead of us. As they file into the gondolas, two by two, it looks as if we’ll get a gondola all to ourselves!

And do you know what that means? Well, besides the obvious increase in our gondola ride romance factor.

That means we have a bottle of champagne all to ourselves.


Tomorrow… part two.

A Moblem Of Prime

Sometimes I have a bit of a speaking dyslexia. I think it happens when my brain is working faster than my mouth can keep up with. What I end up doing is exchanging the first letters of two words.

Some recent examples:

“Know what I had for lunch today? A Chilly Freesesteak!”

“My daughter’s room is pretty big, about 600 fare squeet.”

“Leave me alone for a while. I need to nake a tap.”

These are all total accidents. I couldn’t do it on purpose if I tried. Well, I mean I guess I could, but I’d have to sit there and really think about which letters to switch.

What’s scary is that it might be contagious. Oh yeah, I’m not sure how, but I think my husband is catching it. The other day he asked me if I’ve heard from Duncle Ave.

“Uncle Dave???”

Unfortunately for Duncle Ave, the new name has stuck.

Of course, Sean will still make fun if he catches me in one. The other night I asked him if he wanted to take a hide out to Rome… I mean, a ride out to Home Depot.

“You switchin’ shit up again?”

“Shut uuuuuup!” I whined.

And then more quietly, under my breath: “Fother Mucker.”

Hollywood Hotties Ain’t My Thing

“So what’s your type of guy?”

I don’t know how many times I was asked that question when I was single.

“I don’t have a type.”

“What about movie stars? Who do you have a crush on?”

“I don’t have crushes on movie stars.”

I really don’t. I never did.

Well, maybe in the sixth grade when I saw the movie The Outsiders. I thought Matt Dillon was hot. And I was smitten with C. Thomas Howell.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.”

I loved that movie. All those guys were gorgeous, and they were cool because they were dirty boys that wore leather jackets and ripped jeans. I’m sure I fell asleep many a night dreaming of kissing Matt Dillon.

But as a grown woman, I just don’t get infatuated with famous people. I lived in Brentwood, California for a while. I would see famous people quite often. I even met a few at parties and clubs. But they were just people. I never got all googly-eyed over them.

“C’mon, there has to be someone. Brad Pitt?”

“No, a friend of mine interviewed him once and she said he had really bad body odor.”

“Tom Cruise?”

“Hell no! Arrogance is the ugliest thing to me.”

“Just name someone. There has to be someone you think is hot.”

“Okay then… Jon Stewart.”

“What?”

“If I have to name someone, it’s Jon Stewart.”

“Why???”

“Because he’s intelligent, witty, and funny. Those are qualities that attract me.”

So that has always been my standard answer to that stupid question. Jon Stewart. It usually leads to some discussion, since he is not an obvious choice to most people.

Over the summer, Sean and I are visiting his “new brother” in North Carolina. That’s a whole other story.

Well don’t you know, we get into one of these conversations about who has the hots for whom.

Angelina Jolie always comes up as a clear choice for the men. Brad Pitt and Matthew McConnaughey are mentioned by the women.

“What about you, Tammie? Who do you have a crush on?”

“My husband.”

“No, in Hollywood. Or on TV. Who do you think is hot?”

“I don’t go for Hollywood types.”

“Oh c’mon, there has to be someone.”

My husband knows my dirty secrets (well, not all of them… yet), so he tries to help me out: “She likes Jon Stewart.”

“Jon Stewart? Why?”

“Because he’s intelligent, and witty, and funny. That’s the kind of guys I go for.”

“Yeah, but so is Dr. Ruth!” the new brother calls across the room.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on now. See that’s completely different.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is. Because I like my women HOT.”

That shut him up.

A Proper Send-Off

Charlie comes running over. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is Scruffy okay???”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I had been walking around the yard with the dogs.

Butchie, the lab, loves when I join in on the Morning Sniff. It shows a unified front when the entire pack patrols the property together, marking all the standard posts. My two old boys and me… no one would dare trespass into our territory.

Scruffy, the little white cockapoo, can’t see much anymore, and his hearing isn’t very good. So for him, patrolling means sending out pings in every direction to see if he gets a hit. Sure, it looks like he’s barking incessantly at nothing, and perhaps some of the neighbors find it a bit annoying, but he knows what he’s doing.

He is feared by squirrels, rabbits, and even a few select deer that have made his acquaintance during the daily 6 am tour of duty. He’s got a pretty bad-ass rep around here.

Both noses go up in the air. They smell it. I see the white fur in the grass and immediately started clapping my hands to lead the boys back into the house.

Then I go to get Sean. There are many reasons for a woman to get married, but the main one is so you don’t have to deal with gross stuff.

“Honey, can you help me?”

There are many reasons for a man to get married too, but the kind of lovin I give my dear husband is the main one. I gave him real good lovin just a little while ago.

So he cheerfully responds, “What’s up?”

“There’s a dead opossum in the yard. We have to take care of it right away so Scruffy doesn’t try to eat it.”

He knows when I say “we” I really mean him.

And he knows Scruffy would probably be chewing on dead opossum corpse in a second if given the chance. We’ve caught him eating dead rats before, and dead birds, and even his own crap. Even Butchie’s crap, and that stuff is hard core. Surprisingly, he does not find most vegetables palatable and will spit them out.

Sean gets a big shovel from the garage. We head for the back yard.

“Are you gonna bury it?”

“Nope.”

He positions the shovel beneath the fluffy white fur, lifts the carcass, and heads for the back of the property.

I’m following a few feet behind him, sickened yet oddly curious and excited.

As he nears the woods, he positions the shovel behind him. With a few running steps, he then catapults the animal about 30 feet into the air. It lands in the bushes with a loud thud.

Although in retrospect it seems wrong, we are in an uproar.

“Holy shit! Did you see how far that thing went?”

“Did you hear it hit the ground? Oh my gosh, that was hysterical!”

Our neighbor Charlie had been involved in some early morning yard maintenance. He had grown concerned when he saw us walking into the back yard with a shovel. Both of our dogs are pretty old.

Seeing a white fluffy creature launched into the woods had only confirmed his fears.

Charlie comes running over. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is Scruffy okay???”

“Charlie! Do you really think I would give my best friend of the past 15 years a send-off like this? You were a good dog…. Whoosh!”

“Well I would hope not!”

It was a mistake, of course, throwing that animal into the woods. It was a large beast, and it was the middle of July. For the rest of the summer, no matter where we were in the house or yard, we always seemed to be downwind of its foul, deteriorating remains.

I kind of wished something would eat it.

Not Even Close

Of course, when Sean heard me get out of bed right after him, he knew he was screwed (say it right: sca-roooood!) But the fact that I wasn’t cursing him out told him that he’d done a better job than he’d first imagined.

He was wrong.

Yes, we had stumbled home a tad tipsy that night. Well, I was a tad tipsy, and my stud was toast. The bars in Aruba are quite fun, and we were out there making the most of our vacation every night. Holding hands as we walked toward the rental car, my arm extended and drew near, extended and drew near as I walked along a straight path on the sidewalk, and Sean traipsed along a winding path alongside me.

He was grinning ear to ear. I drove back to the condo. We both passed out.

Sean got up in the night to use the restroom. Because he woke me up, I figured I might as well get up after him and do the same.

His trip: Stumbled over his shoes as he got out of bed, staggered into the wall, groped around in the darkness for the light switch, found the towel rack instead, gave up. Who needs a light anyway. Didn’t fuss with such trivial matters as lifting the seat. Peed in the general direction of the toilet. Maneuvered his way back to the bed and caused a bit of a commotion with the covers upon his reentry.

My trip: Tiptoed gingerly to the bathroom, opted not to use the light so as to protect my precious baby blue eyes, sat my ass down on a Very Wet Seat. Nothing I could do about it now… peed. Wiped off my entire ass with a towel from the towel rack, threw said towel behind the toilet so as not to mistake it for something appropriate to use on one’s face. Returned to the bed and reentered quite delicately, as always.

The noticeable lack of cursing and swearing told him that he must have hit the (very large) bull’s-eye of the toilet with his stream of piss dead-on. He fell asleep with the content feeling of a true winner.

I fell asleep feeling like a shower couldn’t come soon enough. Ditto for new sheets now, too.

In the morning, I nonchalantly thanked him for the lovely gift he left in the bathroom for me at 3am.

He was in shock.

Kind of like when you’re speeding at about 90 mph past a cop who’s sitting in one of those no-u-turn areas of the highway, and he doesn’t whip the car around, flip on the lights and come after you.

Or when you try to toss someone a can of beer from the cooler at a party, and it accidentally hits someone else in the back of the head because your aim sucks, and they don’t totally kick your ass (sorry Chuck). But then again, maybe you get away with the beer thing because you’re pretty cute and a good kisser. But I digress.

So anyway, the next night, when I got up to use the bathroom in the condo? The toilet seat was lifted.

And I fell in.

I guess I need to use the light.

I Want My Exotic Name To Be Magdalena...

...Or Maybe Svetlana. Or Natalia.

Okay, I admit it. I love the sound of Spanish names. Italian names too. Actually, anything other than the very American sounding name I have. Russian names are awesome.

We are at our favorite pizza joint, and my daughter Mandy and her boyfriend have joined us for some slices. My mother-in-law happens to be there that night too, and she comes over to say hello.

As she is recounting the events of her day, another regular stops in, an unusually graceful man named David. His teeth are a crooked mess, but he is the most impeccable dresser, he is always clean-shaven, and his strut is made for the catwalk. He is such an animated character. We love this guy.

So he stops by our booth to say hello as well. Sean introduces David to his mother.

“Well!” David declares. “You have such an exotic look about you! I would have thought your name was Margarita!”

He says this with much flair. He even rolls the r.

“You can call me Margarita if you want to!” Sean’s mom says with a wink.

Mandy leans over to me and whispers, “I want him to name me!”

Death to Tighty Whitey

My husband Sean and I are on our way to my mother’s house. She has spent the day cooking, and we’re invited over for some baked ziti, homemade sauce, and meatballs. We do not put up a fight. True to our Italian heritage, we become ravenous salivating wolves at the mere mention of ziti and meatballs. That’s right, keep your arms at your sides and back away slowly.

So as we’re riding along in the truck, Sean starts complaining that he must have gained weight because his jeans seem too tight. “Well, it is that time of year,” I tell him.

We start talking about our upcoming trip to Jamaica. He mentions again how tight the jeans are. I start to tell him about the funny thing the dog did.

But it was back to the jeans again: “I grabbed the right ones, right? Yeah, these are the new ones.”

“Yeah, they look like the new ones”

“I don’t know why they’re so tight.”

“Do you have a hard on?”

“No.”

“Well then maybe you did gain weight,” I tell him. “So anyway, when I went to let Scruffy in, he just dove head first into the door. He didn’t even wait for me to open it. He just head-butted it and fell on the sidewalk.”

As I’m talking, there’s a tearing sound. The unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. I look over to see the waistband of a pair of Hanes tighty whitey’s being yanked up out of the jeans. He’s gotten it up over one arm, and he’s working on getting the other arm through.

“What are you doing?” I say this nonchalantly, as if this is a common occurrence with this guy.

He starts silently convulsing at this point. The waistband is pinning both of his arms to his sides and he’s still driving the truck. He’s trapped and doubled over in a fit of laughter.

Derek Zoolander made it look so easy. If we were to be pulled over right now, I think they could definitely pin him with a Driving While Ability Impaired. Perhaps if Sean could display a flawless Blue Steel the officer would let him go with a warning.

Yes, Blue Steel is our only hope, because Sean was wrapped in a tighty whitey straight jacket and cackling like a madman.

But with a few more tugs he finally wrenches himself free. My commando husband victoriously announces that the new jeans feel great.

We drive the rest of the way with a shredded pair of tighty whitey’s flying from the antenna.

Moth In A Green Jar

Once, when Sean and I first started dating, he came to pick me up to go see a movie, and I wasn't quite ready. No surprise there - I’m perpetually late. But this occasion was unlike all the others, where I had just lost track of time and miscalculated how long it would take to get my long luscious locks looking “just so.” Oh no, this was different. This was important! I was taking pictures. For the past half hour I had been focusing my lens on a moth inside a green jar. Yes, that’s right – a moth. I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.

When I noticed it, I naturally dropped everything I was doing, grabbed the camera, set up the tripod and started firing away. I know what you’re thinking: a moth! Too good to be true! I know, right? But there it was.

Okay, maybe you don’t get it, but my dear husband-to-be, he understood. Well, maybe not entirely, but he sure gave it the ol’ college try. In fact, he has often said that that's when he knew he loved me, but he never really knew why it was that particular moment. Funny, I thought it was the day he’d finally gotten me to say dirty words in bed.

Just recently, though, he told me he had it figured out. He said he knew he loved me that day because of my ability to see beauty in all things. That, my friends, is probably one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me. Damn, I love that man.

So I’m adding my Moth Inside A Green Jar here at the beginning of my blog. I like it. I also like the memories and the sentiment my husband has associated with it. And since we are at the cusp of a new year, I want it to serve as a reminder to me to follow my passions. A new year is a blank slate, full of potential. Some of it may not be so obvious, but a keen eye can unlock it and make it dance.