Once More with Feeling.

And Nearly 2 Years Later, She Resurfaces.

It is strange coming back and typing words in a space where I used to be fairly regularly, but for the first time in 2 years. Jesus.  So that whole "I'll be right back thing" was solid. 

I have no idea if anyone is really checking in here, but recent events have kinda reminded me why this is such a good spot to document my crap.  And kids.

Can't forget the kids.

But I'm not the best Parent Blogger, so my first post back in 23 months will explain why I was reminded of this place IN the first place. (and full disclosure, I still quote Barney Stinson's "This is totally going on my blog" even though that expression is pretty dated now and I have zero intention. Maybe my heart is all, "I want what I want.")

SO...

My friend Lauren from my very cool neighborhood* (*integral part to this story) had asked me to watch her cats, water her plants and take in the mail for the week she  and her family was away. I know, it sounds like a lot. It was. The will to not rip open her Amazon Prime order nearly did me in.

Anyway.

The idea started innocently enough. I had gone into the house with my 12 year old niece for Day One. Naively thinking that the cat food would be laid out in an obvious place, I found myself going through the pantry looking for the cat food. (I don't have pets; I don't know how this whole separation of People vs Animal food thing goes.) I didn't even know where the pet bowls were, and there were no instructions left for me.  Of course, my nosy niece wandered with me found the cat bowls and food in the basement and I was able to figure it out. This was not before I found, well, cookies.  And GOD DAMN I was gonna pre-pay myself.

Being the prolific Facebook girl that I am, I posted the following:

Day 1:

House/cat sitting: unable to find cat food immediately but did score, I mean, find this BY ACCIDENT. Freaked my niece out as she thought I was eating cat treats. "Note the words "for people", Sar...they're chocolate cookies." ‪

 

 

Again, innocent enough, but then the thought occurs to me: I have AN ENTIRE WEEK TO MESS WITH THIS FAMILY. IN THEIR OWN HOME. AND THEY CANNOT STOP ME.

Day 2:

Some say "hero" but I don't know. Well, okay- but maybe not "hero-hero.".

 

 Yes, I will nap in your house. For free.

Am giver.

Day3: OMG, 🎶Spa Day!🎶 .

 

I would later receive compliments on my skin from cars passing me by on our circle.  Okay, maybe it was just the one car. 

 Day 4: 

Anyone will some basic sense will tell you kids are a time & energy suck. As a result, I've had to let "a few things go." Reading? Keeping up with current events? Bishes, please. Now, with cat sitting, I'm able to catch up on both and *fingers crossed*, speak intelligently at the next social event.

 

Never too late to start learnin'.

By now it's pretty clear they (and our friends and families) are very much into this "#catsittingchronicles" and I'm looking for ways to up my game, as indicated by this late-night text:

 

 

 Day 5:

Attempt in-home workout. Why yoga, I cannot say. After a solid sweaty 3 mins, reward myself with some jacuze bubble bath time, as tub at home designed for fairy or elfin-sized people. ‪

 

 

That's correct, some shitty, basic yoga (indoor temps pushing upper 80s, I might add. I could not figure the central AC, God DAMN) and me taking a bubble bath. You are most welcome, Internet.

 

Day 6 was my last full day I had alone with the house, so it was definitely my GO BIG Moment. Received the following text from Lauren around 9 a.m.:

 

 

The idea: Message the peeps in the hood. Create a fake party, complete with Valet Parking. Call it "Operation: Sistine Chapel."  All parking attendants are required to be barely in school, preference on a lack of height. I get my kids (ages 2 & 5) and my kid's best buds (ages 5 and 9) so be the attendants.  I set up some wine and Oreos, a kiddie pool and a oversized raft as a couch, and have as many neighbors as I can get to park their rides in the driveway of Cat Sitting People. Head to the owners' deck. Take as many photos as possible and post to FB.  

Then let it ride and see if I get unfriended/cops called on me.

Day 6:

Well, that escalated quickly. Wine and Oreos, multiplying in that cool-trick way Jesus did. 

TOTALLY LEGAL. I had a key.

On their travel day back, and with the assistance of my colleague and eldest child, I was able to summon the spirit of Goldilocks (what my friend had been referring to me all this time):

Day 7: 

Having been over-served her some Oreos, Care pulls an Irish Exit, sneaking off upstairs to sleep it off. Master Myles' bed proving too hard, the Mr. & Mrs bed too soft, but thankfully Miss Hannah Banana's was deemed "just right." ‪sponsored (not really) in part by Nabisco (Oreo division) and the makers of generic Zyrtec. 

 

The irony here is I'm WICKEDLY allergic to cats, and yet, it is as if I was born to do it.

Some might say, "jusssst right." 

 

 

 

2012: Year of Hope, Improvements & Betterments

Twenty-Twelve  is going to be my year. I hope I didn't just jinx it by saying that, but I just feel that it is.

The year of new opportunities! New places! New faces!   For one, I've booked a photography gig for in August. I will be compensated for this.  Maybe more people will offer me money for the taking of the pictures.  Maybe??  Mike & I are thinking of a move to a new house and  we hope, God (or biology, if you prefer)-willing,  to "add to staff" this year*.

(*to be clear, I'm not in a family way. It's just no secret I would like to have another baby, and, you know, 2012 seems as good a year as any.)

Anyway, it's not a bad way to feel this way about the future, especially since I have had to suffer with some really tough losses in 2009 & 2010, close both in relation and in space of time, that leveled the hell out of me. And then this past summer, I lost a dear friend from my childhood, my best friend when I was young, and losing a friend your own age, quite suddenly - Lord knows that gets you to become more introspective in addition to the grief,  but honestly? Lately I end my work day, usually during the 2 minute drive home from the train station to my house, thinking, "Shit, I am really happy. I mean, I think this is what really happy feels like."

That is not to say there isn't a rough day or rare cluster of days that hit me, but there's been a definite shift of bad days to good, and while I fully endorse a cathartic cry every now and again, it's nice to see those no longer DAILY  events or even weekly.

With the new year here, I made a few pledges to myself. I won't call them resolutions exactly, but, pledges. Honest to God attempts.  General ideas.  You know, really, I'm just spit-balling here. (And I'm sure if did a thesaurus check, I could get called out, but then I think you need to settle down there, little fact checker, you.)

#1. Chill with all the God damn motherfucking swearing.

This is not necessarily because I am trying to be a better person per se, but because I now have an 18 month old who is learning words. And I don't need her going to daycare and seeing this scenario unfold:

 [Kid refuses to share toy with my daughter]

Carolyn: "What the fuck's his problem?"

Believe it or not, I'm not cool with that. As it is, I bear witness to her mimicking me on the phone, down to my  "...yeah....yeah....". (Apparently I say "yeah" a lot. ) She also has my laugh down, I hear it when she watches TV (Mickey's Clubhouse).  It will likely lose something here, but it's a dry, quick, "heh" kind of laugh. I've watched the show, many times unfortunately, and still don't get the appeal. Fortunately for her, her street-cred is protected by being (legitimately) entertained by How I Met Your Mother (re-runs, not the current season). Anyway, I need to knock it off and class it up and that is what I'm going to do. But as God as my witness, I will not starting supplementing stupid replacement words/silly catchphrases to counteract these new omissions from my lexicon (I would just assume to remain mute, if that's my choice).

"No potty mouths here..."

2. Cook more.

Yes, it's been well broadcasted, even documented in my circle how little I cook, and how little I will intentionally survive off of it left to my own devices**. To me, food is just food, unless someone else is willing to bring it (and cook it, and put it on a plate and suddenly, I'm a realllllybig fan).  The end of 2011 showed signs of me making some effort, mainly in the baking arena (I do a pretty great Irish soda bread and I actually made these NINJAbread cookies at Christmas for my niece Grace aka "The Little Ninja":

Hand painted, if you can believe that.

I also made exactly (1) mean meatloaf on 2011 which ended in great peril (1st degree burn) because apparently those oven mitts in the drawer 12 inches right of the stove aren't just a (motherfucking)cooking fashion statement and actually serve an actual purpose. (I still have the scar to prove it.) (God Damnit)

(** somewhere on this blog is a photo of a sink full of spoons (apt. had no dishwasher, and washing dishes wasn't my thing either), as there was a week my left town and all I ate was pudding and jello.)

I've been given a cook book for Christmas, and nothing seems too far off the grid for things I might want to eat, so I might try (note to Mike:o-ccaaasionally) to step in and assist. Ya know, what the heck.

3.  Stop wasting money.

Okay, sounds like a lay up, but believe it or not my husband spent many a month in 2011 begging & pleading with me to quit the not one, but TWO (not cheap) gym memberships I was not using.  So while the rest of the planet is making the resolution to get in shape and crowd the gyms for the next 6 weeks (give or take), I've actualy taken to quitting the gyms.  (Merry Christmas, Miguel!)

Lest I be accused of being a total lump, or one who is making a concerted effort to abscond with the goal personal fitness and increased health cardio and weight training may bring, please take note that I am diverting those formerly wasted funds to play soccer again, a weekly event I will 1. show up for and 2. look forward to going. See, everybody wins. Well, I win, I guess.

 The following are other areas I would like to improve upon but not because it's 2012 or anything:

1a. Grow out my hair

1b. Once a week, try to do something with my hair so that I go to work with  my version of"good hair" and not save it for a random trip to Babies R Us on the weekend.

2.. Write more.

3. Take more photography classes, set up a website.

 Oh, speaking of photography, this was our Santa photo this year.

 As is the case with a large number of kids in her age bracket, The Man in Red terrified her.  This photo here was not her first pass. The first attempt, her decked out in a cute red dress, was denied as she clung to me like a koala mid-panic attack.  I decided to forgo the photo of her crying on his lap, reaching out for me.  I just couldn't do it.

But we found ourselves in a store with a Santa and no line and she seemed to be in a pretty content mood so we decided to give it one more shot.  Still, she was terrified. Or perhaps really, really concerned, and clung to me again in a "don't you even think about it" way. I tried to coax her, had her on the lap this time,  but she was wiggling her way off,  and so,  I did what was the next best thing and sat next to Santa and ducked behind her.  So that is how the picture of a floating kid and chapped looking Santa for our 2011 Santa photo came to be.

Between Attempt #1 (planned, no photo) and Attempt #2 (unplanned, awkward photo) I had tried to do something for our Christmas card that recreated a "Carolyn with Santa" experience.   Alas, the photo I'd initially thought would go in the recyle bin, ended up being my favorite.  Anyway, I hope your holidays were great and spent with the people you wanted to spend them with. Here's to the the 20-12.

On the Day That You Were Born the Angels Got Together...

Your birthday story.

Dear Care,

Because you can't pick your parents, I am regret to inform you your story will include some profanity. Your mother's profanity. And as you will one day later know, I didn't even push. So, yeah, ...yaw blessed.

Okay, Carolyn-

So your Dad & I took a risk. We wanted to be parents. Your parents.  One day I'll explain it, but know that we so wanted to know you, we took a big risk. And man, I still cannot believe this life we have because of it.

I've taken 2 pregnancy tests after trying to make a baby. The first time I took it alone, thinking "nah, no way but what the hell," and lo, we were pregnant right away with Daniel. I swore to myself the next time I did this, I would make sure I wasn't alone because me + what I think is a positive test+ all alone =  IS NOT SOMETHING THAT SHOULDN'T BE WITNESSED. I quietly spazzed and paced the house with the need to unload and carry on with a string of "Oh My Gods" and "No ways" as I cannot be burdened to carry that level nervous  joy and anxiety  alone for much longer than, I don't know, 2 minutes? Long enough to Google the test brand's website to make sure I'm reading it right? I don't know.

But when I found out with you, once again I was alone and felt another "ha, what the hell" bravery because of the "it was just one time we tried" and sure enough, there was a very, very faint line and I was like,"I swear I am the poster woman for 'it just takes one time.'" A cameraphone photo or 2 later sent to "the consigliere" as your father calls it, just to make sure I wasn't seeing things (it was one of those  early tests so  I convinced myself that maybe I'd wanted it so badly I was, in fact,  just seeing things), The Consigliere deemed I was seeing nothing other than a positive you.

28 weeks and you already know your angles.  Miss Tyra would be so proud.

Carolyn, thrilled does not begin to express it. We were cautious, sure,  but my pregnancy with you, though filled with some unfortunate toilet-centric events in the beginning (I still harbor some resentment over your father's ill-advised tuna sandwich which I could smell from upstairs which forced an impressive sprint to the bathroom), and some dire, looney need for Devil Dogs in the end, it was pretty event-free as far as these things go.

Because you were a planned c-section, we found out your birthday about 2 months in advance. June 22nd.  It was to be exactly 2 days after Father's Day and 2 days before your Dad's 40th. For this, you got me off the hook for about finding the perfect gift or having to find the energy of  throwing a surprise 40th in my last trimester.  So thanks, I owe you one.

The very top of the day you were born, 12:01 a.m., your mother could be found in the kitchen, alone, boiling bottles. Yes, this is when I thought it would be a good idea to finally open the packages of new bottles and inherited pumping equipment I'd never bothered to look at and sterilize them. Not that I really knew what I was doing (how long should they be in there before they're considered ok?) but instead of getting my last good night's sleep for a long time, I was trying to clean bottles and pumps over a few boiling pots on the stove. And doing my laundry. And packing my bag.

OKay- I'm going to level with you-  this is how I roll, have always been,  and I'm sure this'll come into play and impact your life at some point. What I'm saying is, your dad will be in charge of being up in your face about getting college apps  in on time.

I don't know what time I got to bed that morning, but I had to be up at 4:30 a.m. to be out the door by 5:30 to be ready to check in for 6:00.  I shaved my legs and even manged to get the curling iron to my head. Never think I didn't care about our first meeting. Not ever.

Smile, bitches! It's 5:30!

We checked in ready to be the first surgery at 8:00 but someone else needed the OR ahead of us, and since you were in no hurry to get out (and actually 3 weeks early), we waited for about an hour longer than was planned. In that downtime,  I took the time to check out my digs and take my last photo of me pregnant.

Pre-iPhone. Apologies for the Amish quality.

When they had decided to get things going, they had to put in the  dreaded IV.  Care, your mother has a terrible track record with the IVs. Last time I had one put in, I bit your father. Twice. Like he was a leather strap.   They then had to have another doc a 3rd try because the nurse couldn't do it. Good times, that.

So to say I was not looking forward to this part was a bit of an understatement, and begged that they just but it in the crook of my elbow. No dice, but luckily this time, your day, they at least got it on the first try - but not without me breezily commenting, "Fuck,fucking fuckfucker, FUCK!"

The nurse looked up at me and laughed, "I have to say, I didn't see that coming from you." I think it was the dainty pearl earrings that threw her off.

From there, I was transported to the OR.  More prep. Some small talk with the nurses. They asked me what I had in mind for names. I said we'd come in with 2 and were still deciding. I told them the two, and one nurse said to me, "I don't know if you can hear it, but the radio is playing "Sweet Caroline" if that helps." I felt like that was a sign- and if nothing else, you have a story.

More needles. This time in my back. This time be a VERY important needle and one I needed to hold very still for. I was informed that I was getting Very Important Back Needle from a resident, so, a doctor who works under the supervision of another top doctor. I wasn't exactly thrilled with this, although I understand that this is how things go, but honestly, I wanted to get the Top Cheese of Needle Experience doing this. Call me old-fashioned. I zipped the lip on my feelings and could feel him cleaning  my lower back off. This was not my first time,  I knew the drill, but as I am waiting for my warning, the doc just sticks me! Can you believe that guy? My involuntary response to get away from pain kicked in and I jumped a little forward, almost off the table.

"Woah, woah, woah, doc- you gotta count me off before you stick me."

I think Supervisor Doc gave him the "yeah,dummy"  nod. We go again, he counts me up,  and I only blurt, "BALLS_BALLS_BALLS_BALLS"  this time as he's doing it. Because I am a lady.

This cracks up the entire OR. I tell them that was me actually cleaning up my language, based on what the poor nurse had to put up with for the IV and the doctor says to me, "Go ahead, if there's one place where swearing's acceptable, it's in here."

From there it's the matter of waiting to become numb.  Numb enough to cut, sure, but also, to insert the catheter. Again, my self-protective instincts kick in and I tell them for I and only *I* will give the green light for this part, as this involved my lady parts and a tube. Hand to God, I pushed them off like 3 times. I somehow feel this is a bragging point.

Waiting for numbness, waiting, oh shit, I think I'm gonna puke, puke, feel better, okay, here we go, we're getting you out...

9:44 you were born weighing 7-11 (I will buy you your first Slurpee, and it should be a blue one.).

My first words upon seeing you wiggle in the doctors hands as he lifted you up over the sheet and hearing you cry:

1. Oh my God.

2. Is she okay? (I just needed to hear you were totally fine)

 (a little crying from me)

3. GO TO HER.

(Not pictured: My guts.)

"...and decided to create a dream come true."

 

"You are the one that I have always dreamed of, I knew it from the start. I saw your face and that's the last I've seen of my heart."

Look, you got your Dad to smile a nice (normal) smile. You got skills, kiddo.

"I can feel you heart beat through my shirt. This is all I ever wanted. All I want."

Happy birthday, sweetie.  Love,  Mom

Interview with local Boston commoner re: Royal Wedding

On a typical day,  Care gives us our wake up call sometime between 6:00 and 6:30 a.m. On the rare morning she is trying to prove her unyielding love for her parents, she'll give us a glorious 7:00 a.m.

This morning I heard movement over the monitor at 5:22, kid talking to herself, and doing what I call her "leg thwapping", a move that involves her quickly raising both legs and slamming them down as hard as she can over and over again. You can hear this from the floor below, it's that forceful.

Taking into account all 3 items: the early rise, the animated self-talk, the restless, geeked-out energy pouring from her limbs, it could only mean one thing-

I  think she knew the Royal Wedding was happening.

So fine....fine.   It's not the everyday occurrence and perhaps she was dying to see what the House of A. McQueen put togther for her gown.

I interviewed my little Anglophile between the service and first kiss, and after all that excitement,  it seems to me (and correct me if you disagree) she seems a little "meh" about the ceremony and downright dissapointed with the dress (hey, don't look at me- I thought it was lovely and agree, a nice throwback to Princess Grace's gown).

Please excuse interviewee's hair, it's looking a little poindexter-ish due to some bananas she decided to use as hair product.

 

 

 

yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

I'm just back from our first vacation as a family. Taking a nine month old, newly teething and for added fun, going though her first cold (or illness, as it just happens), to board a plane 1,000 miles due south was a little ...what's the word, I guess anxious? But she handled the flight well and as it turned out, when Operation: Snot Rag was finally completed, and after Tooth One and Tooth Two   finally stop taking her to the mat  (moreso the newer, Florida-born Tooth Two, the bitch) AND she figured out that Napping is RAD! and so is not waking up at 3:45 a.m.!, it turned out I could fall in love with my kid all over again. The phrase "like woah" really doesn't do the feeling justice.

I have more photos of her than I'll ever need from the trip, but here's one I took that just that when I look at it in the right frame of mind, I tear up.

 

 

We had a fantastic time  relaxing in Florida.  It was a much needed break from the cold, the back to back (to back to back...to back) snowstorms we'd endured and the 9-5 gigs and the daily grind of the walls here, and as much as that is true, I am glad to be back home (although hoping we dodged the last of the snow which we avoided when we were away) but maybe a little sad to be putting my flip flops back in the bin I store them in, since I know it'll be more than a month or so before I really get to wear them regularly. 

Until then, I have a disk full of pictures to keep me warm. 

It's Gut Check Time, People.

Today, 8 p.m. EST, I will be located on a indoor turf field, chasing some ball,  praying to The Baby Jesus I don't pass out from exhaustion. Or a ball to the face.

After a two and a half year hiatus, I am playing soccer again.  The team is of the co-ed variety and I, being of the tender age of 38, am guessing I will be on a team of those whose date of birth may  *technically* render me old enough to be their mother.  I wonder if I'll yell over to a kid, "Pull up yaw draws,  Baby Gap!"  I could be that old lady.

Anyway...

Once upon a time, I looked like this:

 

See how bright (beet red) and cheery I am? And this is after a game.  Sure, I'm what, 16 (and a HALF!) years  old here? Somehow am thinking this is not how tonight's game ending will look. Maybe I'll be a vision of beet-red in the face loveliness, but am guessing that's where the similarities will end.

For you see,  I have essentially gone out my way as much as one can to NOT prepare for this evening's events- unless MLS counts "holding a kid on a hip" as some form of strength conditioning.  It is my hope (and prayer) my scrappy personality counts for something here, and translates on the field. Just let me stay upright.  I don't think that's being greedy.  I am also guessing (just a thought) it might serve me to have the inhaler ready.  Even better, it might actually be a stellar idea if I actually remembered that inhaler. Damnit.  I guess a pit stop to the CVS is going to have to happen.

Speaking of other adventures in highly organized preparedness, I thought I had it on good authority the sorta-kinda exact locale of my cleats.  So color me completly stunned  this morning when I decided to look for them- as I packed my bag (also this morning) that they decided to not be anywhere near where I thought they were. WTF, cleats?  So this little oversight cost me a trip to the City Sports at lunch today.  Fortunately, the pair I got were 1. on sale and perhaps of greater importance 2. not ugly.

(You think I'm kidding about #2 being a factor in my buying decision.)

 (You don't think these will make my calves look fat, right?)

Story time:

Back in the day (about 4 years ago), I played in an indoor game and got checked by some dude into a wall. In the process of that collision, which I feel the need to add I don't think he was going out of his way to hurt me or be a prick, my hand got pressed back into the glass. When it was over, immediately the wrist hurt like HELL.  I got off the field, checked it out. I could move it, but it really hurt.  Sure it was starting to swell, but I decided to go back on and play some more. Because I am smart.

When I realized that I was always bracing my arm across my abdomen to run, I thought probably it was best to call it a night. When I got home, I showed it to Mike, and then, after calling  my sister/nurse for advise, went to the ER.  X-Rays confirmed I had broken my wrist.

All this to say, I've used this as an example to have it in me to be incredibly bad ass I am (I have mentioned how tough I am on labor & delvery floors i.e "don't worry, I play soccer")  (Seriously, I played soccer with a broken wrist- what have YOU done, chief?). Or,  as some people close to me have generously pointed out, incredibly stupid.

So here I go, totally unprepared, only armed with a desire to get back into it, after missing it so much for so long.

I am either incredibly bad ass or incredibly stupid.

We'll see where I think I landed on that one tomorrow morning.

 

Irish Eyes

"May your right hand always be streched out in friendship, but never in want."

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

My colors are blush and bashful, so this'll work out well.

Comment left on my Facebook page today, by my sister Emily:

The other day, Libby (my 4 year old niece)  looked over my shoulder at an US Weekly on the plane and said, " MOM, is that Aunt JENNIE in there???" After I told her no, I asked her why she thought that. "MOMMY, she is SO pretty she needs to be in there, wearing a pretty pink dress."

Officially the nicest compliment I've ever received. I am pretty enough to be in US Weekly.  You know, I would love to dominate  the "Who Wore it Better?" feature.

Sorree Libby, You Tigah Now.

If only the Mileys and the Jamie Lynns and the Vanessas knew just how little it took to freak out their target audience.

I have to say I consider myself very fortunate to live in the little neighborhood that I do.  It's nothing fancy, everybody's cool, people actually talk to each other, take in each other's mail if you're away,  and (*gasp*!) hang out with each other from time to time. I really like where we landed for this being our first house because Lord knows, it can be a total crap-shoot.

Of all the neighbors, Mike I and probably speak most often with the neighbors to our left (henceforth NTOL).  They're a fun couple with 3 kids: 1 boy who just turned 13, and twins, a boy and girl,  who just turned 11. The daughter of NTOL is a tougher version of me at that age.  In fact, I would go so far to say we even look like we could have been related, if I could transport the 1984 version of myself to 2008: very thin, lanky, light brown bobed-hair, quiet in front of adults, not a girly-girl and sports minded.  The exception to our eerie similarities is that she is can probably kick the crap out of the boys her age, maybe even older, and I was only capable of hurling a few insults... in my mind.  Somehwat due to my perceived Mini-Me of Me, I have tried to make some kind of connection to her, thinking she might like having a sporty lady neighbor who's not too old and kind of cool-type to talk to, or kick a ball around with or perhaps just a "Hey, what's up?" amidst the karate kicks she wielding on her brothers' friends' breadbaskets.  For the most part, no luck.

The girl is a soccer player, and was having some new issues crop up this year, namely with being afraid of the ball being kicked at her.   Her dad, who's also her coach, asked her if he could get Mrs. F (that would be me, although they now know I go by my long last name and not Mrs. F) to work with her, would she be down with that idea. She nodded feverishly and said, "yeah, yeah!"  So I did and despite my best jokes and easy going manner, she didn't say a word to me the entire time. 

As weeks went by I would try to engage her in conversation.  I would ask her about her games ("I heard you did well today." response: a head nod, I would respond to the nod, "Ya know, you CAN use your words with me.") and I would play basketball with her and talk trash the entire time. See me? Easy breezy.

Then one day came and out of the blue, in front of her pals, without her parents in sight, she SPOKE to me.  Really, it was such sweet vindication.  She told me about her game that she won, and a few other things I can't recall, but it was like, finally, girl realizes I'm not going to eat her brains.

Fast forward about a month, one of the hottest and humid nights of the summer so far, and the neighbors knocked on our door and asked if we want to come over for a beer and a swim.  Seeing as the temperature inside our house was what felt like 85 degrees (with the fans going), the air the consistency of pureed soup, I was all, "UH, WOULD I?"

Immediately I put on my suit, found a sixers-worth of beer for the cooler and walked over.  Seriously, if I could have married that pool that night, I would have.

Later, over a beer, Mrs. Neighbor said to me, "You know, when you first got into the pool, T. came running in to the house and over to me,  'Mrs. Lil-uh,...uh..Mrs. Fra.......JEN'S WEARING A BIKINI!!!'"

So, to sum up, an 11 year old girl saw me in a bikini (many! exclamation! points!!!).  I really hope this....this atrocity hasn't set back our relationship 10 paces.  I really don't want to go back to deciphering the tween's grunts again.