i wonder when i knew he was the one.

tomorrow, super jas and i will celebrate our 8th wedding anniversary. we've been together for nearly 12 years now and when we first met, i hated him. okay, i take that back. i didn't actually hate him, but i found him incredibly annoying. and cocky. ours is not a story of love at first sight. it's not even a story of love at 100th sight. super jas spent nearly an entire semester chasing me and i spent nearly an entire semester hiding from him (and crushing on his roommate.)

annnyway, when did i know he was the one?
it wasn't our first meeting.
it wasn't our first real phone conversation.
it was our first kiss.

i knew that night when he came to my dorm room to watch a movie that i was going to kiss him. and i did. i kissed him. i just couldn't wait for him to make a move. and when i did, my stomach did flips and i felt like i was going to puke from the excitement of it all. it was the sweetest, gentlest kiss i'd ever experienced and when we finished kissing, i knew that i could never let this boy go. something inside of me simply clicked. i knew without a doubt that he was the one.

for sure, we've had our ups and downs in the 12 years that we've been together. we've had really hard times too when i thought that maybe life would be easier without him. but then i think about how life would really be if that were true. how my world would change without him physically being next to me along this journey called life.

and then he kisses me...and the butterflies that i get in my stomach tell me that there is no way i could ever let him go.

I Wonder What We Should Write About Next?

I wonder . . .

• what happened to FFAF? (I hadn't seen one in a while, so I leap forth with this, a topic brainstorm)
• what beauty product I couldn't live without?
• if I'll ever get a(nother) tattoo, and if so, what and why?
• if __________ ever knew about ___________? (e.g. my hunky high school math teacher ever knew about my crush on him?) (that was a total hypothetical, BTW - my high school math teacher was a 60 year old woman)
• what was the most hurtful thing ever said to me and how it's affected my life since?
• " " " " " " " " kind " " " " " " " "?
• what I'm going to do about _________? (e.g. the water dripping from my office ceiling all over my files?) (and that, unfortunately, is not a hypothetical)
• what one thing I did this past year that I will one day regret/be so grateful for?
• who my favorite writer is and why?
• what I will be remembered for? (did we do this one? I feel like we might have done this one)
• which is better - the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
• who is my favorite Spice Girl (or insert appropriate group) and why?
• if I were a Spice Girl (or insert appropriate group), who would I be?
• if my spouse were a Spice Girl (oiag), who would he be?
• what one (publishable) thing did I do in college that I wish I could take back?
• what other topic suggestions folks will put in the comments? Anybody?

I've Been Here Before

This I Wonder sounded very familiar to me. "We've done this before -" I thought. I scanned through the archives (and got hung up for quite a while, re-enjoying our old posts! We are some good writers, yo!) And found it - a FFAF of mine from last August, which explains why I was the only one who recognized it as a done topic. However, just linking to my old post would be cheating, so I've decided to give you a bonus blog about my current It's-Not-A-Diet-It's-A-Lifestyle-Change meal plan that is supposed to help me slowly and healthfully get back to my pre-baby weight. Because if you force me to sit here and write about mouth-watering, artery-clogging, weight-increasing yummy goodness right now, I'm never gonna make it through this, my fourth day of following the INADIALC meal plan.

So. We start the morning with a delicate egg white sandwich on an English muffin, the eggs topped with 2% mozzarella cheese (no salt allowed, alas). This accompanies 2 ounces of cold cereal with wheat germ, raisins, and skim milk, and a half-banana. I add to this my first cheat of the day - a large-ass cup of coffee with tons of cream and sugar stirred in. Oh, yeah.

My morning snack is a Kashi TLC bar - made with their patented 7 whole grains granola mixture, with a generous portion of dried cherries and chocolate chips thrown in. This is actually completely delicious, and if I don't tell anybody that I eat it with a cup of hot chocolate, then I'll still be mostly on track for the day.

For lunch today, I will be eating a Lean Cuisine lasagna (also delicious, though woefully small), with a bunch of green grapes and some strawberry yogurt as my two sides. My lunchtime dessert is not on the INADIALC meal plan, but since it is a 90-calorie bag of chocolate drizzled mini rice cakes, I don't count it as a cheat. Neither do I count the caffeine free Diet Dr. Pepper. It has no calories, so I don't know from what ghost-ingredients it is made, but it must be magic, and magic doesn't count against me in the War on Baby Weight.

Dinner tonight will be shrimp and veg kabobs, grilled, served over brown rice, with a large salad of spinach leaves, radishes, non-salmonella-infected tomatoes (fingers crossed), and olives. The olives are my second cheat of the day, unless you count the hot chocolate, in which case they are my third (unless you count the hot chocolate AND the rice cakes, in which case they are my fourth.) My final cheat will be my nighttime sweet, a very small scoop of fat free strawberry ice cream, but since it's fat free (but double churned, and thus relatively delicious) I don't count that against me either.

This INADIALC meal plan is actually quite followable. It gives lots of snacks, the meals are great and large and filling and I usually like them. It forces me to get up early and make a nice breakfast (well, the baby forces me to get up early, but the INADIALC meal plan gives me something to do with my extra morning time). And clearly I don't force myself to stick to it absolutely.

Because, you know, last night for dinner I had a chicken burrito supreme and a beer. Whatevs. I'm not made of willpower, you know.

We All Know What I Would Eat

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love to eat. LOVE to eat. Anyone who has known me for any amount of time also knows that my list of favorite foods is long and full of junk. So it should not be any surprise to you at all that my last meal would contain a long list of awful-for-you-food that all tastes divine. Let us begin.

I would begin my meal with chips and salsa from On The Border (OTB). Of course. I would pair that with a strawberry margarita. The sweet and salty always make me happy. I would then have a serving of chicken fajitas from OTB. At this point, I would probably already be stuffed. However, if this is my last meal, you can bet that I will go out with a stomach FULL of food.

Next, I would have a piece of thin-crust Domino's cheese pizza and an order of their breadsticks. I would follow that up with some Cheetos for something a little bit lighter and I would pair that with a Mountain Dew.

Then I would have a nice glass of Oliver Winery's Soft Rose. Just to give myself a few minutes to reflect upon the things I had just eaten.

And then? Bring on the fair food! Corn on the cob, home-made potato chips, Sno Cones, lemon shake-ups and, of course, funnel cakes!

At this point, I would probably either pass out or explode. It may be an explosion of happiness, but an explosion nonetheless. I am sure it would not be pretty, but if I am dead I probably do not care, do I? Seriously, if I can have this meal, bring on the death explosion! Then again, this insane eating may just be another Saturday afternoon at my house -- but Superman and I will never tell.

I Wonder What I'd Eat?

Bring on Breakfast Bar! It was my favorite in college, and it’s my favorite now. However, I’d like it to be prepared by some of my favorite local restaurants. A list:

*Spiced pancakes (maybe even seasonal pumpkin-spiced) from Paul’s Pancake Parlor, with the options of both maple and huckleberry syrup. And P3 bacon, b/c when I ask for it well-done, they bring it to me almost black and definitely ready to disintegrate … not a speck of that ooky white floppy fat remaining! Thanks, P3.

*Biscuits and gravy from Philipsburg Café. It’s heavenly … all creamy warm gravy (not that paint-primer-colored institutional junk) with big chunks of country sausage (not the kind that’s been flayed into submission and resembles the ground beef in cheap spaghetti) and soft, flaky biscuits like my mom can make from scratch with no recipe in sight. My friend from Texas and I were raving to the server at the Café about how those were the best B&G we’d had west of the Mississippi and north of the Mason-Dixon … and it turned out she was the owner and head cook—and was from East Tennessee! No wonder.

*Scrambled eggs and home fries from the Old Post Pub. The eggs are fluffy and just the right color, always hot, and sprinkled w/a touch of scallions and fresh black pepper. The home fries are crispy outside, mealy inside, season-salted, and don’t need a drop of ketchup. Now that’s magic.

*Birdman-bread toast from Hob Nob Café. Not familiar with Birdman bread from Le Petit Outre? Send me $10 and I’ll blow your mind and taste buds via mail. I can’t really try to explain it … you just need to experience it.

*Just so nobody will accuse my Breakfast Bar of being too unhealthy, let’s not forget the array of fresh fruit like they serve at Finn & Porter’s famous Sunday brunch! My requirements include huge strawberries that practically spill juice on your shirt when you bite into them, pre-peeled orange wedges, deep red-purple seedless grapes, and kiwi. We can throw in some pineapple rings, honeydew melon and cantaloupe, whole bananas that are still just a tiny bit green, and a raspberry-blueberry mix for good measure.

*If it’s my final meal, I want to have drink options. And since Breakfast Bar is the perfect selection anytime of day or night, I want to be an equal-opportunity drinker. 1% milk, cranberry juice and water are all a must, but so are Mimosas and Bloody Marys from Sean Kelly’s (I’ve never had them, but more than one person claims they’re the best in town). And if there are not Loose Caboose mochas available, we’ll just have to start all over some other time.

This, folks, is the perfect meal. Yes, I left out waffles; yes, I left out blueberry muffins; yes, I left out chocolate-glazed Krispy Kremes. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. And you want to leave Breakfast Bar feeling satisfied that you were able to get to every single item and give some of it the attention and devouring it deserves. Having to skip something (or have someone roll you out of your chair) is just depressing. So no haters who quibble about my Breakfast Bar’s being incomplete since there are no coffee cakes or honey-baked ham or cheesy grits. This is my last meal, OK? Cut me some slack! I’m about to shuffle off this mortal coil for whatever reason! I deserve to die happy.

Before I started this Wonder, I ate half of a chocolate-chip cookie (not even a homemade one) for breakfast, so now I’m very depressed.

i wonder what my final meal would be.

i love food. all kinds of food. anything from mexican, to indian cuisine, to a good old fashion cheeseburger. this past weekend, we went camping and i got to indulge in one of my most favorite foods ever. s'mores. i absolutely love them! i could eat them every day for the rest of my life and never tire of them. i think they are the world's best food invention and i bow to their creator. the concoction is just genius!

another of my favorites is donuts. specifically, i love chocolate long johns from a local bakery. to die for, i tell ya. to die for. they are light and fluffy and the chocolate isn't slippery like it can be on some donuts. their long johns are frosted to perfection and simply melt in my mouth. my day is always brighter when i get a one. i do enjoy the donuts from dunkin' donuts, but they can't quite beat the taste that comes from the local bakery. mom and pop bakeries always have the chain bakeries beat. don't you agree?

and if i had to choose a final meal before my last dying breath, you can bet your sweet bippy that s'mores and long johns would be at the top of the list. i'd also take a plate of boneless buffalo wings with a side of ranch sauce, please. and while we're at it, let's throw in a slice of mushroom pizza from dominos and a butter burger from culver's (extra cheese and mayo). to wash it all down, i'll have a large dr. pepper and a jamocha chocolate shake from arby's.

and with that, i'd stuff myself silly with my huge plate of food, enjoying and savoring every bite. i'd put a smile on my face and die one big, fat, happy girl.

a random wonder for the day.

my apologies for slacking this week. i was at a meeting for our state association on monday and tuesday and then decided that hell, half the week was over, so what was the point in a new topic? besides, i saw wicked m last night, so i know she wouldn't have had a chance to post on here. and, if i'm not mistaken, g love is out west visiting mso rin. so, instead of posting this week, the four of us WW had a wonderful time chatting in person.

btw, wicked m, it was beyond fabulous to spend some time with you last night! and i hope the damage from aj's plastic sword lashings is healing well. mso and g love, i hope you are having a great time catching up too!

so that this week is not all lost, i do have a wonder today. it actually struck me when i was in the shower this morning. i reached for my razor and read the word printed on it "QUATTRO." i have had this razer forever and have read the word "QUATTRO" several times each week, but never has it sparked a 'wonder.' until today.

i understand that they named the razer 'QUATTRO' because it has four blades. it's a nice play off of the spanish word for the number four which we all know is 'quatro.' but i wonder if other countries use this type of word play with english words. do you think there is a razer somewhere in mexico called 'four?'

Just Take Em Out Back and Shoot Em

When one lives in the pseudo ghetto (or rather, on the edge of the pseudo ghetto), one must put up with many things. Like waiting for the dozen cars departing en masse from the drug dealer house, before one can continue through the stop sign. Or running sans headphones, so one can listen for the sound of the footsteps of the neighborhood rapist come to stalk one. Or hearing pops in the night, and not being able to tell oneself - oh, it was just a car backfiring! At 3am!

All of these things are well and good, and part of the myriad and interesting patterns in the tapestry of life, and I enjoy them heartily. However, if I was Queen of the World (or even Queen of the Pseudo Ghetto), I would outlaw the doodj doodj music.

Picture this. You have a newborn who has kept you up for four days straight. In the wee hours of the morning on day 5, he finally manages to sleep for more than half an hour, and you yourself have nestled down and closed your eyes and started to drift off to the blessed Land of Nod. And then -

Doodj doodj doodj doodj

It echoes through your brain. It rattles in your chest. It wakes you, but more pressingly, it wakes the baby. It is 2 in the morning, and somebody wants you to know that he has an AWESOME bass in his rattletrap car.

So. In the land of G Love, when such a thing happens, it would be perfectly legal for you to trot out to your gun rack, pull down a rifle, and shoot out the offending driver's tires. Or better yet, his sound system. The ghetto is used to the sound of gunshots. Nobody would bat an eye.

Outlaw This!

So this is sort of a dreamland outlaw wish, but I am putting it out there nonetheless. I would absolutely, positively outlaw my body (and everyone else's!) from totally redistributing weight without my approval and I would also not allow cellulite to make an appearance on anyone's body. Because seriously? WTF.

In the past I enjoyed a slender body that allowed me to eat whatever I wanted and gain nary an ounce. True, I played sports all through high school and that probably helped keep my metabolism jacked up to cheetah-like levels, but it was fantastic. The sad part was that I did not even appreciate it at the time. Apparently? Cellulite is my punishment for that oversight. I went off to college, stopped playing sports and apparently thought that I would never gain weight. I was, clearly, an idiot. The reality of my weighty (ha!) situation smacked me in the face when I saw a picture of myself on my 24th birthday. Woof. I was puffy and fluffy -- and it was not pretty.

So, I started working out. I tried to eat right. I lost some weight and I found what I thought to be my body's "normal" size. And then I turned 30. Ever since that magical birthday, my body has been in a constant state of rebellion. My thighs have spread like chocolate icing. My cellulite has reached far and wide (ha!) and causes me embarrassment every time I have to wear a bathing suit. I mean, for someone who runs and works out as much as I do, cellulite, weight gain, and redistribution of weight should not be much of an issue. It is very frustrating.

So, I am outlawing all of this right now. No more crazy redistribution of weight overnight and no more cellulite! No more cottage cheese thighs and floppy skin on arms! No more turkey waddle and no more saddlebags. Now let me go enjoy my Cheetos in peace, thankyouverymuch.

I Wonder What I'd Make Illegal?

You know what I really hate? When you take even one day off from work and come back to find that all holy hell broke loose while you were gone ... because you were gone. I'm all for being irreplaceable, but come on. Our coworkers can negotiate eight hours without their hands being held, right? Wait. Don't answer that.

So I think it should be illegal for people to have to "pay" for going on vacation/taking a personal day/being ill. Nobody should have to do twice as much work on the day of her return or suffer under mountains of "catching up" for a week that will make the memories of her pleasant time away fade too quickly.

It shouldn't be lawful for someone's stress to make her say, "You know what? It almost wasn't worth it."

It's just shameful. And until there's no more penalty work for PTO, I'm going to fight back by posting on the clock and taking every second of my lunch break.

Right. Now.

Please sign the understood petition in the comment section.

if i could outlaw one thing, i wonder what it'd be...

after spending 6 hours at the local aquatic center yesterday, i do believe that i would create a law banning large, older women from wearing string bikinis. i used to work at a gift shop in a water park during my high school years. i saw plenty of people wearing things that they really shouldn't have worn. i saw my fair share of incredibly large, hairy-backed men in speedos, but for some reason, they didn't bother me as much as the women. thankfully, i didn't see one set of speedos yesterday, but i saw plenty of rather large women in teeny, tiny bikinis.

please don't get me wrong. i think it's fabulous that they have the self confidence to wear something like that. self confidence in my swimsuit clad self is something i most definitely lack. but, i would think that one look in the mirror would tell these gals that their swimsuit of choice was not a good one. take, for instance, the one gal that i could absolutely not take my eyes off of yesterday. she was older -- maybe late-40s or so -- and wore this swimsuit that i'm not sure even a sports illustrated model could pull off. it was actually a one-piece, but the area between her boobs was completely cut out down to her belly button. the whole time she was there, i worried that her boobs would pop out. no lie, her bathing suit just *barely* covered her nipple area. s.c.a.r.y. to be honest, i'm not quite sure how she kept her boobs covered. sticky tape, maybe? she was trying to rock out a body that she obviously didn't have.

maybe i shouldn't have stared so much. maybe she thought that because all of our eyes were oogling out of our heads, we thought she looked fantastic when quite the opposite was true. maybe that's why she wore it. because she thought she looked hot.

in my dream world, she wouldn't be able to wear such an item. the pool patrol would've stopped her before she even paid her admission fee and told her to change. the dark suited man with sunglasses and detective hat would say, "ma'am, your swimsuit is inappropriate for your age and body type. before we can allow you access to our public pool, you must change into something that doesn't allow your twins to see the light of day. entrance is denied." and then she would change. and then my eyes wouldn't hurt from the oogling strain.

Who Knows Me Best?

My husband.

Now gotta go wash up after a poop explosion.

Cat Knows Best?

I have been pondering this question all week since learning of the topic. I mean, who really knows me? The easy answer is my mother. She has known me since before I was born and can read my emotions like an open book. We are very similar, have somewhat similar temperaments, and she always knows when to call so that I can download all of my pent up feelings to her. She knows just how to say things to calm me down, she understands why I am crying over the silliest things, and she "gets" me.

The other easy answer is my father. We have identical senses of humor, we both have a practicality about us, and we both deal with situations head on and without fear. We just do things, get them done and move on. My father seems to have a sixth sense for when I need a kick in the biscuit, when I need a kind word, and when I just need him to make me laugh. He has an almost eerie sense of knowing when I might need to talk to him and will call within minutes of my thinking of him.

The obvious answer, though, is my husband. He is my closest friend and confidante. He lives with me every day and knows just when to offer a hug, offer a hand, or offer an ear. He knows when to tell me that I am acting like a brat and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. He understands my crazy moods, laughs at my silly dance moves, and thinks that I am cute when I talk about a certain type of food that I love to eat. He knows about my crazy college past and he is probably quite thankful that he met me after that period of my life passed. He knows my closest girlfriends and loves them for the same reasons I do. He treats my family with respect because he knows how important they are to me. He truly understands me in a way that no longer requires words and that means everything. He truly is my soul mate and knows me better than anyone else out there.*

*Except for maybe Wondercat. He has known me for over ten years and can read my moods without fail. He cuddles me when I am sick, knows that he needs to cuddle me when I am home alone at bedtime, and he knows when to go run and hide. But I could not very well say that a cat knows me better than my husband!

Who Gets Me?

Living far away from your best friends really sucks. It’s practically indescribable how much it sucks—just imagine only seeing the people you love most in the world outside your family once a year … or usually, once every two years. Or even twice in five years or something ridiculous like that. It’s impossible, no matter how hard you try, to stay just as close (or continue to grow closer) to people in other time zones as you were when you lived together or lived in the same town or lived in the same state. You can’t share day-to-day experiences the same way or get support the same way or trade jokes the same way or give/get hugs or—what I believe to be one of the most important ways to stay bonded—even just exist in the same room or restaurant or movie theatre or mall or bar or concert.

My best friends and I are still super-tight, don’t get me wrong. I would sacrifice anything for them and they know it … and I know I can count on them anytime of day or night (except during certain TV finales). I miss them like crazy and we try to plan phone dates and visits when we can. But it’s really hard and it really sucks. How can you really, truly know someone intimately when you’ve never physically been in her home or even the town where she’s lived for four or five years? How can you create an accurate mental picture of the story she’s telling you over the phone about work and that crazy coworker when you aren’t exactly positive what a typical workday is like for her? As hard as you try, how can you fully comprehend her current existence when you’ve never met her children or only spent 48 hours with her beloved husband in your whole life?

Actually, the same goes for family, too. You just can’t stay as close to them as you did when you were young when you’re scattered across the country. Or I haven’t been able to, anyway.

So. My nearest non-husband best friend is my little sister Kat (she lives 9 hours away); therefore, The Boy is, by default, the person in the world who knows me best. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s a great thing. It’s the right thing.

Except when it’s irritating: I was just saying to Wicked M last night, “Everyone needs to have a tough-love friend to call you out on your s***!” And that’s what the person who knows you best has exclusive rights on … alerting you when you’re getting too big for your britches or acting like a baby or being paranoid. And he/she can usually do so in five words or less and sometimes before you’ve even decided to get egotistical or bratty or freaked.

My wonderful, sweet, funny and capable mate, like super jas does for super jane, knows all my most embarrassing stories, my most triumphant moments, my lowest lows, and loves me despite and because of them. He knows things about me I would just die before revealing to my best friends (my family? Fuhgetaboudit!) and half the time would prefer not to admit to myself. He knows what I’m thinking even when I don’t. Now, we all know that one thing he doesn’t know about me is that I’m a Wonder Woman, but that’s one of the only things about which he’s not aware. He knows important things (what I love about my job) and trivial things (how I like my hot dogs). He senses when he can tell me I “might rather wear something else” and when to just tell me I “look beautiful” and kiss my forehead. He remembers who my old boyfriends are and who my favorite band is. Now, my best girlfriends know most of these things, too, but I don’t expect them to. And what’s a strong relationship without high expectations?

It’s almost unfair, though, that he automatically got catapulted to the top of the “Who Gets Me Best?” list—constant physical proximity counts for a lot in knowing someone (see my rant at the opening of this Wonder) and stagexing doesn’t really have a choice! Sometimes I have to admit that I miss living w/another female … especially when he changes the channel just after I’ve found “Sex and the City” reruns on TBS (our only cable option besides C-Span).

I can only wonder when the day will come that I’ll be able to be somewhere where I can be even better friends w/my girls than I am now. Until then, I’ll just cling to my best friend, who understands how I feel.

i wonder who knows me best?

after a long weekend visit, my mom left our house this morning. i love visits with my family because we talk about the old times and about our family history and about me growing up. being a mom myself, i feel like i know my kids like the back of my hand. i know what they're thinking and feeling before they have the chance to tell me. it's that 'mommy instinct' that people talk about. it really does exist. at least with me, anyway. i bet my mom feels that same way about me. she knows me so well; after all, she raised me. so, as super jas, my mom, and i were watching 'the mole' on tv last night, i got to thinking. the people i was with are two of the most important(est) people in my whole life. they love me unconditionally and know so much about me. that being said, who knows me best?

it's a tough call really. super jas knows my likes and dislikes, but does he know why those things are so? my mom, on the other hand, knows what i like and dislike and probably knows the reasoning behind it - since most of that stems from some childhood experience of mine. it's almost like i have to explain things to super jas and not to my mom. my mom possesses that mommy instinct too. i'm transparent to her, whereas super jas has to do a little more digging to figure out why i feel the way i do.

as far as secrets go, super jas has this category locked up! he knows things about me that no one else in this world does. and surprisingly enough, he still loves me! he knows stories from my childhood that not even my mom knows...he spent 3 years with me at college and, well, what happened there needs to stay there! ;) and now, as adults, super jas knows my innermost thoughts, ideas, and aspirations. i tell him things that i know others may have a hard time hearing. i tell him things that i just need to get out, but am scared to say for fear of upsetting others. he's a great listener.

i guess my mom and super jas both know me very, very well, but have gained that knowledge in differing ways. super jas has learned about me through my words. through my stories. through my thoughts. my mom, however, just knows things. i don't need to utter a word for her to know that i'm upset or happy or worried or simply in a mood to be quiet. they both get me. they both get me very well. and i'm forever grateful that i have such wonderful people in my life who love me even after unraveling the mystery that is me.