Just a Mom, HA!

An Irish Blessing from a Fake Irish Girl

Here’s the little blessing…

Anyone can make an Irish pic – I used picnik.com to create this look for free.  First pick a picture that is bright and outdoors.  Tint it a light shade of green with a little fade so some colors come through.  Then put Cross-Process over the top – you can fade this too if you like, I did.  Then add whatever message you want and you’ve got an Irish Blessing to share.

Now, here’s the story…

Lace was the instigator of our childhood group.  That’s not to call the rest of us followers, but all comedians need material.  One day she came into possession of an Irish poster with a sweet old man, riding a wagon with his trusty sheep dog through a beautiful, lush forest.  Lace gathered a group of us to her room, showed us the poster and told us that Ireland is the greatest place ever and that we all love it.

We accepted our new love with delight.

We went about collecting all things Irish, but that wasn’t all.  We worked our accents until they were spot on perfect (in our minds at least).  With our trusty alter egos, we had all kinds of adventures.

We’d go to bowling alleys and pretend to be foreign exchange students that had never seen this strange American sport.

“Suuoh, yer sayin’ I hafta throw thees ball duwn tha alleyway an’ knock duown thos wee pins thar?”

I think we got free rootbeers if I’m not mistaken.

One time, after a long hard night at a camp, we recited the entirety of Dicken’s A Christmas Carol while taking super hot showers.  When we came out we’d convinced (without trying) several campers that we were Irish and just here at that camp to visit relatives.

But the big lesson in all of this is – if you’re going to lie about your identity, do it in places where they’ll never see you again.

I told these stories to my college roommates, and wanting proof of my abilities, they sent me across the street to a group party to act Irish for the crowd.  I chatted up a few people, stupidly used my real name, then went home thinking nothing of it.

The next week in the laundry room I was confronted by one of the girls I’d met.

“You’re Kim right.”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Huh, what’s with your voice.”

“Nothing.”

“But, you’re accent is gone.”

*Oh crap!*

She chewed me out, and I deserved it.  Since then I haven’t been fake Irish, and I suppose it’s best for the world at large.

Besides, it’s best to save it for when I need a secret identity to flee the country or to get extra free samples at Costco.

One Girl’s Workout, Another’s Joke

This morning my friend, the Trainer Momma, put up an old-school jazzercise video on her blog.  It was meant as a joke, the bad 80’s hair and outfits, the bizarro “dance” moves.  It’s pretty funny.

Funny, but also very very real.

My mom owned this Jazzercise tape.  This very one.  We dressed in our 80’s gear – me in a tumbling unitard and side ponytail, mom in an over sized t-shirt with a plastic ring tying it off to one side.

And we jazzercised.  We shook our hips, we raised our arms, we rotated our pelvises, and we bounced our knees.

It made me feel like a big girl somehow – girls play, but women jazzercise.

I should also mention that I thought that the brunette on the right in the video was beautiful and I wanted to be like her when I grew up.  I now note that she’s sporting a mullet – sure it’s a very full, very bouncy mullet, but a mullet all the same.

I’m glad that times have changed.

My favorite part in the workout was the opening credits when the group of ladies jazzercise past a couple of elephants who also shake it.

However, I was scared of both the segments that featured men as both men had facial hair (something that I did not trust at all as a girl) and since their legs seemed to move independently from their bodies.

The First Kiss that Changed the World

I’ve already told a story or two about the early days in our courtship, but as this weekend marks both Jay’s birthday and the anniversary of our first kiss, I thought it would be a good time to tell this story.

Signals had been flying over the past week and I was going to burst.  After almost an entire semester of flirting, then seeing him with someone else, having a deep/personal conversation then not seeing him for days, we were finally getting somewhere.

1. He took me on a date for his free birthday lunch at one of my favorite restaurants (which I thought was going to be a group/friend thing, but he just took me and paid for my meal when his was free).
2. He put his arm around me in the car.
3. He held my hand at Harry Potter 4.

But Jay’s uncle came to town the weekend of his birthday, and for a day or so there wasn’t any contact between us.

We had been on a roll, a roll that I liked very much -  each time we were together we acted more enamored, more interested, more touchy…

I really wanted that roll to keep going.

I hatched a plan to pop over to his apartment right at midnight so that I could be the first person to wish him a happy birthday, and to give him a little present.  We weren’t bf/gf yet, so I just made a little box that was part of an inside joke with us and filled it with candy (Jay still has that box to this day – it’s filled with things from our dating days, ticket stubs, programs, etc.).  It was sweet, but not too overbearing (I didn’t want to ruin things by sending out creeper vibes).

Jay seemed surprised to see me, but happy too.  We just talked for a moment, since he mentioned having to get up at 4:30 to take his uncle to the airport in the morning.  Much to my surprise he asked me if I’d like to go along for the ride.

Sleep, Boy, Sleep, Boy…. hmm. Two very important things to the average college age female.  My deliberations only took a moment though – I figured that I had the rest of my life to sleep, but being along with Jay in a car for an hour drive only came along once in a lifetime (back then).

I told him that I’d LOVE a two hour car ride before the sun came up, and rushed home to get a [very] little bit of shut eye.

I’m sure that Jay slept like a log for those 4 hours.  I contemplated taking a shower, doing my hair, if my pajamas were cute enough…. In the end, I think I didn’t want to come off as fake, so I just wrapped up in my red-plaid-teddy-bear blanket (no joke) and slumped into the backseat of his car.

You should never be fake in relationships.  That’s the key to success.

On the drive to the airport, I snoozed a little in the back of the car.  Jay wanted to talk personally with his uncle and I didn’t want to push myself into it.  I did eavesdrop a little though when the uncle asked about girls – Jay said that he wanted to date, but that he wouldn’t get married before graduating unless he found the right girl.

Who would have thought the tattered little thing in the backseat would have been her?

After Uncle took off for his flight, I came up to sit in the front by Jay.  His car was an old lady’s Buick (quite literally, it was a hand-me-down from Grandma G), which came fully equipped for a strapping young bachelor – a bench front seat.  Jay stretched his arm out across the seat and offered me his shoulder to crash on, which I accepted delightedly.

We drove the hour back home like that.  Yes, I did think of my mom and dad’s warnings about girlfriends who sit in the middle, then get in accidents and have the rear view mirror lodged in their heads, but I took the risk – it was JAY’s shoulder after all and at least I would have died happy.

Taking our exit off of the freeway the sun just began to crest over the mountains.  The morning frost glistened in the perfect silence of a lazy Sunday morning.  We were alone on the streets of our town.

Bending onto my road, I was sad to see my apt coming into view, but as we approached my driveway Jay swung to the left instead of the right and parked in the empty University A lot that we used for visitors on weekends.  I thought he wanted to park and walk me to my door, but the engine stayed running, as Jay shifted to hold me tight.

I honestly cannot remember if we even said a word that morning.  What I do know is that Jay was sporting his sloppy-look complete with a nerd’s hat (no joke, it said Atari on it) covering his uncombed (possibly unwashed?) hair.

With my head on his shoulder, he bent down and grazed my forehead with his lips.

I froze – a test, was that a test of the waters?  How do I act interested without loosing my cool?

I remained still in that same position.  Dead-frozen, like a kissing possum just in case there was some mistake.

Then, timidly, a second kiss was placed on my cheek, but dangerously close to my lips.  The brim of his hat collided with my temple and I wondered, Was he trying to kiss me, but didn’t make it ‘cuz of the hat?

Stupid hat.  Stupid, stupid, blocking hat.

With boldness that is NOT like me at all, I twisted around, grabbed onto the brim of that hat and gave it a heave into the backseat.

Jay smiled, nothing to misinterpret there, leaned over and kissed me for real.

I was dumbfounded by how perfect it was – not an awkward lip bump like so many first kisses when you’re not really sure of the other person.  It was sincere, it was heart felt, and it lasted a good little while. ; ) wink wink.

The last part of the story (that I know if I don’t write out, Betty will jump on the comments section and add it) was that after it was time to go home I said goodbye to Jay, walked through our apt, passed another roommie who accused me right off the bat of having been freshly kissed, walked into the room we shared, then did a flying human-blanket onto Betty’s sleeping body screaming, “He KISSED me!”

As early as it was for a Sunday, she didn’t even complain.  Talk about a great roommate.

There’s a lot more story to tell – not all of it as perfect as this little fair tale, but all of it goes back to that day.  It’s been 4 years since the  kiss that changed the world – four years and the kisses have only gotten better, the mornings have occasionally gotten even earlier, but the magic of each moment together is just as strong.

I love you Honey, happy birthday and happy kiss-aversary!

My New Dolly

During the end of my college years I got to the point of needing a computer.  My major (psych) required lots of research time and writing, so my heart’s desire was a laptop that I could take in and out of the library, that I could pull up power points on while sitting in the lecture, to IM with my roommates to check in with each other.

This computer was to be my best classmate.

Luckily at the time I knew and admired a handsome IT student.  I casually mentioned around him that I was hoping to find a computer at a fair that was being put on that week on campus, but that I really wasn’t sure what I was looking for.  A chance to be chivalrous and do computer stuff?!  Yes, that nerdy knight-in-shining-armor was hooked and agreed to meet me at the fair the next day.

My thoughts: Me and Jay ALONE at the computer fair, weeze weeze, is this a date? He said he’d meet me – what does that mean, does he like me? weeze weeze.

What my thoughts would be in this scenario today:  Me and Jay ALONE at a computer fair, ugh, well at least we’re alone.  I hope Cee’s being nice for the sitter.  Wow, how long is this going to take, I thought I saw a cute shoe store outside…

Boy how things change with time – anyway, back to the story…

We met, we looked, we didn’t find.  Instead Jay continued the search online until he found the right computer for my needs at the right price.  He helped me order it, helped me set it up when it came, and my life changed forever.

No, Jay didn’t ask me to be his girlfriend then, I just really really liked my computer.

I liked her so much that I named her Dolly, so that I could say phrases like, “I’m just playing around with my Dolly,” and “I’m going to the library with Dolly.”

Much like a childhood pet that seems immortal – long outliving the normal life expectancy for its breed, Dolly endured.  She helped Jay and I patch things up after a rough start to our relationship, she listened to me complain about the incompetent writing that I had to edit as a Senior capstone project, she went with me to work everyday while I was a Spanish teacher since most of the time I didn’t have an office to call my own.  She edited Cee’s birth pics.  She started this blog.  Then last month, she coughed out her last.

This is where I have to give LOTS of credit to Jay.  He saw me struggle with her, he saw her die on me out of nowhere, and he saw how slow she went on the simplest tasks.

No, he didn’t grab a shotgun to put her out of her misery like some terrible ending to ‘Old Dell-er,’ he once again went online, found the perfect computer for me and bought it using all of his overtime money from last month (so as not to destroy our family budget).  Not only is Jay a wonderful husband, father, and provider, he is a selfless gift giver.  16 hours of his life went into me having a new toy and I appreciate it with all of my heart.  It’s one way he tells me that I matter, that he thinks I’m talented, and that he wants me to keep pursuing my dreams.

I’m a lucky girl.

Here’s the new Dolly.  She’s younger, faster, smarter, and sleeker, but she can never be #1.

A Wart’s Tale

It’s time to tell a tale.  An epic, tragic, and personal tale about a girl, her foot, and the wart that wouldn’t go away.

*Disclaimer:  Before reading the story, you should know that I don’t in fact believe in talking warts, or warts with personalities, I’m just using such ideas for fun and to aide in the drama that is my wart story.

A long long time ago, before I loved Jay, before he loved me, but after having kissed a bit, Jay asked me to go swimming with him and his friends.  I love to swim, it is something I’ve always enjoyed – what I don’t enjoy is being in a swimming suit in front of the boy that just barely crossed over the “just friends” line.  Worst of all, the suit was old, worn out, and not so supportive.

What if wearing this suit in front of Jay meant the shallow and premature end to this budding relationship?

Jay just thought he’d ask because it’s fun – if only he’d known then what torture he’d unleashed on my insecure little mind.

I hemmed and hawed in front of the dressing room mirror.  I pranced, I sucked in, I shook, I leaned, I did any and every pose I could think of that could possibly happen while swimming so as to know exactly what Jay would be seeing.  In the end I just ran out and jumped in the water as fast as possible hoping that the water would obscure everything I’d just seen and somehow make me look graceful and mermaid-like.

I know, those are some seriously high hopes for a campus pool.

Anyway the date went fine – I impressed Jay and his friends with my swimming prowess, Jay jumped off the highest high dive (maybe to impress me, maybe cuz that’s just the kind of guy he is), and if I remember right, I even got a few more kisses.

But the hemming and hawing in the locker room had come with a terrible price.

That night back at Jay’s apartment I remember feeling a burning sensation on my foot.  I think I mentioned it to Jay, but I just chalked it up to scratches from the rough pool floor.

The next morning I awoke to find a behemoth wart on the bottom of my foot.

I freaked out – I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, a wart… on ME?  No, no, it couldn’t be!  Warts were for wicked witches, gross people, dirty people, not for little old me…

I looked at the wart, and it looked back at me.  I wept, it laughed.  I cursed, it wrote me poetry, “Ask not for whom the wart bell tolls, it tolls for thee…”

The Beast came with two other baby beasties on my toe and heel.  I went to the drug store and bought some wart remover and the two little buggers died off, but The Beast remained.

I tried every remedy I could get my hands on, I had to be rid of him, I had to get back to having a normal foot and a normal life.

But all he did was grow, and grow, and eat my remedies for breakfast.

Now he’s become a sort of nemesis – someone who’s always there, putting large wart marks in the bottom of my shoes, shooting pain up my calf… he hangs in the shadows, observing everything, and adding his own touch on each and every moment.

The Beast was there when I met my now in-laws, engagement, marriage, honeymoon, college graduation, job interviews, teaching career, pregnancy, Cee’s birth, our move to TX… he’s even down there now, as I write this, sneering at me.

Why not go to a doctor?  That’s a good question, and one that Jay has asked me a number of times, but the truth is that I have been to a doctor… 5 of them periodically over the years, and not one of them could stop The Beast.  He’s been chopped down, shot full of poison, given pills, treated as a corn, and the latest embarrassing treatment was to smear him with for genital warts (believe me, that was a humiliating trip to the pharmacy – “It’s for my foot, I swear!”  “Yeah right lady, that’s what they all say.”).

So, why am I writing all of this?  It is a little detailed and gross, but it’s to finally declare my independence from The Beast.  On Tuesday morning he’s going bye-bye.  He is going to be surgically removed, leaving me with an open wound that my doctor describes as a shark bite.

I’m scared, relieved, and concerned all at the same time.  Not having this constant pain in my leg will be a rebirth for me, but 6-8 weeks of healing time worries me.  How will I keep up with Cee?  How will I get around?  How will I keep up with everything that I need to do?  Is it possible to be hopefully optimistic, but dreading the worst at the same time, or is that emotionally ungrammatical?

So anyway, be prepared for posts next week about the joys of motherhood when you can’t get off your hands and knees.

A Best Friend from a Dirty Sock

This week my best friend Betty is getting married.  That means a week of preparation, travel to the home that is no longer my home, family time, grandparent time, Mommy Goal of the Month time, beaches, good food, and basking in the loving glow of a new family being created.

How could I not wax a little nostalgic?

Betty and I have been high school friends and college roommates.  Though we did have a long break from each other when she went to Japan and I went to Bolivia, we are the kind of friends that hug after two years apart and pick up as though the separation was an afternoon.  We are not identical, but we are kindred spirits.

Though, we wouldn’t have believed it at the start…

When you live in the same town and the same house your whole life you have a lot of friends come and go.  I had my group of friends from school and church, and (to us) we were top notch awesome.  Just as we were getting ready to leave our middle school training pond and go jump in the big HS lake, Betty joined our group.

She showed up out of the blue.  All of the sudden she was just there, mingled in amongst my friends as if she’d always been there.  Everyone loved her instantly, but I had a problem.  For some reason I thought that Betty hated me.

From a psychological stand point, having such an impression is guaranteed to affect one’s actions.  I don’t know for sure how I acted toward Betty then, I don’t think that I was mean or anything, but somehow she thought that I didn’t like her either.

Then came summer camp.

The whole group of friends signed up to go away to Tacoma for a youth camp.  It was all done rather last minute, and as the friends paired up for roommates, Betty and I realized that we were the two left.

“Mom,” I cried, “what am I to do?  Betty hates me – this is going to be the worst camp ever!”

The week before camp, Betty sprained her ankle.  Lots of kids would give up on camp at this point, but for Betty, a sprained ankle was such a common occurrence that it didn’t phase her or her plans one bit.  She went to camp on crutches and with an air splint.

We all rode up in a big van together.  We registered at the University where we’d be staying.  Then the time came to split up and find our rooms.  Betty and I got our room ready, we probably talked in short phrases about this and that, but I was still worried about the week.

Not only did I think that Betty hated me, I’m also the only girl in my family and was used to lots of privacy.  Betty was the second oldest in a BIG family, never had any privacy, and didn’t really think much of it.  Still, when I asked her to leave our room so I could change my clothes she did it without jokes, without eye rolls, she didn’t mind making me feel comfortable.  (Oh man did this change by the time we were college roommies, huh Betty?)

The real turning point however was the night of the first dance.  (Since this was a coed camp there were lots of dances.)  Right before the dance we were out in a soggy (this is WA after all) sports field playing games.  The counselors rounded us up to take us over to the dance, but poor Betty had a wet and dirty sock under her air cast.  The counselors wouldn’t let us return to the dorms to change it, and even if they had we were so far away that we would have missed half the dance by the time we hobbled there and back.

Betty pulled the damp, and let’s just say icky for lack of a better word, sock from her foot and said, “I guess I’ll just have to go to the dance barefoot,” but still one problem remained.

What to do with the sock?

Betty didn’t have any pockets, but I did.  She asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping her sock for her.  I agreed and we took off to the dance, Betty on crutches and me smelling like feet.

Despite that I think that we did dance a few songs with a few boys.  I think most of them wanted to know the mystery of why this girl was at camp on crutches – as for the boys that asked me, they must have had a lesson on chivalry or something that day and felt a duty to ask the Girl-Who-Smells-Like-A-Gym-Locker to dance.

That’s why Betty and I say we owe our life-long friendship to a dirty sock.  After that night we were bonded forever.

I love you Betty, I can’t wait to see you in 2 days!

Wiper Control

Last night we drove to the store in the rain.  Josh drove and I worked the windshield wipers.

[I click wipers to stop]

Josh:  On our next car I should have them put the wiper control on your side.
Me:  No, I’d hate that when I’m driving, and I can reach it just fine as it is.

[I click the wipers to the low setting as we take off from a stop sign]

Me:  I don’t know, maybe it’s the Northweserner in me, but I have an appreciation for all variations of rain and adjust the wiper rate accordingly.  It’s important.
Josh:  You know you’re that thing.

[click]

Me:  What thing?
Josh:  You know, the people who have to wash their hands 20 times.
Me:  What, OCD?  You think I’m OCD about wipers?

I thought I was just quirky….

When I think of OCD, I think that they can’t go to bed until all of the counters are wiped, they’ve washed their hands x number of times, and all of their home décor is in parallel lines because they can’t sleep otherwise.

I can sleep without adjusting the windshield wipers, but then again, I don’t sleep in a car.

The Realization of a Childhood Fantasy

All I ever wanted as a girl was to be a marine biologist and become that person that Shamu carries around in his pool.  I blame the hundreds of family vacations we took to the Oregon coast when I was a girl, where sea lions are plentiful, otters come extra cute, and whale watching is as easy as stepping out on a rock or going to a cove-side restaurant.  It was easy to fall in love with the ocean, and even though my life has taken a different path than I imagined back then, my love affair with sea mammals goes on.

When we decided to move to San Antonio, I couldn’t help but fantasize about going to Sea World.  My inner child screamed for it, but my adult self was cautious.

We arrived in San Antonio, got settled and soon Jay was saying, “We should get Sea World passes.”  I fretted about money and said, “Let’s wait.”

A month later Jay said, “We should get the Sea World passes now – they’ll run through next year and be a great investment.”  I fretted about money and said that they’ll still be a good investment later.

Last week Jay said, “That’s it!  I worked over time, I’m cashing in the change jar, and we’re getting Sea World passes.”  I still fretted about the money.

My inner child just called me a party pooper.

Our first family trip didn’t go well at all.  Cee was mortified by the noise, crowds, and the heat didn’t help the situation.  We had a few happy laps around the lazy river, and I got to pet a dolphin (eek!) but much of the day was a bust – we didn’t even make it to a show.

Jay was determined though to have an enjoyable family experience with Sea World and strategically planned how he could get Cee to sit through a show.  We went back last night, I sat on the farthest back row to save seats for the boys while they played in the grass before things got started.  Here I am in the Shamu stadium waiting patiently:

Here’s my inner child waiting:

Here’s another picture… basically all I ever wanted as a girl.

There were 4 killer whales in the show we saw, Shamu Rocks Texas.  They flew, they glided, they hugged their trainers, it was magnificent.

When the show ended, I cried.  Honestly now, who does that besides me?  Tearing up because I have to say goodbye to the whales.

I didn’t let Jay see the tears, but I’m sure that when he reads this he’ll gloat over what a good investment he made.

I let everyone else on my bench leave.  I stayed put completely captivated by those magnificent animals.  When the stadium was just about empty, and despite how stupid it must have looked, I waved bye bye to Shamu.

I doubt that he could have seen little me waving from the top row, but I just couldn’t leave without letting him know that I’d been there and that I’d felt like I was apart of it all.

Don’t worry, I didn’t jump in the tank and scream, I don’t wanna go home! or anything like that.  My inner child would have, but I didn’t.  I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t grow up down here.

We’re going back tonight for the dolphin show. : )

Famous and Infamous Cookies

Growing up in my house, it was common to find Mom on a Sunday afternoon bustling around our kitchen making cookies for my cookie-monster Pop.  She made them with such care, and with such joy, that it was also common to find an admiring helper sitting on the counter next to her.  No, as the helper I didn’t do much – maybe stirring a bit until the stiffness of the dough made my little muscles give out, cracking the eggs, or turning the handle on the sifter.

Sifting was what I loved best.  Watching the delicate grains of flour pile up into a perfect peak, letting my childish anticipation grow with the flour mountain.  When the last grain was sifted my mom would nod her head in a knowing way, giving me permission to grab the spoon handle and demolish our perfectly formed mountain to doughy dust.  Mom always added to the moment by singing a little song about Mount St Helens erupting and candles filling the air.  We lived in the shadow of Mt Saint Helens and could see its snowy peaks from the kitchen window.  Somehow its majestic presence added magic to those sweet moments.

But little kitchen helpers grow up, and soon I was too big to sit on the counter to help mom with the cookie making.  My household status evolved along with my stature, soon turning me from Helper to Snitch.  Being a snitch is a very calculated position – you have to be in and out of the cookie making area enough so that your presence doesn’t cause suspicion, but you also can’t afford to waste time on the early and inedible stages of the cookie dough.  When timed properly an experienced snitch can get at least 4 pinches of dough from the bowl before Mom catches on and exclaims, “You Snitch, get outta here!”  Tag team snitching works well too, but requires a stealthy brother or dad partner who can distract mom’s attention one way while you attack from behind and vice versa.

With age came a new uses for mom’s powerful cookie ambrosia.  Boring Sunday evenings became parties at my house for me and my two best HS friends, Betty and Lace.  We’d get together under the pretense of making cookies as gifts for others in the community, but in reality we would just chatter away about boys, teenage injustices, and our own private jokes while my mom did all of the work. Even with the obviously phony pretenses, my mom never complained – I think she was secretly delighted to be included in our little circle.

During our senior year, we had off-campus lunch and headed to my house often.  Our last semester was mostly fluff classes and lunch was sandwiched between two advanced Photography classes for Betty and me.  We took full advantage of our friendships with the teachers and slowly our lunch half hour stretched out into 40 mins, 45 mins, and so on.  Excuses of flat tires, no gas, and helping elderly gas station patrons with their gas or tires only held out so long until Betty got the idea to describe the delicacy of my mom’s cookies to our teacher – let’s call him Mr. Costanza.

Infamy of Mama D’s cookies spread like wildfire through the studio.  Chocolate chip, Oatmeal Butterscotchies, Chocolate PB chip, each was admired, revered, and relished.  It got to the point where we’d call my mom on the studio phone to ask what was for lunch and what cookies Mr. Costanza could expect for our already planned tardiness.

Come to think of it – with all of those tardies, I probably shouldn’t have graduated.  I guess I owe my education and subsequent success to Mama D’s cookies.

Always the same bowl, always the same spoon – magic happens in Mama’s kitchen. Writing this out puts me in mind of a Mommy Goal for August – be sure to check back!

Looking Back at Harry Potter 4

It was Friday night and I had a date with Jay.  A real date that he’d asked me on.  No games, no group plans, just him and me going to see Harry Potter 4.  In the college town we lived in, second run “Dollar Theater” dates were abundant, but seeing a first run movie, at night when there were no discounts, meant serious business.

Earlier in the week we’d had a quasi date/hang out session in the which Jay had inadvertently (that’s my word – his word would be smoothly) put his arm around me.  It happened, I basked in the glow of my dream guy’s physical affection, then it ended.  There was no commentary about what it meant, relationship status, nothing to define the beginning of coupledom or meaningless friendly cuddles.

He picked me up – I wore something adorable, he wore whatever he’d worn to school that day.  We drove to the theater talking about this or that – what had happened that day, how excited we were to see the movie and so on.  We parked, walked into the theater, he held the door for me, we got to our seats, Jay went to the bathroom, I sat alone… thinking.

Is he going to make any kinds of moves?  Does he think I’m going to make a move?  Maybe we’re just friends… but are we friends that make moves?

Jay came back from the bathroom.  The lights faded and the previews began.  I strategically placed my hand on my knee the way girls do when they want it to be held – of course it would be much more comfortable to sit a different way, but we do it for you, men.

There was nothing to hold him back besides his feelings.  There were no snacks or tubs of popcorn to hold on to – we were mutually way too cheap for that.

The previews ended and the telltale Harry Potter music began – da, da da, da, du, da da…  What was that?  I looked down and there was a scouter pinkie touching the back of my hand.  I stayed perfectly still as to not scare the pinkie so that it could report back to the rest of the hand that the playing field was safe for advancement.  The pinkie retracted and my hand was scooped up in Jay’s.

We held hands for the rest of the movie (I’m still not entirely sure what happens in the first fifteen minutes, and I bet Jay doesn’t know either).  We held hands walking to the car.  We held hands to my front door to say goodnight.

A first kiss?  No, that’s another story for another day.  But I’m telling this story now because since that day it’s been our tradition to go on dates to HP.  That was the first, then we went to #5 in a little one-room theater in Weaverville, CA while on a camping trip with my family, and tonight Jay got a babysitter so we can go to #6.  This will be our first real date since moving to TX and I’m super excited.

7 hours to go… I better start getting ready!