playgroupsarenoplaceforchildren

I did not wake up this morning to a little boy standing at the edge of my bed staring and giggling at me.

I had time to take my shower and get completely ready before the kids woke up.

Both children sat right down to breakfast without whining or yelling.

Breakfast was SpongeBob free.

Ella tenderly hand-fed me imaginary blue stars.  I assume they were delicious.

Carson and Ella’s version of the game peek-a-boo, didn’t end with someone in tears.

I didn’t clean up any bowls of cereal off the floor.

The kids helped me load and start the dishwasher without fighting or making a huge mess.

Carson got himself dressed without me ever having to say, “GET DRESSED, NOW!”

As I pulled Ella’s shirt over her head, she proudly proclaimed, “I have two arms!!”

Carson helped Ella put on her socks.

Excuse me while I bask in the glory of a rare good start to the day.

(Please ignore the poor quality of the pictures, I wasn’t going for perfection, I just wanted to capture the moments!)

*****

I made a serendipitous discovery!  Emily at Chatting the Sky hosts a little thing called “gifts on a tuesday.” I think my precious moment was a perfect gift on a Tuesday.

I know that I poke fun at Tate right here on the ol’ blog a lot. Maybe too often.

In my defense, I’ve tried and tried to get him to start his very own blog to record his OWN stories in his OWN words. He could also use his own platform to make fun of me. Surely I’d be as good a source of blog material as he is!

Sometimes I feel sort of bad that he gets his panties in a wad about things I’ve said about him or pictures of him that I’ve posted. I’m not trying to make fun of him outright , (YES, REALLY), I just think that the way we interact is often funny and it’s a source for inspiration.

So in honor of my wonderful husband, I’m going to try and devote an entire post to NOT spinning the facts into hilarious yarns where he ends up the Sonny to my Cher. (TRY.) (It’s the operative word.)

For the first time in I-can’t-remember-how-long-because-my-brain-shot-out-of-me-with-Carson, Tate completely surprised me for Christmas. Since I’m *trying* to be nice, I won’t link to any of the posts I’ve written about not surprisingly being, well, NOT surprised.

This whole being surprised thing is significant because really all I ever want for Christmas is TO BE SURPRISED. (And it certainly doesn’t hurt if the surprise is something I like. A LOT.)

Tate was even so thoughtful to give me one of my gifts early. Before our trip to the North Pole, he presented me with my first gift of the Christmas season.

“I thought you’d like to open this one early,” he said, carefully placing it into my open hands.

The small-ish, square-shaped box held inside the camera lens I’ve been desperately wanting.

With tears in my eyes he explained, “I knew you’d want to take pictures of the kids tonight, so I hope it’s alright that I’m giving it to you now.”

(So far, so good in the being nice to Tate on my blog, yes? It’s super simple when HE does nice things!)

For weeks Tate had been acting panicked about having NOTHING to give me. He really did have to work a ridiculous amount of time between Thanksgiving and Christmas and hadn’t spent any time actually shopping, so it wasn’t unreasonable to believe him. After he gave me the lens, he asked me if my feelings would be hurt if that was my only gift. Since I’m not poking fun at Tate today, I won’t divulge why he said the lens was my only gift.

So come Christmas morning I was pleasantly surprised to receive dangly handmade earrings (by a jewelry maker, not handmade by Tate), brand new running shoes, and the Les Halles Cookbook by Anthony Bourdain (my pretend celebrity boyfriend.)

One gift remained, purposely held back by Tate.

“Don’t open that one yet,” he placed it gingerly alongside the other three gifts. “This one is the big-hitter!” He beamed proudly from ear to ear as I tried to imagine what could be better than a new lens, shoes, earrings, and my food porn bible. I ran through the things that I’d been really wanting. “Could it be the external flash I’ve had my eye on? Or maybe a Mac laptop?!” Oh how my mind soared with the possibilities!

Eagerly, yet carefully I unwrapped the gift. I wanted to savor each moment leading up to the big hitter gift, knowing that it would be something I’d remember for years. And truly, it IS something I’ll always remember.

(Tate wanted to know WHY I asked him to take a picture of me in my Snuggie. “You’re going to mock me on your blog again, aren’t you?” My response, an indignant, “…!”

(Carson ADORES the pink Snuggie.)

In the interest of saying only nice things today, I’ll end with, Happy 35th Birthday, Tate! I’m proud to be your wife and love having the distinct honor of loving you and poking fun at you on the Internet.

After a brutally long eleven hour drive home, we pulled up to our much missed home to find it adorned with Christmas lights.  Two mini Christmas trees and a wreath adorned the front porch and door, welcoming us.

Inside, the house was clean and free of the usual toys and clutter.  On the kitchen counter sat a crystal vase that held wonderfully fragrant calla lilies.  The oven light revealed a rotisserie chicken and sweet potatoes, warmed and ready to be eaten.  After dinner, Tate dished us up chocolate chunk brownies that he had baked himself.

The dirty laundry had been washed and placed in drawers and closets.  The towels and sheets were fresh.  Groceries for the upcoming week had already been purchased and were even put away in the pantry and refrigerator.

It’s just a wild guess, but I think Tate might have missed us while we were gone.

Today Tate and I celebrate our eight year anniversary.

On the morning of July 14, 2001, I woke up very early, unable to go back to sleep due to the anticipation of this long awaited day. I went down to the hotel lobby to have breakfast. My dad happened to be in the lobby, so he and I ate breakfast together. Sitting there with just my dad before my big day is one of my favorite memories from the day.

Later that morning, I saw my grandpa. He asked me if I knew that July 14th was also my grandmother’s birthday, she’d passed away when I was just a young child. I hadn’t known that our wedding date was also her birthday, making the day that much more special.

My dress made me feel like a princess.  I wish I had a reason to wear it again.

When the doors of the church opened, Tate looked like he was going to cry. I’ve asked him many times since if it was because of my breathtaking beauty or his nerves…of course, he always answers correctly. It was all I could do not to ugly cry as I walked down the aisle.

At our reception, I told the DJ that I did not want to hear any music by AC/DC or Rush, two of my most detested bands. It didn’t matter if one of the reception guests requested to hear one of their songs, he was supposed to tell them that he’d add it to his list but then never get to it. He respected my wishes. Smart DJ.

We served a buffet dinner, which sadly I barely remember. I know I ate, I know that we had prime rib, but I don’t even recall if it was good. So sad to not even remember the food. I love reminiscing about food. What’s even more sad though, is that I only got one bite of wedding cake. I told Tate prior to the wedding that if he smeared cake in my face, he’d pay dearly. Tate respected my wishes. Smart Tate.

We decided that getting a limo to drive us to our hotel where we’d spend our wedding night would be silly. To save money, my mom drove us to our hotel. I remember laughing as she dropped us off, knowing what we were getting ready to go do for the VERY FIRST TIME. *ahem*

Tate carried me over the threshold. Thinking about that still makes my heart flutter.

A wedding is just one day out of a marriage, but ours was a WONDERFUL day to BEGIN our marriage. I had no doubt in my mind that I was making the right choice. I still have no doubt that Tate is my one and only.

Originally published last year with seven memories, for our seventh anniversary.

Anthony Bourdain is the epitome of cool.  I mean, anyone who openly doesn’t like Bobby Flay is someone I want to know.

Maybe you haven’t heard of Anthony Bourdain?  He’s only the author of several New York Times’ best selling books and host of The Travel Channel’s No Reservations, adventurous eater, occasional guest judge on Bravo’s Top Chef, a chef himself, and well, all around cool guy.  He even has a blog! people!  A blog!  Which, obviously, makes him _that_ much more cool.

Did I mention how cool Anthony Bourdain is?

As someone who rarely gets to eat any place of culinary consequence, who has proclaimed that they are scared as hell to travel outside of the U.S., and if I were to visit a foreign country, I’d be too scared to try actual authentic food, too afraid of looking stupid or doing the wrong thing, I live vicariously through Chef Bourdain.  He eats things that I’d only dream of eating, truly local flavors, some things that I’d LOVE to try, others, uh, not so much.  (The no list including bugs, head cheese, durian, or drinking straight vodka with every meal…Russia I’m looking at YOU.)   I dream of being foodie and I look to him inspiration.

Saturday night I got to hear Anthony Bourdain speak of food and loving food and traveling and culture and drinking (2nd row, yo!!!). He was witty, sarcastic, and surprisingly warm.  After his talk, those of us VIPS (said in my best snooty person voice) GOT TO MEET Anthony Bourdain!  I got to actually talk to him!  He signed my boobs books!

All of us la-ti-da VIPS got to eat like him (though it was served buffet style and I’m quite sure that Chef Bourdain abhors buffets). The menu?  Oh holy deliciousness, a foodie’s dream, MY dream, but best of all, my reality.  A whole pig roasted, braised pork cheeks, with warm pimento biscuit, fennel slaw, and flavored honey, venison, lamb, and bison sausages with house-made mustards, charcuterie selection including sweetbread terrine, smoke pork jowls, chicken liver paté…and much, much, more.  My favorite?  The smoked duck breast.  So delicious.  (Thank you Northshore Brasserie for the delectable spread.  Next time we’re in Knoxville, I will be seeing YOU again.)

********

You know it’s a good evening when you are trying to work your camera, but for the life of yourself CANNOT remember how to set your camera to let in more light in such a dark theatre, but having at least some wherewithall not to set the camera to automatic during his speech because ***FLASH*** would be a little distracting and OBVIOUS.  Thank you too many chardonnays.

Eventually my drunken brain remembered to change the ISO.  Voila!  Less blurry pictures.  Maybe they would have turned out better had I not been tipsy and not exactly steady handed?  Whatevs.  It was all worth it.

My husband is not what I would call romantic, but he is a character.  At least he has that going for himself.

Valentine’s day morning with barely opened eyelids, I walked into the kitchen.  I began my daily routine of sleepily emptying the dishwasher.  Tate stood obtrusively around, clearing his throat and doing odd head bobs.  Finally I realized he was trying to get my attention.

I turned around and saw a single rose in a vase on my kitchen counter.

Everyone together now…”Aaaaaah!”

I hugged Tate and thanked him for getting me a rose.  While hugging him, I noticed that the rose seemed a little…unreal, a little velvety.

Tate saw my quizzical scowl and asked me if I noticed anything special about the rose.

“Well, it looks like it’s a velvet rose.”  I was trying hard not to sound annoyed (or to start crying, because A VELVET ROSE????  Could there be anything more UNromantic???).

Tate was beaming from ear to ear.  “Yes, dear, it is a velvet rose.  It will never die, just like my love for you.  This rose is a symbol of my eternal love for you.”

Everybody together now…*eye roll* and “Puh-leeze!”

“Are you kidding?”  I asked, again trying not to sound too annoyed or to cry.

Tate went on to explain how he came to give me a velvet rose.  For Valentine’s Day.  That was supposed to symbolize his eternal love.  And how this was somehow a good idea.

The previous evening, Tate had gone to happy hour with some of his coworkers to a Mexican restaurant (even though he never gets home before 7PM most nights and he knows how much I’d appreciate him getting home early JUST ONCE, but who’s keeping score?  Oh no.  Not me, no siree.).  I’m not sure if Tate had had too  many beers or if he was struck suddenly mentally impaired, the details were sketchy, but he  had the “good” idea to buy one of the velvet rose centerpieces on the table of this Mexican restaurant to give me as a Valentine’s Day gift.

*Heavy sigh*

Tate asked the waitress how much they would charge him for the flower and vase set.  She went to go ask the manager and returned with the price of five dollars.

“Sold!” Tate had proclaimed.

The manager apparently thought that Tate had a death wish and told him so.  Since he was such a big spender, the manager said that he could choose any flower in the restaurant just for me.  For laughs, the manager threw in some bags of decorative blue and yellow glass rocks to make the velvet rose presentation even fancier.

“Did you notice how I layered the glass rocks in the vase?  Yellow, blue, yellow?”  Tate beamed as he pointed out his artistic creation.

“Well.  It’s very, um, thoughtful,”  this time I was trying not to laugh.

“This rose symbolizes my eternal love for you,”  Tate explained.  Again.

“Yes.  You’ve already mentioned that.”

“Do you really not like it?  I thought you’d think this was funny?”  he asked, feigning the sound of disappointment.

“Actually, I love this Tate.  You’ve given me something to blog about.”

Now if giving your wife blogable material isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

‘Twas the night before Christmas Eve Eve
And all throughout my house
Chaos and toys had taken over
I shrugged and said, “It’s time to get soused.”

The wine glasses were filled to the brim with care
in hopes that a cleaning fairy soon would be there
With Tate wrapping presents and I frantically dusting
I suddenly yelled, “This bathroom’s disgusting.”

When down in the basement there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my duties to see what was the matter
Away to the kids’ rooms, I flew in a flash
But the kids were asleep lightning fast.

Tate mentioned something about my “moon” and my breasts
I just rolled my eyes at this wonky sex attempt, as you probably guessed
He retreated in defeat and went back to wrapping
I finished up cleaning and yearned for some napping

With an arm full of gifts, Tate came upstairs
I rummaged through the gifts to catch any spares
One for Carson, for Ella, for Tate, and for Nanny
For Papa, Uncle J, Aunt M, and for me

From Etsy, From Amazon, I already knew
Two more boxes, surprises!
How exciting!
Phew!

My eyes how they twinkled!
This Christmas would be merry!
Even though my butt is all dimpled
and my fat rolls are like jelly

I spoke not a word, but went straight to work
I tugged on Tate’s hand and said, “you deserve a perk!”
We went back to the bedroom, for cuddles and kisses
Tate was quite pleased to get all of his wishes

And I heard him exclaim as he drifted off to sleep,
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.  I got you surprises to keep.”

(Slightly edited version originally published last year.)