The Friday 4: Traits I hope baby gets from daddy

This week: some praisin' of the hubby.

4.  His height 

Yeah, that's right, one of the four traits I picked is Brad's height, a superficial thing perhaps, but an important one nonetheless. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and tall guys, you know it's true, have it easier than short ones. 

Brad is 6' 2.5", and his dad (before he started shrinking a little with age, haha) is 6' 4". I hope the little one grows nice and tall like his papa and grandpa, but maybe not so quickly that he grows out of the clothes I buy him before he's had a chance to wear them at least a handful of times :). 

3.  His likeability 

In the 11+ years I've known him, I've only ever known of ONE person who didn't like my husband.* Seriously. People just like him a lot. And it makes sense - Brad's sincere, kind, easy to joke with, fun to be around - you know, likeable. 

*This was a former boss of his who disliked him upon learning of his existence b/c her coworker (and his co-boss) had hired Brad without her knowledge. There was a lot of politics going on at that workplace, to say the least, and this person doesn't even seem fair to count. 

2.  His family-centered-ness 

Brad puts me and "us" before everything else pretty much all of the time. I wouldn't want to be with someone who did any differently. His fiction-writing is important to him, but not nearly as important as our family; he takes his job seriously, but not nearly as seriously as he does our family; and so on and so on. 

I hope my child learns from his father that a "real" man puts his family first, looks out for those he loves, and values the people who care about him. 

1.  His generosity 

There are a lot of stingy people out there, but my husband isn't one of them. He's openly loving to me every day, which is perhaps the best form of generosity I can imagine. Beyon that, he's never stingy with money, always making sure I have something before he does. And he frequently goes out of his way to help me. If that's not worth passing on to your child, then I don't know what is. 

Though, now that I think of it, my hubby can be a little stingy with his time . . . but's that's actually something we have in common :) - and he's not stingy with it with me, so we'll give him a pass. 

A Little Bit of Sweetness

Last night after work, Brad made me one of my favorites, pico de gallo. (This stuff is delish! And easy to make.) He'd worked all day, spent the better part of 3 hours commuting (as usual), but without complaint he chopped up 8 tomatoes, an onion, and a jalapeno while dinner was heating in the oven. He could've crashed on the couch and waited out the kitchen timer, but he didn't. 

This + Tostitos Scoops = Heaven 

Of course I thanked him yesterday, but while eating more moments ago, I texted him to say thanks again. 

His response? "You're welcome. I like making nice things for you." 

Couldn't you just squeeze him? 

We're all about gratitude in this house and we have been for years. I say thank-you when he goes to the grocery store, and he says it when I go. When he cooks dinner, I thank him. When I fold the laundry, he thanks me. These aren't "necessary" thank-yous - the stuff has to get done sooner or later, by one of us, right? - but we've been in the habit for a long, long time of showing our appreciation for each other, and I have to say, it really means a lot to me and I'm sure to him as well. 

Reading February's Better Homes & Gardens this weekend, I came upon a reader answer section; the question was about a trait of your spouse's that you loved. While I identified with a lot of the things readers said, I found myself totally agreeing when I read one woman's response about how her husband thanks her for the things she does and how this makes her happy to do nice things for him. 

I couldn't agree more. Because I know he will appreciate it, I am frequently moved to take on a task that Brad would otherwise have to do - just to make his life a little easier, his day a little less stressful. And he does the same for me. 

I feel lucky to have a husband who appreciates the effort I make and takes the time to tell me he does. And I feel lucky to have a husband who does the sorts of things, big and small, that move me to say thanks. 

Random Memory: Going Dutch for Pizza

A favorite dating tale of mine comes from early in my relationship with Brad and involves, not surprisingly, food. Strangely, while I normally have a great memory for this type of thing, I can't recall whether this was our second or third "date." While I was just thinking it was the second, I usually remember our second date as a time when he was sick and I brought and "made" him soup at his apartment. (Like so many college students, our dates were often some form of hanging out.) And by "made" I of course mean dumping a can of Campbell's chicken noodle in an over-sized mug, heating in the microwave, and bringing it into the living room for him. 

Anyway, this post is supposed to be about pizza, not soup. (It's definitely true that a huge number of my memories, especially those about dating, revolve around food.) 

As I recall it, we're sitting in Brad's bedroom listening to music (if it's his, I hate it; if it's mine, he hates it) and he orders us pizza for a romantic (haha) dinner for two. When the doorbell rings and he gets his wallet, I say, "Here', I can give you half," and go for my bag or purse or whatever means I had with me for carrying money. 

And my studly future husband responds, "Every little bit helps." And he takes my money. 

That's it. That's the whole thing. He went downstairs and got the pizza, brought it up, and we ate it. 

Every little bit helps! He actually said that! And he actually took my money. For like a $12 pizza! 

This shows you just how out-of-my-18-year-old-mind-in-love with this guy I already was b/c I didn't even think twice about the experience till probably a year later. Yet even while in high school I would have balked at the idea of paying for myself while out with a guy - even if "out" was his apartment. Were a friend of mine to have asked me then, or if a daughter of mine asks me in the future, "Should I go out again with a guy who says, 'Every little bit helps" and allows me to pay for half a pizza," I would screech a resounding, "No!!!!!!!!" 

So basically, I was starry-eyed. 

While half-hiding his face in disgrace, Brad defends himself by noting that he was only 20 years old and he had no game and no money. I say, Veto. 

On a side note, and in defense of myself in the face of my potentially non-liberated stance (feminists everywhere may be weeping), it should be said that I ate half the pizza. Not 2 pieces or even 3, but a full six pieces depite being a wee tiny thing. Translation: even though I think he should've paid for my pizza, I'm definitely not the type of girl who picks at a salad on a date. That should put my feminist conscience at ease. 

I must say, however, that I don't remember having paid for a thing since, with the exception of possibly a birthday dinner or two for him before we were married - so $6 ain't too bad in the grand scheme of things :). 

Me + Bradley + today = 7 years!

In honor of my 7th wedding anniversary (today!), I've skipped the whole writing-a-post thing to watch Black Hawk Down (a fave.) and eat Trader Joe's French fries with my beloved Bradley - so instead I've put together a little picture time-line (or something like that) of our first decade or so together . . . 

Thankfully, I couldn't find any handy pics of us during my freshmen year, when young love caused me to gain 10 lbs. . . . so starting with sophomore year will have to do: 

Fall 2001, in our Russian ballet pose in 
the hall of my apt. (don't ask) 



Summer 2002, lookin' fancy-pants in my parents' kitchen 
before some random outing 



Fall 2003, the night Brad proposed with the most 
awesome scavenger hunt ever (!) 



Spring 2004, my college graduation 
(note: I'm wearing the same dress I wore
to my high school graduation . . . not 
too shabby, huh?) 

Summer 2004, at the Spaghetti Warehouse for dinner 
after we got married on a dock behind PNC Park . . . 



Fall 2004, Niagara Falls for a slightly belated 
honeymoon 



Christmas morning 2006, us being not-morning 
people at my parents' house 



Summer 2007, not so long after I first chopped off 
all of my hair 

Summer 2008, in France on the Mediterranean (and,
yes,  I really am wearing that visor) 



Spring 2009, hair's long again, but not for long 



Spring 2010, Brad looks like he's wearin' short 
shorts . . . (he's not) 

Summer 2010, Brad and me and a big ol' golden lion 
in our nation's capital 

Winter 2010, rare shot of me sans glasses; Brad's 
got a man-beard! 

Spring 2011, Brad givin' the 'Burgh some love 
on my b-day 

 Don't you just love all the romance?! 

Meet the Monster

Who doesn't love a cat in a
blowfish hat?! 

That is, meet Cookie 

aka Cookie Monster 
aka the Monster 
aka Cookaroni Macaroni Chicharoni 
aka Cook 'n Book 
aka Cooked 'n Booked 

aka our new kitty. 

A few months ago, sweet little Cooksteroni was at a shelter about an hour away from our house when the woman who runs a local no-kill shelter was there to pick up a dog. Cookie (formerly known as Mona) and another cat were to be put down the next day b/c their time at the shelter was up - and even though her shelter had no space, this woman took them with her b/c she couldn't bear to see them put down. 

Well, thank goodness! 

Our Mini Fuzzy (that is, she looks like a little version of Fuzzy) is 7 lbs., probably 1.5 years old, loves chasing plastic balls, and laying just far enough away from you that petting her head is an inconvenience. She's also afraid of feet. And about as sensitive to sound as I am. 

Yes, our cats do eat in the
powder room. Long story 

While she was all morose and cuddly and lovey at the shelter (re: lap cat; also read: exactly what we were looking for) and when we first brought her home and quarantined her, over the last week and a half she has

- met the cats 
- ingratiated herself with them (albeit not without their having hissed a number of times first) 
- squished herself into multiple window sills 
- semi-stolen P.J.'s beloved window seat 
- carried P.J.'s turtle (Terrence) around in her mouth while "singing" 

and decided that now that she's got love, safety, and lots and lots of space and food, she isn't going to be the lap cat we took her for. 

What a little brat. :) 



Some sisterly bonding. (She totally looks like Fuzzleface!) 


We're suckers for this little baby, and we're happy we went with a "cat" and not a "kitten" (even though she's tiny) since it's much easier for kittens to find a home. Did I mention she's a total pig? She fits right in . . . even if she is sitting over there on the window seat instead of on the couch with me and Brad.

P.J. rocks

Imagine me whispering this post: 

Shhhh - I've got a sleeping kitty on my belly as I type this! She almost never sleeps/sits/lays on a human being. Not even on Brad, whom she stalks around the house (in a very annoying manner, if you ask me.) (Jealousy, anyone?) She prefers pillows, blankets, bookbags, magazines, and yes, even a piece of paper. 

But she jumped up and took 15 minutes (literally) getting settled in on me! And here we are. It's simply delightful. As I lay here trying to move as little as possible and make as little noise as possible with my typing, I'm thinking that resting my arm on a sweet, fat, warm kitty who's sound asleep on my belly is about the awesomest thing I could be doing at this moment. 

Look at that sleepy kitty! 

Random Memory: Not being asked out on a first date

We met:  during the second week of classes my second semester at college; he was a junior, tall, charismatic, and (looking back, I realize) moderately full of himself (haha); we'd been smiling at each other for a few days across the room; I wore a tight shirt and a skirt, black clunky heels and tights; it was an upper level lit. course on James Joyce; our professor had just played the film version of "The Dead," and, as class let out, I wiggled quickly past people to be leaving the room at the same time as him: 

     Me:  "That movie was terrible." 
     Brad:  "I thought it was pretty good." 
     Me:  "Oh." 

I'm nothing if not sauve. 

He asks me out:  After class now, standing outside in the mid-January cold; laughing and leaning into each other; he offers to read my fiction some time, I decline vehemently due to embarrassment; then, 

     Brad:  "There's a reading tonight, in Bloomfield, some poets, a bunch of us are going." 
     Me:  "Oh, that sounds awesome, but I'm going home tonight - I have an appt. for a haircut." 

A month later:  Now we've been dating for, well, a month; we're cuddling at his apt., fully absorbed in beginning-relationship-bliss, that amazing species of feelings; we're trading compliments, probably of the "I loved it when you" variety: 

     Brad:  "I loved that you didn't change your plans that day we met, like, that you didn't cancel your hair appt. just to hang out with me." 
     Me:  "I guess it didn't even occur to me - it's not like I was being all kick-butt independent or something. I obviously would've really loved to go with you though." 
     Brad:  "Go with me?" 
     Me:  "To the reading. You know, like to go on the date with you." 
     Brad (laughing, shocked):  "I wasn't asking you to go with me! I was telling you about it so you could like, take the bus over, and then I would see you there. I wouldn't have wanted to get stuck being there with you the whole night if I didn't like you." 

Ahh, now that information will put a damper on the romantic story you tell your grandchildren about how you and Grandpa met.

Why I don't hate Valentine's Day

No, it’s not b/c I’m married to a thoughtful romantic (though I am). I'm going against the trendy grain of Valentine's-Day-is-idiotic for an entirely different reason. I like the concept of a day (“holiday” does seem a bit like overkill, I’ll admit) when a lot of people who might not otherwise think about “love” and all it entails, well, think about love and all it entails. It sends a good message. It's nice. 

Is Valentine’s Day commercial? Sure. (Most things are these days.) Is it overdone, overdressed, and otherwise like a Thanksgiving turkey? Definitely. Is it created by Hallmark as a ruthless profit machine? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised. But what I want to know is who really cares?! If Feb. 14th gets people doing nice things for their loved ones and spending time with them, then I can’t possibly see the harm. 

And don’t give me, “There shouldn’t have to be a designated day of the year for people to treat their spouse/partner with love; it should happen all the time.” Of course it should. Duh. And double duh. But for lots of people, it doesn’t. And I say 1 out of 365 is better than 0. 

So, all the Valentine's Day haters, hate away. But I'm going to smile and wish everyone a lovely day (even though I'll be sitting on my couch writing a paper). 

Me and my Valentine (on New Year's Eve - a holiday I do hate) 

Random Memory: Fuzzy and the Closet

(File this under humorous; just desserts; and lackadaisical pet-parenting) 

This popped into my mind yesterday, and it's too enjoyable not to share. 

Back when Brad and I were first married (fondly, "the olden days"), after I dropped out of law school but before I started grad. school for library science (why oh why did I do either of those?), we both worked at the community college. This was his "real" job at the time - in quotes because it was not paying "real" money, nor was he getting "real" hours - and it was quite possibly the place where I made the most money I have ever made. Which isn't saying a whole lot. But still. 

We lived in the city then, North Oakland to be precise, with our two cats, P.J. (girl cat) and Fuzzy (boy cat). We've had them since they were 8 weeks old - and "we" were five months old (that's another humorous anecdote) - and at the time they were 4 or 5 years. They liked to sit in the many, giant windows looking out onto Craig St. And onto traffic and a Sunoco and PAT buses. Their food/water was in the dining room; their little box in a little space behind the front door. It was cramped, but it was our first apartment all togethe (awwwwwwwww!). 

Anyway, for me and Brad to be at work at 8:00 a.m., we would leave around 7:15. Pet the kitties at the door, tell them lovey things, and then we'd hike however many blocks to where we parked our car (couldn't afford to park in the garage under the building); join the exodus of commuters, curse the traffic, almost be late every day (except for the days when we were late); stay till 4, then drive home in the same sort of traffic. 

One particular Friday, however, we got a little frisky and made a trip to the mall after work. There we raided Macy's sale racks/tables, bought Brad dress shoes for work (they were black, I remember), and otherwise dilly-dallied, buying or not buying. We probably ate food in there somewhere because we like to eat food. 

It was winter, and when we got back to the apartment it was dark out. I'd guess 7:00, 7:15. Could have been 7:30. Any way you slice it, we're talking about 12 hours since departure. 

Wait, what's that I hear? Sounds like scratching at my bedroom (fabulously huge) closet door. Let me open it. Oh! There's a cat. Oh! He's been in there for twelve hours. Poor Fuzzy - oops! We loved and coddled and cuddled and apologized to our little beast (and by "we" I mean "me" since I'm the one who failed to check he wasn't in there before shutting the door). So:  love, coddle, cuddle, apologize, repeat. Then we forgot about him. 

Brad did a fashion show for me, modeling his new kicks in the living room. Then we see sweet little Fuzzy sitting in the shoe box, on top of the gray-black tissue paper, staring out at us with his big, dumb eyes. Aw, how cute - cats just love their boxes! 

Except this wasn't love. This was revenge. He peed right there in the shoe box. Twelve hours of urine, thirty feet from the litter box. And anyone who's had a cat knows there's not many smells worse than the smell of cat pee. I guess it was owed us. Though it would have been more fitting had he peed on something in my closet. Thank goodness he didn't, that's all I'm saying. And it's a good thing Brad liked those shoes.