Ern's post brought this to mind.

I'm a returner. I return stuff to stores. Unflinchingly. Even if there's nothing wrong with it. Even if I don't have the receipt. This is how I was raised.

My mom will take anything back. My mom will even buy stuff with the intention of returning it. For example, if she can't decide which color curtains will look best in her bedroom, she'll just buy both colors she's considering. And then she'll hang each set in her bedroom, compare them, and then take back the ones she likes the least. If she's ordering clothes from a catalog and can't decide which size to get, she'll order both and then send one back.

If you've never done it before, you might imagine that it would be an uncomfortable situation. But the truth is, they never ask questions. They don't care. I once saw a shirt at a yardsale that still had the store tag on it - it had been bought from one of my favorite stores. The tag said $15, but the person selling it was asking $5. I was incredulous that this person was selling a shirt she had never worn, a shirt she could easily return. So I bought the shirt and returned it myself. They couldn't give me money back because I didn't have the receipt (and they didn't even still have that item in stock), but they gave me store credit. When I called to tell Mom what I'd done, I think it may have been her proudest moment ever.

Last week I went shopping for baby presents for The Niece. Rob wasn't able to come with me, but I wanted his input. I called him from the baby aisle and tried to describe some of the stuff, but finally I decided to buy everything I was considering and let him help me decide at home. When he got home, I had everything I'd bought displayed in the kitchen. "Okay, these are the items I'm considering. Tell me what you think they'll like and I'll take the rest back." At the beginning of our marriage, this would have horrified him. ("Let me get this straight. You bought stuff knowing you'd return it? Is that even legal?!") Now he's used to it.

But I wasn't counting on him rejecting the greeting card. His family doesn't do cards - ever - and I always forget this. (Because, really, who doesn't do cards?!) Normally I would have insisted that we give a card, but we were going to write a note in the book we were giving The Niece, and so really a card was unnecessary. And, since the card cost $4 and 50 freaking cents, I agreed to return it. If it had been any other kind of card, I would have just kept it to use later. But who knows when the next baby girl will be born. And did I mention it cost four dollars and 50 cents?!

So I told Rob, in my fearless voice, that I'd return the card. But the truth is, I was a wee bit nervous about it. I mean, who returns fucking greeting cards? Is that even allowed? My mom once returned food to the grocery store, so I guess nothing is off limits. But still...a greeting card? I mean, that's just lame.

Over the weekend I needed to make a Target run anyway, so I took the card with me. Usually when I return stuff, I handle it very matter-of-factly. You can tell amateur returners from serial returners by whether or not they give reasons. I always just stand silently by, not offering any explanation.

But this time, due to my shame, I was off my game. I stepped up to the customer service desk and, as I placed the card on the counter, I blurted, "I think I may be the first person to ever return a greeting card." Why, when a person is embarrassed, does she feel compelled to draw attention to the very thing that she's embarrassed by?

The associate chuckled, and then assured me that I wasn't. She was obviously just being nice.

At this point I should have just stood there quietly while she completed the transaction. Instead, as I watched her pick up the card to scan it, I said, "You see, my husband found a card he liked better." (Yes, this was a lie. But I couldn't tell the actual truth because the actual truth is that we decided not to give a card. At all. To a BABY. We decided not to greet a newborn baby with a card! We are cold-hearted freaks!)

She nodded slightly. And then I heard myself saying, "I told him that I'd be, like, the only person on the planet to ever return a greeting card." She half-smiled, certainly condescendingly, as she scanned the barcode. I hung my head in shame. I might perhaps have even considered reforming my returning ways.

And then, as the price of the card appeared on her screen, she exclaimed, "This card cost four dollars and fifty cents! I'd have returned it, too!"

I beamed at her, feeling vindicated. "I know, right?!"

Nothing can stop me now.

I had every intention of writing and posting this yesterday on your actual birthday, but it came down to either blogging or baking cupcakes. Both were ways to celebrate your day, but only one involved licking icing. It seemed the obvious choice.

But I do want to, belatedly, acknowledge your birthday here. Committed couples often say that they love each other more each day than they did the day before. To me that seems just as hard to measure as the daily growth of a child. Day to day, things seem the same. But when you stop to look back on the progress of a year, the change is noticeable, so much so that it's surprising.

I feel like this year has changed us more than most. Perhaps partly because we've seen the world from the perspectives of many different places. But probably mostly because we've been given startling reminders that everything we have is fleeting. As a result, my feelings for you are more fierce than ever before. I find myself fiercely protective of you, fiercely proud of you, and fiercely devoted to you. When I look at this world, you are the most beautiful thing I see.

A couple weeks ago I was once again reminded of just how much I cherish what we have. It was the weekend that I'd diagnosed myself with melanoma and concluded (however overdramatically) that I might quite possibly be dying. We were standing in line at Taco Bell and you said something I forget now, something I found funny or adorable or probably both, and I said, "I really hope I'm not dying, because I still want more time with you." I don't think there can be a truer or more deeply felt sentiment. And even now, after the doctor has reassured me that it probably isn't melanoma and that I'm almost certainly not dying (but am most definitely overdramatic), still what I want most is, simply, time with you.

Lately we've been lamenting the fact that we're getting old. But, honestly, I can't think of anything better than growing old together. So, happy birthday. Here's to many more.

We got back home yesterday from several days of visiting Rob's sister and husband and their new baby daughter, The Niece. Also known as She Who Makes Us Feel Really Fucking Old.

When a married-without-children couple of our age is spending time with a baby, there is a very fine line that must be walked. We must show interest, obviously, but not so much that people start to get the idea we want a baby of our own, lest they get their already too-hopeful hopes up. It's okay to hold the baby, but not too eagerly. It's okay to smile at her, but not too lovingly. It's okay to coo to her, but not too cooily. Since Rob's parents were also there this weekend, our careful line walking was especially critical. We don't want them thinking that we'll be providing The Niece with cousins anytime soon. Besides the cats, of course.

And while no one says it, it's obviously what everyone is thinking. They think that maybe if we just spend time with a baby, we'll come around. I know this is what everyone is thinking because the blunt folks do just come out and say it. The woman who cleans our office saw me in the hallway today and said, "How was your visit? Do you want a baby now?" (The only way she knows that I don't want a baby now is because she asks me, at least once every 3 months, if we've decided to have a baby yet. Which, by the way, is the absolute best way to annoy the shit out of me because I consider that one of the most sexist things a person can say to a woman. Just because I have breasts does not mean I'm in a baby-worshipping cult.)

[mini-rant in the style of mrtl]
While I'm on the whole sexist thing, I feel the need to bitch about the baby aisle. Why do the baby boy clothes have planes and trucks and sports balls on them while the baby girl clothes have flowers and teddy bears? Why do the boy shirts say rough and tumble while the girl shirts say sweet? Why are we socializing our kids in this bullshit from the very start?
[end mini-rant in the style of mrtl]

So back to the fine line walking. Throughout this visit I felt there was a (most likely pink and polka-dotted) elephant in the room. A wondering of "When will they?" A side glance and smile whenever one of us doted on The Niece. Surely most of it was just in my head, since I tend to assume everyone is thinking about me even when they're not. But at least a little of it was actually there, because from what I gather pretty much the whole fucking world wants us to have babies. And these people in particular, who love us so much, can think of nothing better than a little combined us running around. Fair enough, I suppose.

So Monday night, which was during our visit, I couldn't find my birth control pills. I remembered leaving them out on the nightstand so I wouldn't forget to take one before bed. But they weren't there. I searched my suitcase and then Rob's suitcase. I looked under the bed and under the nightstand. Then I reported the bad news to Rob and he searched and re-searched everything as well. They were nowhere. Rob's sister has a dog who is known to sneak off with odd things like driver's licenses and Treos and baseball tickets, so we figured she snatched them and stashed them somewhere to slobber on later.

The next morning, in a desperate plea for a search party effort, I announced that the dog had stolen my birth control pills. And I saw the thought flicker through each person's mind: Why the hell didn't we think of that?

About this tagline... I am not old. I'm just saying.

In case you're wondering why I've had nothing to say about Grey's or ER, it's because I'm not actually watching them. I mean, I am watching them, but in a very belated manner. So far this season, every Thursday evening our television has fucked me over. Every single Thursday. Well okay, so one Thursday it wasn't the tv's fault; one Thursday I missed my shows because we had a flirtian party to attend. Rob forwarded the invitation to me at work that day and I replied, "DON'T THESE PEOPLE WATCH TV?!" Um, no, actually. They don't. Unless you count Battlestar Galactica. (Which, I suppose, technically does count, but...NERD ALERT. I'm just saying.)

But every other Thursday, I've gotten all super-excited about watching The Office. And Grey's. And JOHN STAMOS ON ER! I go through my day all "Woo!! Best day ever! Thursdays ROCK!! Thursdays RULE! Thursdays rock and rule!! Hee." And then I go home and then much later Rob comes home and then we eat dinner and I'm all, "Eat faster! TV starts in 20 minutes!" And then it's 20 minutes later and I'm all, "Wheee, TV!!" And I plop down on the sofa and Rob turns on the tv and it's really fuzzy and black & white but we can still sorta see the actors. I mean, not well enough to recognize them, but it's okay because we can tell who they are by their voices. And so we're watching and laughing, watching and laughing, and then [BLUE SCREEN]. Fucking signal is gone. And we simultaneously groan, but then it's back! And we say, "Yay!" You know, simultaneously. And then five minutes pass with more watching and laughing and then [BLUE SCREEN]. And we groan and wait and then it's back! Yay! But before we can even catch back up with the scene [BLUE SCREEN]. This continues throughout the rest of The Office, our groans soon becoming "FUCK"s and "GODDAMMIT!"s. And then finally the signal doesn't fight back, and the screen casts a lonely blue glow on the walls of our living room. And I stare sadly at the tv, knowing that Grey's is happening without me, knowing that John Stamos is right inside my tv but I can't get to him.

So yeah. I'm behind. No, I don't have anything to say about Grey's. And no, I haven't seen the last two episdoes of ER. Yes, I'm sure John Stamos was sextastic. He's saving the show, so I hear. Wouldn't know it by me, considering I haven't fucking SEEN the show hardly. But no, I don't want to know what happens. And yes, I do think the universe can be a fucking bitch sometimes.

Today at work someone who knows Rob's mom said to me, "It must be hard having her as a mother-in-law." I looked confused, because Rob's mom is awesome. And then the co-worker continued, "I mean, she must be such a hard act to follow! There isn't anything she can't do."

Um, yeah. And then some. We get along really well, but not due to the fact that we have anything in common.

His mom is an avid gardener; I still sometimes have to ask Rob which ones are weeds.

His mom dries many of her flowers and makes absolutely exquisite arrangements out of them. I buy flowers (because, you know, the whole gardening thing hasn't exactly worked out) and use a floral design trick I discovered after my first (and disastrous) attempt at arranging flowers in a vase: buy only one kind of flower and then you don't need to fucking arrange them in the first place.

Rob's mom quilts; two years ago I started knitting a scarf which is currently five and a half inches long and shoved into the back of my closet.

She also stencils and weaves baskets and is all kinds of crafty; I cannot even cut in a straight line.

And she bakes her own bread. This is something we might potentially have in common, since not long ago I joined a bread share. But I'm pretty sure our processes are very different. She uses a breadmaker, for example, while I employ the method that involves proofing the yeast and then dissolving into a hysterical fit of tears when that doesn't work, an out-and-out tantrum that, amazingly, catches Rob off guard every single time.

And that is my only complaint about Rob's mom. She raised him with what I maintain is a skewed notion of women: she never has mood swings, is never off-kilter, never overwhelmed. Rob says he's never known her to have an emotional outburst. Ever. Next to her stoic sanity, I look downright deranged. But I think in this, like everything else, she's exceptional. Because most women cry. And pout. And occasionally throw things.

So yeah. I love her, but she makes me look bad. Because I will always have dandelions in my flower beds. And I'll never perfect the art of needlepoint. And the only way I even remotely resemble Martha Stewart is that I can be a total bitch sometimes.