The Memory of a Lifetime...and he got a toaster.

When we bought our house, the front door was a perfectly respectable color:  a nice, stately black.  A little faded, yes, but otherwise nice.  Just nice.  It didn't scream at you if you drove by. It matched the shingles.  Perfectly fine, but so not me.  Shortly after moving in, I painted it red.  Red seemed like the perfect color on that particular day, and I lived with it for a bit until it wasn't the perfect color anymore.

It must be stated at this point that my mother is the queen of all things color.  It's like some weird sense only few people have, like the ability to see auras. At least I think that is also an amazing skill.  I truly believe her color thingy trumps Martha Stewart's or any other gazillionaire decorator.  

Perfection.

So, Mother and I decided it was time to move away from the red and onto new frontiers.  She brought over her chips (I must tell you at this point she has at least 15 boxes ~ those clear shoebox size ~ full of paint chips, all organized in ways only art people would understand, which is to say I don't.) and we found this color of green and declared it the "perfect" shade of green.  And it is.  Perfect for all seasons and any color of flowers should I ever get off my lazy arse and actually plant flowers.  

Upon arriving home to find the front door area covered in plastic and painter's tape, my husband asked exactly why I needed to change the color. We promptly explained the concept of the "perfect" shade of green.  It doesn't scream at you; rather, it invites you to sit on the (matching but horribly painted by a pissed-off 12 year-old) front bench, but watch for the stray nails poking out here and there.  It says, "This door opens to a happy house." (Most of the time, but never at the nasty homework hour.)  It reminds me to frolic about and not be so serious.  Mother can read colors, but they speak to me. They do not, under any circumstances, speak to my husband.  The door has become the butt of all jokes:  "Is that the perfect pair of shoes, like the perfect front door?"  and so on....

So what has my amazing front door got to do with anything?

Well, let me tell you...

I should have known there was a plot brewing because my better half was very sure to remind me several times how he was waiting until at least December 21 to shop, and it might possibly be December 23.  Let me clarify right here.  He is a liar.  As I was explaining to him we should not spend much on each other and I had only gotten him two small things, and quite unglorious gifts at that, he already had my gift.  Did I mention he was a liar? He let me carry on with my heartfelt conversation about saving money and such, all the while knowing his gift was snugly wrapped up and tucked away. Liar.  But I heart him for his lie because his gift was a once-in-a-lifetime, glorious, exquisite and joyful thing from the bottom of his amazing heart.

I was given a box, a quite nice Dior white leather box, from my mother. I knew something was going to happen and that something would make me cry, so I went ahead and started before I opened anything.  I like to be proactive that way.  While I had started my crying jag, I opened the box to find a sweet pale pink hankie with a note:

Are you crying yet?

I never have a hankie or a tissue or anything remotely appropriate when I cry. I pinch the snot and wipe my eyes with my hands because in my head I'm not a tender-hearted mush.  I'm a tough broad, and yet I cry at every inappropriate moment...

At this point, Niagra Falls is a tiny creek barely an inch deep compared to the waterworks I am providing.  My husband tenderly passes me a box and I manage to open it.  Inside I find a CD case...in the perfect shade of green. When I open it, I find a CD with a picture of our most recent family photo.  I look up at him and asked him if he had bought the digital rights to that photo session.  He said we should watch it and show the family, so I took my spot front-and-center on the couch while he hooked up everything to the TV.  With children on each side cuddled up, we watched...

My husband, in cahoots with my parents and our wonderful friend/photographer Jessica Sharpe, had compiled a biography of my life, complete with songs special to us and notes from him.  It starts with my baby pictures and Miranda Lambert's "The House That Built Me" and ends with our family photos from this fall with Shania Twain's "You're Still The One".  In between those two songs was the song we danced to at our wedding, "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascall Flatts, which sums up our road perfectly.  

It contains pictures of my precious Aunt (of Stripper Dip fame) and my beloved grandparents, three of whom have passed on.  It was full of funny photos of my high school days, including all my bestest friends.  There were plenty of our children from the days we brought them home from the hospital to their current ages.  It is 39 years of memories placed lovingly together just for me.  That's love, ya'll.

To give you an idea of what they have pulled off, my mother dug through boxes of photos I didn't even know existed.  She pulled together somewhere in the neighborhood of 160 photos!!!  The whole time I've been accusing my better half of wasting his days off, he was patiently scanning pictures and working with Jessica.  Remember that perfect shade of green from the start of this blog? He took a picture of it, emailed it to Jessica, who then color-matched it for the CD case.  It's that detailed.  For real.  They pulled off the gift of a lifetime.

I am blessed.  I am loved.  I am thankful.  And he got a toaster.

The Wife I Am

Most of ya'll probably know I am married man who just happens to be a police officer.  The fact that he married me is almost as shocking as him being a police officer. I would've never seen that when we were in high school!  A while ago I asked him if it would be okay if I wrote about his profession, and he said it was.  This is less about him, though, and more about what it's like for the rest of us.

When we were all younger and less wise, police officers were those people to be avoided.  They gave you tickets for speeding and took you "downtown" when you got caught rolling people's homes in the middle of the night.  (Not that I did that, but my favorite "associates" might have...)  They were intimidating and you avoided them like the plague.  Some people still think of them this way:  Scary, mean, not to be trusted.

I wonder what it is like to be married to someone who works 9-5 Monday through Friday...what it's like to have every weekend free...how it would be to eat dinner as a family each night.  I wonder if life would be different if we had to share a bathroom each morning before beginning our days...or got into bed together to wind down and talk about how the day had gone.

There are many nights he is late getting in, or at least later than I expect.  He usually won't leave until all his shift is in and accounted for, so there's never a "usual" time.  It might be he needs to talk to the shift coming on, or maybe there's paperwork. Whatever it may be, there is usually little time to call me. Not because he doesn't care, but because his responsibility lies elsewhere at that moment.

Whenever this happens, which can be often, I find myself going through my usual thought process:  If he's in trouble, which grandparents do I call if I have to go to the hospital?  What if they're not home?  How fast can I get there?  Can the kids stay in the waiting room?  What if I have to decide if they should go in?  What if he doesn't come home?  Can I raise these kids alone?  Surely God wouldn't ever do this, right?  This is my depressing,  yet necessary, train of thought.

He misses soccer games and school programs.  He has to go out at odd hours sometimes and I'm not sure when he'll be home.  I do a lot of our parenting alone when he is at work.  It's difficult at best to swing between being a one-parent home and a two-parent home.  Add in three kids, and I am waaayyy out-numbered.  

You get used to doing it by yourself and all of a sudden there's another parent in the mix. Shifting between the two is challenging.  It's harder still to get back into the groove of being a couple when you literally haven't seen each other in five days other than a quick good-bye in the hallway.  

Being married to him means I'm not as innocent and trusting as I used to be. I've always been a chicken, but now I'm a paranoid chicken.  Everyone is a potential carjacker/murderer/rapist.  When the house creaks, it's obviously Jack the Ripper coming through the door.  It couldn't be, oh, the house just creaking or anything, ya know, logical.

In short, the person I am has been directly shaped by the person he is and the job he lives.  It colors our family's lives and our friendships.  It has woven itself into everything about us.  It's a different life, but it's mine.

Eden's Meme...Somebody Handed Me the Mic?!

(Clearing of throat) 

Okay, I'm at a birthday party and someone hands me the mic. What words spew out?


This sorta happened once at the birthday party where I fell madly in love with my husband, except he wasn't my husband at the time.  Obviously, because I'd (hopefully) already be in love with him, right?


The dj played a game where two guests faced off.  The dj would say a letter from the alphabet and each person had to say a band's name that started with that letter.  If both guests could name a band, they went to the next round.  First person who couldn't come up with a name lost the game.


I got picked.  Of course.  I stood in front of all these people, some of whom were my parents' friends, but more importantly the cutie I was a little hot for, and played my heart out because I am competitive and I didn't care if it was a stupid game, I came to WIN!


The letter I won on?  D.  Wait, you knew that I'd win, right?  The band?  Dead Kennedys.  The look of bewilderment on my opponent's face was photo-worthy.  I'm not sure if the dj even knew this was really a band, but he held my hand high in victory.


But, I digress.  Eden needs words today.  Here are mine...what I'd say if I got the mic.

allcelebpics.com

"It may have been in pieces, but I gave you the best of me."  
~ Jim Morrison.


I loved, idolized, worshiped Jim Morrison as a kid.  One of my first albums was The Doors Strange Days (thanks, Daddy!)  I was in second grade, and I was bad-ass.  I read his biography years later and a poetry book of his.  I loaned that book to someone in high school and I never saw it again.  Asshole.


There are times when I can only give the best of me in small amounts.  Sometimes I have to tuck my tail under and go hide from the world for a bit.  Sometimes I've given all I've got to someone else who needed it more.  Sometimes I have to give my best to me.  Sometimes I'm just selfish and hoard it because I think you don't deserve it.  Sometimes I want to give you every ounce of my soul and smother you with the best of me.


When this world is over, I will have given you the best I have.  It might have been laced with the worst of me, but I hope there will be more good than bad.  I hope the best is enough to make you walk through this life with me so that the sum of my giving makes up for my periods of selfishness.  It may be in pieces, but you will get the best I've got to give.  Promise.

An Endorsement I Should Totally Get Paid For...Photos,too! YAY!

Remember that guy I blogged about? The one I totally love? Well, I totally love him even more now!!!!  Massive brownie points were scored for a weekend at Biltmore: He not only went on the cheesy tours, but he also wore a sweater to dinner! Dude must love me!


View from room at Inn

 At first we sorta felt like Jed and Elly May rollin' in, but the staff was amazingly gracious and not snotty at all. Bonus points for giving us a larger room, too! The rooms aren't huge and the bathroom was average in size, but it made up for averageness (it's a word if I say so!) in comfort.  So nice to use towels that match and aren't threadbare! For the first time in years, I sat in a bathtub...ahhhh.....


Biltmore House

I don't know if words can adequately describe the house.  Granted I'm a nerd of epic proportions when it comes to houses and history. I can't remember shit historically, but I'm fascinated by it. Dates and persons of importance elude me, but I'm no less intrigued by them.  When we started the tour, it was impressive, but nothing like I saw as we continued.  The weight of history while walking those halls, looking into those rooms, and touching banisters that had been touched by the likes of whom we'll never see again about drowned me.  Standing in the banquet hall surrounded by armor, grand chairs in velvet, three fireplaces over 6 feet tall, and a seven-story ceiling, my eyes welled with tears.  This is a home, not a display case. People lived here:  They dined in this room, slept in these beds, and birthed children in those rooms.  They sat in front of fireplaces and talked ~ not texting another person, but actually having a conversation. They read one of the 10,000+ tomes of literature or played chess. The history is crushing.

I love this statue!!

After my breathtaking, tear-laced afternoon, we had dinner at Cedric's Taven, which is named after Vanderbilt's beloved St. Bernard. The service from everyone was superb, and free dessert was even better! The chef made sure I got an amazing meal even working around my gluten weirdness. 

BEST BURGER EVAH!!

Yeah, I know, I should've taken the pic BEFORE I started eating, but it was just too tempting. AND FREE!
Biltmore Ice Cream bites covered in chocolate=Yummy Goodness

I know we should've probably done something equally amazing on the second day, but we pretty much stayed in the Inn.  We did pretend we were rich and ordered room service.  Nothing like a rose on your breakfast tray!

Room Service, anyone? The bacon was, like, uber thick. Bacon Rules!

After than it was a movie fest.  Not a big deal, but, when you have three kids, an afternoon watching movies without commercials AND a kid needing something is HUGE!! I cried through Russell Crowe's Robin Hood (and lusted a little cause he was H-O-T!) and then cried even harder through The Blind Side. We hit the winery after my Cry Fest 2011, because who doesn't need wine when you're an emotional basketcase?

Part of the machinery involved in making the wine. That's where the grapes are crushed.

The wine tour was free (YAY!) as was the wine tasting. We each sampled about four wines, and we picked one to bring home to the babysitters (aka Grandparents).  I loved when the tour guide said, "You can sample about seven before you stop tasting wine and just start drinking it."  Well said, my boy, well said.

We finished off our trip with dinner at the Inn's Dining Room.  It was a little intimidating at first, because we don't usually dine in this manner (read: our meal didn't come in a bag or a box.) They started us off with a palette stimulating (their words, not mine!) demitasse of cauliflower and asparagus cream soupy thing.  Don't know if it stimulated anything, but it was delish.  I got an amazing salad with greens from their farm, goat cheese, cranberries, and walnuts.  For dinner I got the Filet Mignon with potato/cauliflower gratin.  I can't do it justice, but we'll just label it as orgasmic and you can imagine it.  The server was dressed in a suit and tie and catered to our every need throughout the meal, including the gluten thing.  He brought me a rice flour bread and checked with the chef on everything I ordered.   

After dinner, we ordered dessert and coffee. While we were waiting, they brought a lemon sorbet to cleanse the palette for the sugar rush we were getting ready to participate in.  I love that term: Cleanse the palette.  Truthfully, I could have finished a garlic bulb and I'm always down for some sugary goodness. If there's sugar, I'm not picky.

Kevin chose three sorbets:  Georgia Peach, Pear, and Grapefruit.  They were divine, to say the least.  My dessert was a work of art.  I loved the care and precision that had, obviously, gone into it.  It was a pistachio souffle with cream anglaise. On the side was a small cone of peach sorbet rolled in pistachios.  The server opened the top of the souffle for me and poured it full of the cream anglaise.  Dear God, when I die, please let that be served in Heaven (assuming, of course, that's where I'm headed.)



Simply, there are no words...just, none. Sweet pastry gods, I thank you.


I think it's important to step outside the box every now and again.  When I suggested going there for our anniversary, my better half thought it would suck donkey eggs.  Our theme (everyone has a theme for trips, right?!) was to step outside the box.  When we would discuss doing something, if one of us started to get icky about it, the other one would say "Step outside the damn box!"  We managed to have a marvelous time and added another memory to wander back to when we are old and gray.  Outside the box is good.

The love o' me life!

My Husband Is Considering Legal Action Against Me

Seriously. He told me so the other night. His exact words were, "I'm filing suit for false bill of goods. You sold me on a false bill of goods, woman."  I asked him to provide proper evidence of his allegations. I watch a lot of Law & Order, and I wanted to be an attorney when I was 10, so I know how this business of law works.

His first piece of evidence was my clothing choice. Apparently my slouchy sweatpants (Go Devils!) and his holey sweatshirt from the police academy isn't considered sexy. Who knew?!  He recounted to me the clothes I wore when we first dated...cute skirts, frilly shirts, etc. I muttered a moment and then admitted he might have a point on this one.   

Next followed how I had quit cooking somewhere around year two of marriage. Or maybe year one...I've lost track.  I was quite the cook when we were dating and first married.  Dinners were made with care and took into consideration everyone's preferences.  Girlo Two (the eldest child) set the table sometimes, we all ate together, and sometimes got yogurt afterwards.  I defended myself heartily on this one.  I still give the same thoughtful consideration to our meals: Which drive-thru will it be?  Everyone still gets to choose what they prefer, and they usually put a treat in the kids' meals. Same outcome with a slightly different approach, but I might give a little credit for that as I can see how McDonald's dollar menu doesn't have quite the same appeal as homemade chicken and dumplins.

At this point, he's on a roll and having a great time raking me over the coals. The final hurrah, the kiss of death, was "You've lost that lovin' feelin'."  Really, Maverick? Where are your back-up singers, for the love of God?! Cause this is where I really just have to stop this hot mess.

I adore my husband. He really is my favorite, and I can say that because I've had two.  I remember fondly the butterflies in my stomach if he was coming to dinner. I remember spending hours picking out my outfit on our first date. I remember thinking this boy better marry me because I'm going to stalk him if he doesn't.  Somehow all that changes when you share the same house.  Sometimes he's just one more pair of underwear on the floor or the person leaving a dirty spoon on my countertop. Sometimes he's flat-out taking up my air.  That's the reality of what being married sometimes is.

So, I'm filing a countersuit for the same reason.  He convinced me to marry him on false grounds.  He turned out to be way more stellar than I could ever imagine. He is dirty laundry, but he also the one cleaning the kitchen. He steps up and raises our kids without question. He makes it okay for me to be me, and that's a pretty hard job. Others have failed, trust me.  I'm expecting you'll see us on Judge Judy just about any day now.