Hairy Situation

For historical purposes, I do have to document here that
Clayton asked Esten
"Dude, why are you tucking your shirt in like a nerd?"
And I intervened,
 "Your brother can tuck his shirt in any way he wants and nerds are awesome."
Sigh. It's going to be a long year.

They are BACK IN SCHOOL.

This is the part where most moms who have that uber-maternal mommy-mom gene get all sappy and a little sad (as does my husband), but this is the part where I go:

"THANK FREAKING GOD THEY ARE BACK IN SCHOOL AND THERE CAN BE A LITTLE BIT OF NORMAL BACK IN OUR LIVES AND A REASON FOR THEM TO LISTEN TO ME TELL THEM WHY THEY HAVE TO GO TO BED BEFORE ELEVEN FREAKING O'CLOCK AT FREAKING NIGHT BECAUSE I'M FREAKING TIRED AND I HAVE TO FREAKING WORK TOMORROW AFTER GETTING UP ALL FREAKING NIGHT WITH THE FREAKING BABY WHO WON'T FREAKING SLEEP."

Or something like that.  I'm paraphrasing.

So I'm glad they're back in school, and really, so are they.  And for reasons more bizarre than I can explain, like Esten's excited that he's in third grade and will get to take a special State standardized test this year that he didn't get to take last year.

For real.  When I asked what he was looking forward to, THAT is the first thing that popped into his head.  Proud moment for me, but not at ALL what I was expecting.

Because of the school's looping model, Clayton will have the same teacher he had last year, but Esten will have a new teacher.  He and I both had a bit of anxiety about it, but for different reasons.  As the summer drew to an end we each held our breath to find out, and I asked him whether he had a preference.

"What does 'preference' mean?"

"It means if you had a choice, would you choose one over the other?"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings [he's my sensitive kid for sure] but I know Mrs. X and she knows me, but I'm sure that Mrs. Y is just as good of a teacher."

"So you don't really care which one's class you're in?"

"Well YEAH I care.  I want to be in whichever class ALEX is in, DUH."

Yeah, obviously, I should have known.  These kids really could care less who their teacher is, they just want to make sure that their besties are going to have a desk in that classroom with them.

So when the robocall came in that said the class lists were posted we schlepped to the school's front window and slowly scanned down the list....Mrs. X's class....Esten....and...Alex!  That was good enough for him.  A couple extra kids were icing on the cake.  He was elated.

At the ice cream social last night, our opportunity to meet the teachers and drop off supplies (and get a treat courtesy of the PTA) we got to meet Mrs. X face to face.  She had a BEAMING smile and off the bat said, "I was SO THRILLED to get to have Esten in my class this year.  Every time I see your boys in the halls, they are so cute, and he is such a good kid!  I LOVE when their hair gets a little long and out of control, it just shows so much of their personality, I LOVE LOVE LOVE that!"

OK.  This lady.  Looks kind of like the Tooth Fairy.  And I say that in the nicest way, because I actually KNOW the Tooth Fairy, and people who know me know what that means.  Except that she has the same face as the Tooth Fairy that I already know, but she also has this very LONG (down to her butt long) CURLY hair.  So she's someone who would notice other people's hair, and who probably would tie that into their personality.  And immediately I'm thinking, my kids almost never comb their hair before school, look like welfare ragamuffins on the MAJORITY of days that are not picture day.  I think this may be an indicator that this chick may have a sense of humor about life and that we may get along just fine.

I'm thinking this might apply to a couple of my friend's kiddos who are sporting mohawks this morning too. Best to get your personality out there for the world to see. I am a kid who rocks the hawk. Deal with it. Or, I am a kid whose mom is too tired to cut my hair (also meet my brother who is in a similar situation). Please give us money.

Now I can breathe....because THIS is what I need.  I need my kids to have teachers who are at least not uptight.  That's all.  Because shit happens.  Not OFTEN.  I just need them to be their 2nd mom.  I have a sense of structure when I need to and a sense of humor when I need to, and I just want the same thing from them.  We say goodbye and on my way out the classroom door I remind her over my shoulder that any and all disciplinary problems should be directed to their FATHER, whose cell phone number is listed on Esten's information sheet she just asked me to update.  Then we both giggle.

So today everything and everyone is back in place and we can all get on with our lives again.

Now, how long before that little one can start Kindergarten???

Fat Girls Wear Sweatpants Too

I don't know if anyone else has paid much attention to this, but seems like lately some media chatter has surfaced about clothiers getting picky about who wears their clothes.

Abercrombie & Fitch was in hot water earlier this year and I don't even have the energy to link to the articles or interviews.  They make me throw up in my mouth.  Essentially the head honcho stands behind their brand's desire to only have skinny, attractive, "certain looking", people wearing their clothes.  They've been under fire for years over hiring practices, and to be honest, I've NEVER SHOPPED their brand.  I accidentally bought a pair of stirrup pants (!) of theirs about 18 years ago at Goodwill.

I think the only good PR move they've made was offering to pay that Jersey Shore hooligan to STOP wearing their clothes.

I don't want to seem like I'm singling them out.  I have never been much of a label junkie, refusing to advertise for free, which is in stark contrast with my other half, who prefers to dress like a 17 year old boy.  The two of us in a store together rarely happens, is painful when it does, and contains conversations typically heard between mothers and their teenage sons, i.e. "you're NOT getting that, isn't that a GANG thing??  It smells like marijuana in here.  Let's GO."

More recently a high end workout/yoga/athletic line that I can't pronounce got blasted too, for not carrying "plus size" clothing (size 12 is rare in stores and gets pushed in piles to the back).  Their defense: bigger clothes take more fabric to make and thus cut into their profit margin.

Uh. No.  This is a company who is charging an ABSURD amount of money for YOGA PANTS.  Although, to be fair, they may be very good quality yoga pants, and I may be jealous and I'd like a pair but I think that $90 is a lot for a pair of sweatpants.  I kvetched for MONTHS before spending $80 on a pair of jeans which did turn out to be the best pants investment ever.

But here's the real reason I think companies, and not just THIS company aren't offering extended sizes: their designers don't possess the talent.  MOST designers have been trained to dress a mannequin and models that do not represent the average sizing of women.  When they attempt to translate their designs to the bigger sizes, something gets lost.  The original designs are not suited for bigger sizes and they end up looking bad and fitting horribly.  These designers don't know how to dress anything with a curve.  So they just DON'T.  It's easier.

I think instead of demanding that these companies produce or cater to large sizes, women should seek out and support those designers and companies who bother to make quality designs that flatter and support them.

And before anyone gets sassy with me and says I'm not fat enough to have a dog in this fight (because I've heard that before), I've struggled plenty just not having things fit right.  I have a weird shape.  I know that I'm not the only person who doesn't really find shopping to be fun, but rather daunting and depressing, a hunting trip that turns out to be a waste of time almost every time.  And yet my poor closet yearns for some new additions.

What I really need is some Stacey London and that $5,000 Visa where you KNOW they're having someone do all the alterations on those clothes before their reveal.  But what I don't need is that creepy two weeks worth of spy-footage that comes before it.  Nothankyou.

I just think that gals of all shapes and sizes ought to have options available that don't make them feel bad about themselves, that don't tell them "you have to be at least THIS skinny to wear our yoga pants" or "you have to be at least THIS pretty to wear our shirt from the catalog where our models wear no shirts at all".

I'm just sorry that the people we're buying our clothes from are treating us like a shitty boyfriend who tells us we're fat and ugly and nobody's going to love us, and we keep going back for more because we just want so badly for them to like us and to fit in with the popular kids.....

It's Still Snowing, so it's Still Relevant

This holiday entry isn't early, it's LATE.  From like December late.  But I thought I'd get it in here now so I can start planning for THIS Christmas season.

Plus, it's still dumping snow occasionally in places some of my friends and family live, so it's still relevant maybe.

Elf on the Shelf.  Do you know about this phenomenon?  So this elf shows up on your doorstep addressed to the youngsters in the house.  The return address on our box was The North Pole.  Inside the box was the elf (of course) and a book.  The book explained that we had to name our elf, and that every day he would observe the happenings in the house and report back to Santa every night about what he heard and saw.  He'd return early in the morning in a new spot in the house.  Kids have three jobs here:

1. Do not touch the elf.  Ever.
2. Find the elf each morning before leaving the house.
3. Make sure you behave yourself because the elf is ALWAYS WATCHING.

Our elf's name is Fred.  Upon the kids choosing that name, Daddy immediately pointed out that his name can't be Fred, as that is Santa's name.  Only it's not.  But he insisted for quite a while that Santa's first name is Fred, and it took some convincing to remind him that Santa Claus's first name is....SANTA.  Or maybe he was thinking Kris [Kringle] or Nick.  Or whatever.  But not FRED.  The closest Fred comes into this is Vince Vaughn playing his brother Fred in Fred Claus, the movie.

So.  It's Fred.  And he's kind of a tricky trickster.  Here's a sampling of his shenanigans:

Get a candy cane down without touching him. Dare you.

There was less syrup after school. They measured.

"All that syrup made my teeth so sticky! Be sure to brush good!"

The note says their mommy makes the best cookies ever.

Clayton was really playing with fire here...getting close.

Even elves need a little grown up beverage at their poker parties.

I think Esten really was annoyed at the waste of buttwipe.

Spa day!

Clayton refused to take responsibility for any scissor damage.

Sick day.

It was REAL sugar. They checked.

Clayton wanted that marshmallow BAD.

I don't know what kind of mischief that hooligan will be into if he returns this year, I'm just glad that for 11 months out of the year he's Santa's problem, not mine.

Append a WHAT?

Halfway through a meeting yesterday I got a call from the school.

I really need to change the primary contact for them to the FATHER of these hooligans.  My heart drops whenever I see that number.  I don't know why.  I think I was ruined the morning they called to say Esten busted his arm on the playground before school even started.  Maybe it's because I'm afraid of their first trip to the principal's office...that I'll become THAT mom with the problem kids.

Yet, so far all the grownups seem to think these two are angels.

It was the second call from the school this week, the first one on Tuesday morning stopped my heart.  After answering I realized it was the librarian.

MOTHER-OF-PEARL.  Am I going to have to spend the next 4 days tearing up the house looking for a lost library book again?

No.  Turns out Esten was selected as Character Kid from his class for this month - Cooperation is the trait they're focusing on for now.

C.O.O.P.E.R.A.T.I.O.N.  From the kid who can't take his eyeballs off his Kindle Fire long enough for me to tell him to put his dirty socks in the laundry.

Anyway, they ask that the parents (or SOMEONE who gives a hoot about the kid) show up at the assembly on Friday when the selected kids are revealed.  We've gone through this a couple of times, and my kids have YET to figure out when they see me while skip-walking into the gym and settling down all criss-cross-applesauce that I'm there for a reason other than I must be so bored with my life that I hang out at school assemblies.

But I digress....THIS call yesterday was not about that.  THIS call was scratchy and rattly, and I could hear my kidlet on the other end asking the secretary whether he should listen for someone to answer or when he should start talking.  My kids don't talk on the phone routinely....so they're telephonically paralyzed when they have to.  I said HELLO louder and louder until he responded.

"Hi my name is Esten and I need someone to come pick me up my stomach hurts."

"Hi Esten, this is your MOTHER and I will tell DAD to come get you."

...he hangs up on me.

I feverishly dial and text and silently cuss his dad, who's not responding.  When I finally got him on the line he headed down to handle the crisis.  He said when he got there that he watched Esten go into the bathroom but not come out...he went in after him and found him sprawled on the floor.  He felt like throwing up all day (but didn't until much later last night).

After a lot of moaning and groaning and me questioning and poking and prodding him, I realized his complaints of right sided belly pain MIGHT be his appendix, and I caved to the reality that he probably shouldn't wait until today to be checked out.  So I schlepped him to the hospital thinking Minor Care could handle it, but they elected to put him in the ER instead.  Behind about 12 other people.  In the hallway.  After a room opened up we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And this is not the part where I'm complaining about THAT because I realize a lot of people were a LOT sicker than him, and at one point I'm sure I heard a helicopter.  I began to wish they had him on a bed for larger people so I could crawl in there and snuggle him.  Not so much for his ease of mind as for my exhaustion.

As the minutes (and then hours) ticked by, I learned quite a bit in that tiny room from that tiny being:

1. Not all Vikings had horns.
2. Christopher Columbus was arrested by a gang of Vikings.
3. It is undetermined whether Christopher Columbus was arrested by horny Vikings.
4. You shouldn't eat too much junk food because if you get too hyper you can pass out and when you wake up you can have amnesia.
5. If the only game you have on your phone is Angry Birds, that is lame.
6. An 8 year old boy can pee in a urine sample cup being held by his mother with an alarming degree of accuracy compared to the war-zone spray around the toilet at home, but only until that boy gets the giggles about the fact that he's peeing in a cup being held by his mother.  Then all Hell breaks loose.
7. No matter how much soap you use to wash your hands after being peed on by an 8 year old kid, it NEVER seems like enough.
8. A hospital-issued barf bag is the same length as the distance between the tips of an 8 year old boy's fingers and his "elbow crotch".  It is speculated that they may be useful to people in an eating competition because they seem designed to hold a LOT.
9. Something just outside the room makes the exact same noises as something on Dad's belt when he comes home for dinner on his work days.  Like "freaky-same".  Like people talking on a walkie-talkie.
10. Having a curtain in the room seems unnecessary to someone who questions why on earth anyone would ever be naked in the ER.
11. The proposed solution to possible appendicitis is a Big Mac.
12. A plan was hatched to construct a vending machine out of Legos that only accepts fifty or hundred dollar bills, and then says "sorry, out of change".

Alas, I'm THAT mom that sent his fanny to school this morning and emailed his teacher the scoop.  So today I will try to muck through and hopefully not get another call.  I'd love to spend some additional quality time with the kid, just not in that setting again.

Hoops, Headbanz, and Hubs on the Move

I had big intentions tonight of publishing a how-to guide to playing Headbanz with my children, should you ever find yourself in that position.

I may still....standby.

In the meantime, when I arrived home from work, Hubs already had the kidlets fed and they were playing out in the yard while he assembled a newly purchased basketball hoop, which for context, the clerk at the sporting goods store had named "The Beast", a lone leftover they didn't even put on display because it was a giant expensive pain in the ass - so he offered it up at a hefty discount just to be rid of it.

If you know hubs' experience in the tool chest department, you know the state he was in mid-assembly of this thing.  He's the guy who will pay extra for the floor model so he doesn't have to put stuff together.  But he's getting better.  He asked for my extra arms to get some bolts in, and only had to tear apart ONE mechanism that he'd assembled incorrectly.

Super proud of him.  Really.

After a mish-mosh of baby waking up from nap and bribing big brother to hold him while I helped Dad, it was finally finished.  I told the boys that one of them needed to follow me in the house to get a garbage bag to pick up the miscellaneous packaging material, and whomever didn't come in with me could pick up all the toys and put them back in their homes.  This is my technique for getting things done with little argument.  Give two options for equally unpleasant jobs and they seem to silently figure out who will do what.

Dishes, feeding, diaper change.  Soon I returned to the driveway to see what the hold up was since it was getting dark.

Jason was on the phone.  The boys were testing out the new hoop.

"Fatality?  Ok, call [other officer #1 and other officer #2], and I'll be on my way."

Vehicle crash.  He's on a specialty team and with someone was no longer among the living it was his job to go figure out why.  He jetted inside, slipped on his uniform and was gone.

Just like that.

I herded the kids in for homework and jammies and settled in to get baby to sleep for the night.  I checked our local news update to see where the crash was so I'd know how far away from home he was, where his job had taken him tonight, how bad it was, whether I thought he might slip in bed before midnight.

He had plans to go to the gym after the basketball hoop fiasco.  He never takes his phone to the gym.  If he'd gotten it together quicker he'd have never gotten that call.  He'd be home and we'd be kicked back on the couch spending time together for the first time this week because of our crazy schedules that take us opposite directions all but 2 days a week.

But instead he did take that call, and he went, because it's his duty.  Even on his day off.  There was no questioning, no arguing, no planning for his absence.  We've gotten past that point as a team.  When he has to go he just goes....and he knows that I'm keeping the proverbial home fires burning for his return.

That's not to say there's not hiccups.  One morning not too long ago he failed to come home at his scheduled 2am end of shift.  No call...no nothing.  I finally sent him a text at 3:30, another at 4 something threatening that if he didn't respond I would start making phone calls.  He eventually responded with only, "I'm fine. Go to bed."  To date I've prided myself in not being "that wife" that bothers dispatch about his location when he doesn't call me, though the ladies are like family and insist that it would never be a bother.  One time only have I made that call when he was long overdue from a recovery dive for a drowning victim in the river, far outside our area and outside cell range.

So.  Here I sit waiting patiently, for who knows how long, while he is out dealing with the worst kind of bad there is....along with his brothers in brown who will notify families and measure and calculate and console and write reports and hopefully make whatever stretch of road safer one day.  I sit and wish that it was 24 hours ago and we were still playing Headbanz with the kids, and Clayton was still playing in true Clayton style:

If you ever find yourself playing with Clayton, listen to what he asks HE is.  For example he will look right at me and say "Am I a ladder?"

This almost guarantees that I am a ladder.

The remainder of the game is spent with them offering up wholly conflicting or inaccurate answers to your yes/no questions.

"Am I an animal?"

"YES"

"Would you eat me for dinner?"

"No."
"Do I live in America?"
"Well, they never really lived, but they used to live EVERYWHERE. [Dramatic hand gestures]"

[Daddy interjects] "No, if I had to guess I'd say they live in England."

Anyhoo...turns out I was a DRAGON....and it dawned on me (again) why we don't have family game night very often.

But when we do it's super fun.  And I'm glad that we can wedge one in occasionally between the chaos and the call-outs and that we can [at least I think] make it appear to our kids like we're relatively normal.  That it's not a big deal.  No freakouts, no drama about it.  It just IS.  We adjust.  We make do.  We make changes so that families who need help get it.

We'll have game night again.  That family won't.  Does it make me miss my husband any less?  No.  But this is the life we signed up for.  It's why we're here.  I don't think either of us could imagine it any other way.  Wait, no....Hubs imagines being a stay-at-home-dad all the time.  It makes me appreciate ALL the folks who put their own lives on hold, working stupid shifts around the clock, all to ensure that the rest of us are safe and following the rules.  The sacrifice goes beyond the person working, and I thank their families for giving up time with them for our sake as well.

As for our kids?  They're for the most part clueless as to the degree of ugliness that either of us encounters professionally.  But they do know that life is one part work, one part fun, and 100% family and love.  That's the best lesson I can think of to drill into their little brains at this point.  One day they'll know differently, but for now it's enough.

Meet My Wife...Her Name Is BlueBear

"Meet my wife....her name is BlueBear"

This is what I envision Esten's future to be sometimes.  Which of course, I know, is ridiculous. BlueBear is a boy.  I do think he'll be lucky one day to find a special gal who knows BlueBear, knows BlueBear isn't going anywhere, and is okay that BlueBear will probably sleep between them.

Esten's definition of LOVE. I see his point a little.




Esten was given BlueBear at birth really, or at least as soon as Auntie Mandy dragged her crew in to meet him.  He came in weighing down a football balloon.  Esten was my firstborn and BlueBear was his first bestie.

We didn't realize how important BlueBear was...he never even really had a "name" per se....just BlueBear.  Uncreatively obvious.  Like it wasn't any more special than anything else.  True, Esten loved him and cuddled him, but Esten was an enormously loving baby who didn't discriminate.  He would snuggle and hug ANYONE.  We used to make a routine of passing out hugs before leaving a place.  "Go give hugs so we can go!"  It became standard for him and carried over to daycare and other places.  He was never stingy when it came to spreading out his love.  Prime kidnapper bait.  Plus, he wasn't a little ay-hole.  He'd have been a well-behaved hostage.

A while after Clayton came along we began sorting through old pictures and noticed something peculiar...BlueBear appeared at random in so many pictures - even hanging out on the arm of the couch in my hospital room when Clayton was born.  He was always just THERE.  We laughed and BlueBear continued his reign as the #1 loved stuffed animal in Esten's heart.

Clayton has never had an overwhelming attachment to an animal, or a blanket, or any other security object.  But as he's gotten older he's observed and admired Esten's loyal friend, the one he seeks out before bed usually but not exclusively.  The one that Esten has proclaimed as the only "person" who's been his bestest buddy longer than Alex, his bestie from day 1 of Kindergarten.  And Clayton began to ask if I would get HIM a BlueBear too.  The boys both collectively even selected a bigger version of PinkBear to send my dear friend as a hospital get-well gift...without regard to her Grandma-ish age or whether she'd enjoy a nice houseplant instead.  Blue/PinkBear love is universal...it knows no limits.  They INSISTED.

I did have to explain to Clayton that despite his request for his own, they don't make BlueBear anymore (he was from the 2002-2003 beanie baby era and is retired now) but that maybe I could find one that someone already loved, like Esten's.  We put the discussion on the back burner until I ordered not one, but two BlueBears for Christmas.  One for Clayton and one for Harrison.  A surprise for him.  He LOVED it.  Not nearly to the degree that Esten's got invested with his, but still.  I hope that Harrison grows to love his BlueBear (whose real name is Tinker) as much as Clayton loves his (he named Chippy) and Esten loves, well, BlueBear.

And so this morning the house was all-apanic because Esten couldn't FIND BlueBear.  Show and tell was today, and he's been preparing all week to take BlueBear and HoneyDog since the teacher designated this week's category: "Do you have a stuffed animal?"  HoneyDog was in his backpack, but BB was nowhere to be found.  He was devastated when I made him leave empty handed.  I even offered an alternative, to take one of his brothers' bears in its place.  He just hung his head.  "No Mom, Alex won't even RECOGNIZE those other bears.  He KNOWS BlueBear."

This was a no brainer.  BlueBear is MUCH flatter and worn, and more of a blue-dirt color hue than the others despite my constant washing/bleaching him.  He'd rather go without than sully his name by trying to pass off an impostor.

Eventually after they left I found BlueBear and dropped him off at the school.  I knew even though it would add a few minutes to my trip to the office, it was worth it for the improvement it would make to his attitude, to his day.  He would have dwelled and fussed and worried all day.  Today WAS trash day after all....what IF BlueBear accidentally got thrown out??  Why ELSE couldn't we find him????  Panic.  Panic.  Fuss.  Repeat.

Now I can't wait to see him when I get home, ask him how today went...and get a big squeeze from him for saving the day.  There is nothing better than a love between an 8 year old and his bear except the love you get for reuniting them.

He Doesn't Love You Unless...

**Disclaimer**

The following post should NOT be read by any man, particularly any who are married/in a relationship with any of my friends.  I will not be held responsible for any adverse outcome of people/person(s) not heeding this warning.

***********************************************

So if you didn't notice the abrupt shift in advertising from a mucky stew of political ads to holiday deals....then you DVR everything like I do.

One particular category always gets my attention: Diamonds.

No, not in a good way, not in the shallow manner you'd expect from a vagina owner.  In a much more realistic, pseudo-pessimistic way that you should expect from THIS vagina owner.  Staring at the screen I wonder: do these guys really think that I'm going to whither away convinced my man doesn't love me if he doesn't immediately run to the nearest jewelry store to collect and have his most willing female relative/coworker wrap for me this season's hottest "tell her you love her" sparkly treasure?

But it does work.  A lot.  It always has.  De Beers and their "A Diamond Is Forever" campaign (which they came out with in 1947) is considered the BEST advertising slogan of the 20th century.  Problem was...once you got that diamond....not a lot of other diamonds followed.  What to do?

Got it.  Make up some ridiculous NEW shape/configuration to convince people that last year's jewelry purchase has lost the love luster that it once had.  Tell her your love for her "has no end"....buy her an eternity ring or pendant (or a matching set!).

It's a circle.

Reflect on the path your relationship has taken with a journey pendant...tiny diamonds representing your beginning together and slowly taper and swirl into a big diamond to represent the two of you today, sitting on the couch, wondering how many months it will take to pay this off.

Eric, you're a douche, but she'll still love it.

How about a trilogy ring?  Acknowledge your love's past, present, and future with that one.

Even especially if you're an NBA player,
she's gonna know you just cheated on her.

Even Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman got into the jewelry biz with her "keep an open heart" collection.  When the line for women was exhausted they started suggesting you buy them for little girls, too.  The REAL irony of this one is that this past February (right after Valentine's Day) Jane Seymour came clean about the actual origin of her design inspiration.

You're gonna regret this tattoo selection in a minute, trust me.

www.uwmcforum.com/2012/02/29/jane-seymour-finally-admits-true-origin-of-her-open-hearts-jewelry/:

“The design originated with one of my paintings,” Seymour had said truthfully. On Thursday she admitted that her painting had absolutely nothing to do with hearts.

“I was painting my husband, James,” Seymour said in her trademark British accent. “And when I came across his ballsack . . . the elegance of the motion of the brush on the canvas just struck me as remarkable. I became obsessed with painting just the ballsack,” she said. She began experimenting with her strokes and, over time, the ‘Open Hearts’ design, as you know and love it today, evolved.

Kinda makes you gag at the thought of draping one of THOSE around your little girl's neck now, doesn't it??

Love not enough to convince you?  For the single (or sass-mouth) ladies, you MUST buy a "right hand ring"....buy it for yourself (who needs a MAN??) and wear it as a symbol of your independence.

That's still not your right hand,
but we get the picture, lady.

This trickery is not limited to diamonds.  A few years back Italian charm bracelets were pretty popular in this same manner....today Chamilia seems to be the prevalent charm bracelet setup.

And in this mix lies my poor husband....who likely longs for something as simple as a sparkly bauble to shut me up during the holidays.  Who wishes his wife could be "normal" like the rest of them who ooh and ahhh over something shiny.

Sorry honey, you're going to have to try WAY harder than that.

This is not to say that I didn't swoon over every diamond he's given me.  It's just that they were super-charged with emotion and not given willy-nilly.  I remember the exact moment their light hit my eyes, but even more so the light in his eyes across the table from me.  It was NOT, however, any of these trendy must-have ways to say "I love you."  It was much classier, traditional, and given to me while my hair was still wet from a much needed shower and I was in a bathrobe and hospital slipper-socks.  THAT is love.

In fact, we're headed back to that same spot soon...though I would never expect a repeat of that gift, it does make me reflect on the one that was given then....which I haven't taken off since.