marriage.com

I have a virtual husband. Before anyone gets bent out of shape over that, I am talking about Adam. Perhaps “e-husband” would be a better term? Point being, we communicate via internet as much as we do verbally. We email each other. Instant message each other. And if we are angry we e-gnore each other. There’s nothing worse than getting the cold shoulder via the world wide web, staring at the last message you sent and wondering if the other party has seen it yet. Maybe they went to the bathroom. Maybe they were suddenly called into a meeting. Maybe they are agonizing over the proper wording for their apology.

We also send vital information to each other, such as a story about a new strain of rat-tailed maggots. When I wake up to a message like this I know Adam is thinking of me. However, I knew things may have gone too far when I realized we were doing this at home, sitting approximately 3 feet apart in our office. I began to ask myself, “Is this normal? Should I turn around and speak to him? Should I move my desk to the bedroom?”

It really sends things into a tailspin around here when our internet is down. There are some logical things to do if you are caught in a situation like this: write notes to each other, use sign language, save up everything you have to say until you can send it in a email. Check the internet connection as often as possible so that your voice doesn't become hoarse from speaking. You know, things like that.

Some things are much more challenging to address. Children, for example, have a way of forcing you out of your comfort zone. They expect direct, verbal communication, complete with eye contact. (And they say children learn by example?) After a while we began to ask ourselves, “What are we doing? How can our child thrive in an environment like this?” It was a sobering moment. As the Wizard of Oz said, “My child, you’ve forced me into a cataclysmic decision.” And so, in the end, we decided to do what was best for Sarah. We just can’t decide how big of a hard drive she’s going to need.

This is So Awkward

The dreaded awkward it-surely-won't-happen-to-me phase. A phase that, for some, spanned 5 years or more. The braces, glasses, and limbs growing before you had a plan for them. Arms that were accustomed to only reaching things they had a month before. But now, 3" longer, what do you do with them? You're liable to knock something over, or overturn the lunchtable when you stand up due to the exponential growth of your legs. And our noses were fatter. Seriously. Look back at some Jr. High pics and see if it's not true. They start small as a baby, get bigger, then get 'smore bigger, then smaller and adultish, and then commence to grow for the rest of our lives - a feat exceeded only by the earlobes.

But, I digress. Most who know me will vouch that 85% of the time I can be found wearing black, white, brown, or a combination thereof. If I'm feeling really spunky, ecru. I didn't start out this way. Color is fine. Just not in my wardrobe. Why? (deep breath)...sigh... There exists a picture of me. A picture that sums up my choices of color at the present. A picture I will not be posting, and will embark on a search-and-destroy mission of anyone who does. Apparently, the idea was to incorporate as much color as possible into my outfit, ensuring that, from head to toe, I was a full-on optic assault. I blame this on the 80's. I also sported a somewhat spiky, mulletesque hairstyle, which cannot be blamed on the trends of a decade of bad trends. But it was a girl-mullet. That nuance will surely recover some of my dignity.

A select few will say that I looked cute. You are my mother. However, for a more realistic answer, I turn to those who do not have maternal feelings for me. The responses usually include things like: "Uh. Oh. Man. I wouldn't have known that was you," and "Holy Cow what was up with that? Did you wear it just that one time?" And then there are some who, in an attempt to spare my feelings, comment instead on my little sister who is also in the photo. Her clothing is similar to mine, but she is 9 so it's somehow okay. They say things like, "Aww look at Carrie. She looks so cute! And look at that beautiful, long hair."

Now I deal with situational awkwardness. Like trying not to explain the facts of life to a 4 year old who, it would seem from her line of questioning, is not going to let this die easily. And there are just so many possibilities in a public restroom, from "It's stinky in here! " to "Which one do you have to do Mama?"

However, if I am not mistaken, there is a point in life when awkwardness will be the least of our concerns. It is called 75 years old. Lucky stiffs.

In any case, enjoy life until your earlobes start growing again. At least they will take the focus off of your nose.

The Truth About Blogging

Okay, so it's only my second blog. Maybe I don't know the "truth" yet. However, in the 3 days since my first post, I have been thoroughly *encouraged* to write more. Is this how it will be? Five, if not scores of adoring fans awaiting my next ponderance? What if I don't meet expectations? What if I collapse under the strain? How can I be expected to perform at such a level of brilliance time and again? And, alas, dare I say it - - what if my life isn't interesting enough to sustain daily blogs? What if it takes the full sum of one week for inspiration to strike? What then of my public? Will they lose interest, or will the suspense of sparse blogs captivate them even more?

It has been my experience with some of you, that you are thoroughly entertained by the mad key thumping of a 4 year old. Perhaps I should blog accordingly...? "DjibvKJdlakjre;aien29834. And THEN fkejeinlsiedk, just in time for a big askjf3902,kgfj! It was sooo tunkieoiq." Enthralling, isn't it?

Conversely, blogging is a good outlet, and, if anyone is bored by your posts, you can say, "It's my outlet. It's not a novel or an editorial column for a national newspaper. I need my outlet. It's mine. " That should quiet down the masses. And if it doesn't you can push them down. Hey, it worked on the playground. Nobody messed with you if you pushed them down. Unless they were bigger than you and they got really, really mad. But that's a blog for another day.

Until next time, whenever that may be,
Amy
--Taking the blogging world by storm.

Why I Don't Bake

Today was the day to cook the Amish Bread my mother-in-law gave me the starter for. After follwing the recipie quite carefully, I "cooked" the bread. I had to peek about 1/2 way through, and there seemed to be a little too much in the pans. But a little overflow isn't the end of the world, I thought. A few more minutes and a distinct smell began to fill the kitchen, that was in no way associated with bread. I checked again and the "spillage" was smoking - quite a bit. I turned on the vent and opened the front door. I placed cookie sheets on the rack below the bread to collect any future overflow and keep it off of the bottom of the oven. Another minute or so and smoke seemed to be billowing out of the oven. Another check revealed a small fire in the bottom of the oven. At this point, a small voice in the back of my head said, "Give it up. The bread is lost and so is your house if you don't take it out of the oven. P.S. why did you think you could do this?" Heeding the voice of reason, as I have now come to understand it, I removed the bread, and in doing so coated the oven mitts with batter. I began to feel that through the mitts. I opened the back door too. Again, the little voice: "May I suggest that maybe you were on crack when you decided to do this?" The bread was out, I removed the cookie sheets and stood back to admire my work. Admiration complete, I took pictures to share. And so I am posting these to say, I tried, I burned, I almost set the house on fire. I am going to microwave something for lunch now. And buy oven cleaner.