Meals with family: 5
Relatives seen: 51
States visited: 4
Total miles driven: 725
Times pulled over by police: 1 (but was mistake)
Times attended church: 1
Near-hits by lightning bolts: 1, while sitting in pew
Family birthdays/anniversaries celebrated: 3
Photos taken: 95
Nights spent away from home: 2
Times plans changed: 14, at least
Calls to hotel to change reservation: 2
Times hotel reservation lady laughed in my face, over phone, for no particular reason: 2 (bitch)
Geocaches found: 3
Times I was asked when we're going to start a family: 3
Alcoholic drinks consumed: ZERO (shit ain't right)
Times I suggested to Rob that we skip Christmas this year: 15

Yeah, so here's the thing: I don't remember it. At all. What they say about how you'll always remember your first kiss? Apparently that's a lie just like the whole first impressions last forever thing. For me, anyway. Because I do not remember my first kiss AT ALL.

I can tell you this much. It was 8th grade. Definitely with Luke, my 8th grade "boyfriend" who didn't believe that women could be doctors. It was probably at the movie theatre, but I don't actually remember that for sure. Just a hunch. Funny thing is, I remember other stuff. I can tell you Luke's birthday - July 31. I can tell you that we "went out" exactly 3 months, to the day. I remember what we bought each other for Christmas. I remember telling him in math class that he was dumb and he thought I said "dumped" and looking back on it, I totally shouldn't have corrected him. I remember in vivid detail the day we actually broke up. I remember that Doreen "went out" with Luke in 7th grade and broke up with him b/c he was making armpit farts. I remember all of that random shit - but my first kiss? Nothing.

But I remember my first kiss with Rob like it was yesterday. Because it actually meant something. Because I was smitten. But mostly because the fucker made me wait TWO WEEKS for that kiss. TWO WEEKS! What hormone-driven high school boy waits TWO WEEKS to plant one on you? Shit ain't right. Keep in mind I'd already waited SIX MONTHS just to date the dude. Let's just say I was ripe and ready for that kiss. Granted, I understood why he didn't kiss me on our first date, what with Melissa tagging along and all. But there was no logical reason to keep me waiting TWO WEEKS.

I was seriously starting to think he just wasn't that into me. I mean, the only reason he had asked me out was because my cousin threatened to beat him up if he didn't. Then he brought a fucking chaperone on our first date. And then the most action I was getting was a little dopey hand-holding? WTF? At first my friends were all, "He's being respectful. He wants you to know that he likes you and isn't just in it for a makeout session." And I was like, "Awww, what a sweetie." Then a week passed and my friends were all, "Maybe he's just shy?" And I was like, "Well that's sorta cute, I guess." But halfway into the second week my friends were all, "He still hasn't kissed you?! Huh." And I was like, "OMG he thinks I'm ugly. Or maybe it's my breath - quick, somebody smell my breath!"

I finally broke down and asked my closest guy friend what it meant if a dude still hadn't kissed you after two weeks. And he was like, "That's not good. I mean, if he's a decent guy he'll definitely wait one week. But nobody waits two." Super.

And so Doreen and Nicole decided to take matters into their own hands. Because that's what you do if one of your girls isn't getting any but desperately wants to be. After school one day we all drove down (well, I guess Rob drove us all down since none of the rest of us had licenses...I don't remember that part) to a nearby park. Rob and I just thought we were all going to stroll around together, but as soon as we got out of the car, Nicole and Doreen veered off to the left and said, "We're going this way. YOU ALL go THAT way." And then they giggled. Yeah, I know - subtle. But they were just doing what they had to do - clearly dude needed a not-so-subtle hint. TWO WEEKS, people!

To be honest, I was seriously doubtful he would actually kiss me. I'd pretty much given up hope by then. We walked along the stream that bordered the park and then stopped to sit on a log. I'm sure he was nervous as hell, but I was like, BRING IT ON, BABY. And then he did. And then I went home and wrote a poem about it:

The crystal water glistens
Green, like a frog.
And I watch, silently,
As he carves our initials in a log.
I look around
The sky is blue.
Trees surround us
Just us two.
He turns around
And pulls me near.
I am content,
Happy to be here.
I hold on tight
As we embrace
Then we part
And stand face to face
We both smile
As our lips meet
And then we kiss
Soft and sweet.

Shut up. I was in NINTH GRADE, okay?

What's funny is that after this first kiss, I started keeping track of how many times we had kissed. I'm weird like that. I think we got to 18 kisses before I lost count, and that was only because we'd had a serious makeout fest and there had been too many to count and they didn't have clear beginnings and endings anyway. You know? I mean, when you kiss like practically nonstop for half an hour, is that one kiss or 300? Hard to say. Plus, for someone as easily confused by numbers as I am, the counting thing became a little distracting.

I guess by now we've probably kissed thousands of times. Millions, maybe. Okay, not millions. But thousands for sure. Turns out, it was worth the wait.

(Thanks to mrtl for today's motif monday topic.)

This week, Mrtl's motif is worst date. I was actually under the impression that the motif was first date (because apparently I am easily confused by rhyme). When I discovered that it is actually worst date, I panicked for a moment because I don't think I've had any bad dates. How is that possibly possible, you ask? Well, you see...um, how to say this? I've only ever dated Rob. (We've been together since high school, remember?)

Well wait, if you count going to a movie, in 8th grade, with a guy who wasn't even my boyfriend (but soon would be, in an 8th grade sort of way) and making out during [yeah, no clue what that movie was] a DATE, then I guess I've dated someone other than Rob. Once. Sorta. But come on, that obviously doesn't count as a date for So Many Reasons.

And so it seems I've never been on a real date, an actual date, an adult date in which you are trying to determine if you might maybe like the person enough to want to see him again. I've never been on a date with someone who wasn't already my boyfriend, who didn't eventually become my husband. Is that sweet or just pathetic?

Anyway, it turns out that my first date with Rob was also our worst.

I was in 9th grade. He had asked me to "go together" the week before. He was a year older and had a driver's license, so he was actually going to take me someplace. Score. I often tell people that on our first date we went to see The Wiz on Broadway. Which is sorta true. It was Broadway High School. Close enough.

He came to pick me up and my dad answered the door so they could meet. Rob had chin-length hair. My dad was not impressed, but he didn't let on. They shook hands and my mom said hi and then we were off to see The Wiz!

Except we were not alone. I hopped into his car only to find Melissa sitting in the back seat. Melissa who went to our school and lived near Rob and also wanted to see The Wiz. Practical Rob thought it made perfect sense to bring her along since she couldn't drive herself. Super-dooper.

We arrived at Broadway High School. You know, the three of us. Rob walked up to the ticket table, bought one ticket for himself, and began walking toward the auditorium without so much as a look back over his shoulder. (He has since claimed that he didn't want to appear rude to Melissa by buying a ticket for me and not her, an explanation which makes absolutely no sense since I WAS HIS GIRLFRIEND AND SHE WAS A TAGALONG.) I am a dutch kind of girl and so didn't mind buying my own ticket. But I did find it a little bizarre (aka RUDE) that he didn't even offer and didn't even look back to make sure I had money to get in. Whatever...I'm over it.

So I paid for my ticket and rushed to catch up with Rob who was looking for seats. (In the process, I gave Melissa the slip. Intentionally. But not to worry - she found us again after the show. Golly, what a relief.) We found two seats and plopped down, only to discover that his ex-girlfriend was sitting in the row in front of us, just a few seats down. This is the ex-girlfriend whom he had dumped just a week before asking me to "go together," who had refused to eat for 3 days after the break-up, who would run to the bathroom and vomit every time she saw us together (or so she claimed). So needless to say, sitting within sight of her was a wee bit AWKWARD. Especially since the girls who were with her kept looking back at us and shooting me evil looks and whispering and doing all the other things teenage girls do as a way to exact revenge for The Scorned One. His ex of course chose to ignore us, to give the impression that she was so over it. Which she wasn't, because I'm pretty sure she went to the bathroom at least once to throw up. (I will admit that none of this bothered me terribly much, considering I found his ex to be quite the bitch and so was not above rubbing her nose in it. And by it, I don't mean her vomit. Eew. I mean the fact that I was with Rob and she wasn't.)

I remember nothing else. The musical itself was a trippy blur (not sure if that's actually how The Wiz is or if I was just so darned elated to be sitting next to Rob that I couldn't focus). I think we might have held hands. Maybe. I honestly can't remember. After the show he took me home...and then he took Melissa home.

Good times.

Dear felines,

It has been three months since my last letter and I am quite pleased and completely shocked to say that I honestly have no complaints. You have worked on everything that I asked you to and in the meantime have not developed any annoying new habits. Well, except for Maylee and the water bowls, but we seem to have resolved that one as well.

Of course, whenever things are going smoothly, Mommy feels the need to go and fuck everything up. You know, to keep life interesting. And so I have an announcement I'd like to share with you, an announcement that will change your lives forever. You should perhaps sit down for this.

I have decided it's time you were toilet trained.

I know, I KNOW. Just hear me out on this before you start shrieking and clawing stuff. The whole litter box thing? Overrated, if you ask me. Frankly, it's disgusting. If I were you, I would have insisted on a better solution long ago. After all, you are cats, the most sophisticated life form on the planet. Or at least the snootiest. Either way, walking through your own shit is so beneath you. In an ideal world, there would be someone devoted full-time to wiping your asses. Am I right? Bridget, I know you're with me. You HATE the litter box. Ever since you were a kitten, you have run full-force out of the litter box as soon as you are done and if you could talk I know you would be saying, "Eew eew eew eew eew EEEEEWWW." I feel you, girl.

Because the truth is, the litter box situation grosses me the frick out, too. I clean your boxes every day; that is not a particularly pleasant task. And my big lovely bathroom, which was once my favorite room in the house, is quickly becoming NOT my favorite room in the house because there is litter gravel everywhere. I sweep every day; it does not help. Also, I like my bathroom to smell fresh as a daisy but all too often it smells like cat shit. Maylee, this is mostly your fault considering you refuse to COVER what you leave behind. You must have been absent when your momma taught that step.

And so I bring to you a solution that I think we all can live with. It will take some docility on your part and some patience on mine. None of you are docile and I am far from patient, so we are pretty much fucked from the start. However, imagine a litter-free world, a world in which cats have the same toilet rights as people. I think it is a noble goal. And no matter how tedious the training process may turn out to be, I think it will be worth it. Heck, just the photos of you using the toilet will make this all completely worthwhile.

Today's motif monday topic is road rage. So here are my top driving pet peeves, in order of how much they piss me off:

1. Slow left-lane drivers. Here's the thing, Granny - I respect your desire to drive slowly. I do. In fact, I appreciate that given the fact that you are a blind old bat, that you prefer not to zoom through town in your cruise-ship-converted-into-a-car Grannymobile. However, THAT IS WHAT THE RIGHT LANE IS FOR. Move over, bitch. You can't handle the left lane. The left lane is for super-cool people like me who drive stick shifts and pay $120 speeding tickets. And here's a clue: If you are in the left lane and the car behind you is riding your ass, move over, bitch. The fact that you are planning to make a left turn in another 5 miles does not give you permission to clog the left lane. And another hint: When I finally throw my hands up in surrender and pass you on the right side (which I SHOULD NEVER HAVE TO DO BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT THE LEFT LANE IS FOR) kindly switch to the right lane after I pass so that the cars that are lined up behind you can proceed on through without also having to pass you in the right lane. I mean, how is it that you DO NOT NOTICE when like, 50 cars all pass you in the right lane? You are either completely absent-minded or mind-numbingly egocentric, and quite honestly both of those characteristics piss me off equally much, which you surely gathered if you were stupid enough to look my way when I passed and thus received the withering look I shot you, the one that said quite simply, Move over, bitch!




2. The blinker leaver-oner. Speaking of absent-minded. TURN OFF YOUR GODDAMN BLINKER. Worst case scenario, you are confusing everyone behind you with your unintentional signal of intention. Best case scenario, your rapidly blinking light is making me twitch. And believe me, that is not a best case scenario at all. How do you not HEAR IT? Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Geez, the noise itself is like Chinese water torture. And to be frank, you look like a fucking dumbass. Leaving your blinker on is the driving equivalent to tucking the back of your skirt into your underwear.




3. John Tesh. Last week as I was flipping through the radio stations I caught a snippet of him explaining how anger causes periodontitis. I shit you not. Please, John, I beg of you: Stop. Just STOP. You make me want to ram my car into something.




4. Toe cramps and a seizure-like series of sneezes. Just...not cool. At all.

How much do I love mrtl for choosing travel as today's motif? THIS MUCH. Because, lookit! I'm traveling! So I can totally do Motif Monday! Rock.

So today I was on my own in London because Rob went to work. I'm used to this. The last time we went to New York, for example, he was at a conference and I had 4 days to spend on my own. I LOVE being on my own in a city because I notice everything around me so much more when I'm not talking to someone. And I feel much more a part of the city when I'm on my own. And, of course, I get to do exactly what I want to do. Which is always, at least in part, SHOPPING.

This morning I walked down Portobello Road where they have markets and quirky little shops. In the film Notting Hill, Portobello Road is the street on which Hugh Grant's travel book shop is located. The street is very quaint, very colorful, very Notting Hill.

Then this afternoon I Tubed on down to Harrods. Harrods is to London what Macy's is to New York, only without the cool wooden escalators. It's incredible, it's expensive, it's pretentious, and it's a fucking MAZE. But oh, the shoes. So many lovely, lovely shoes. All well beyond my budget, but still so pretty to gaze at and so nice to stroke. The shoe department at Harrods is like an art museum. The shoes are on display, either on white shelves on the wall or behind glass cases. They've got lights everywhere spotlighting each pair. There are artistic arrangements and displays in the middle of the floor that you can walk around. And everywhere, women are standing, looking intently at the shoes in hushed appreciation, just like people examine art in museums. And of course, the sales people stand on the periphery and watch everyone, just like the security people at museums. And seriously, that shoe department winds in and around just like an art museum. Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.

Then I did some more shopping on down the street before returning to Harrods for afternoon tea. (Within the store are several restaurants and quite likely several small countries as well.) Rob and I hadn't had time for afternoon tea this weekend, and since he didn't mind missing it, I decided to go it alone. And I'm glad I did, because it was the perfect way to relax after several hours of shopping. The room was beautiful (with cushiony pink chairs!) and there was live piano music. They brought me finger sandwiches and scones (with cream spread and marmalade and jam) and several pastries that were to die for. And, of course, tea. They set a silver teapot on my table, which I thought was nice because then I could fill up my teacup as much as I wanted. But oh no, even better - every time my teacup got to be half empty, someone rushed over ("Would you like some more tea, madam?") and filled it up again. I felt like the queen. Or perhaps a princess. Either way, it was nice.

Then on the way home I stopped into the Victoria and Albert Museum and looked at fashion through the centuries and furniture as art. This weekend we had visited the Tate Modern (art museum), but I liked the V&A better. Applied arts are more interesting to me.

I'm back in the hotel now, catching up on blogs (I miss you people so much it's ridiculous) and waiting for Rob to get back.

All of us live such blessed lives, whether we're visiting London or staying home with our kids or heading to work each day. As I sat all prissy-like and had my tea today, I of course couldn't help but think of all the folks affected by Hurricane Katrina. I felt both guilty and incredibly lucky. Please help in whatever way you can - be it financially or by giving blood or by sending care packages or just by squeezing your eyes shut and thinking about and/or praying for everyone who is currently suffering the tragedy of their lifetime. And definitely take a moment to stop and count your blessings. We have so many.

Today's motif is Songwriting for Animals. First of all, I'm just very glad to know that I'm not the only one who sings to my pets. Second, thinking about this has brought on an entire post about how I treat my cats like children.

I am very physical in my affection for the cats. I hug them and squeeze them and call them Georgie. And...I am a cat kisser. There, I said it. I kiss my cats all the time. If this disturbs you, please stop reading because it is only going to get worse.

With the cats, I refer to Rob as "Daddy." As in, "Maylee-Bailey, go give Daddy some love," and "Dammit Simon, stop eating Daddy's cereal!" and "Bridgie-Widgie, when Mommy leaves Daddy, who do you want to live with?.....MOMMY?! Oh, what a good kitty! You LOVE your mommy very much don't you? You love your mommy MUCH more than you love your daddy, yes you do!"

(You have all suddenly concluded that it is a VERY good thing we don't want children, haven't you? I know, I am completely deranged.)

Sometimes I take this mother/child thing a bit too far with the cats. I have been known to cuddle Bridget in my arms and tell her that she came "from Mommy's tummy." (She doesn't know she's adopted.) As you might imagine, this freaks Rob the frick out. As in, he REALLY hates it when I do that. As you might also imagine, I do it fairly often for that very reason.

When we had to put Maylee in a onesie because of her stitches, I thought she was so cute that I wanted to buy onesies for all of the cats so I could put them in their "pajamas" every night. I might have even suggested that after putting them in their pajamas, we could brush their teeth and then tuck them into bed. Like I said, deranged. Rob, however, put his fatherly foot down on that one. I think the idea disturbed him even more than the "Mommy's tummy" thing.

So then, considering the energy I devote to being a bona fide mother to my babies, you would think I would have great songs for them, wouldn't you? However, there is only one song that I sing, to Bridget, and it goes something like this:

"Mommy loves Bridgie and Bridgie loves Mommy.
Mommy loves Bridgie and Bridgie loves Mommy.
Mommy loves Bridgie and Bridgie loves-"

Okay, you get the idea. The lyrics are lame, but it's a catchy little tune. And it's quite versatile. I can mix it up and sing, for example, "Mommy loves Maylee and Maylee loves Mommy" or "Mommy loves Simon and Simon loves Mommy." Or even, "Daddy loves Bridgie and Bridgie loves Daddy." I have never done that last one. (Ooh! I just thought of a new one: "Daddy loves Bridgie and Bridgie loves MOMMY." Definitely going to have to sing that one this evening.)

What I lack in creative songwriting I make up for in theme names, though. Yes, I said theme names. I only do this with Bridget because I love her the most. She has a blocked tear duct in one eye which causes that eye to water pretty much all the time. And so I tell her that if she were in the Mafia, she would be called Ol' Watery Eye. She also carries her tail in the shape of a question mark, and so if she were a Native American kitty, her name would be Crooked Tail. When she was a kitten, her whiskers were crimped (cutest thing EVER). And so, obviously, if she were in a heavy metal band she would be Twisted Whisker.

Yes, I am a CRAZY CAT LADY. And damn proud to be one, thank you very much.