My first football game

You know that part of the relationship? The part where you’re well into the dating stage and negotiating the long-term relationship? Just kinda checking things out to see if everything’s gonna fit? I was at that point with the man who was to become my husband when he announced “I’m a Green Bay Packers fan. You’re gonna have to live with that.”

I thought about that for awhile. I remembered something my mother had told me years ago: “Find that one thing your man does. The one thing he really enjoys. Find it and join him. Don’t just tag along, going through the motions. Do it with him. You’ll find he’s more willing to join in on your things if you lead off with his.”
So I replied to my future husband: “Sure thing. Just teach me the game.” I only had a few requests:

• I begged him not to do the normal guy thing of talking over my head when explaining the game, calls, and who does what.  You know what I mean. When they explain something and use the exact word while defining the term. Now how crazy is that? (Like asking someone what an election is and they reply by saying “it’s when you elect someone for office.” Sure. Right. Clear as mud. Fuckyouverymuch)
• Not to yell at me if I asked a question at the wrong time. Cause I knew I was gonna do it without even trying. I was gonna do while specifically trying not to do it. That’s how these things work. Considering football is for those with ADD, and you never know how long you have between plays… I was bound to ask a question at that pivotal moment when Brett Farve gets injured and taken out of the game.
• Tivo saved our marriage on this front. We got it 2nd or 3rd season in. We could rewind as many times as needed, pause TV as long as it took for me to understand something, then catch up to real time during those 5 million commercial breaks. The day I suggested Tivo to help us wacth the game? Steve nearly drove the car off the road from the shock and thrill of it. He placed the order exactly 3 minutes after walking in the door when we got home.
• And please oh please don’t make me feel like a 3rd wheel… especially if it’s just the two of us in the room. Cause that? That’s just mean hearted.

He held up his end of the bargain. Not only did he do all I requested. He found ways to enthrall me. He quickly learned I could care less about stats. But I did like gossip. So he pointed out the player who got busted in college for taking a dump in some chick’s dorm room closet. (Davenport) And the guy who loves Batman so much he has an emblem on his arm, car, and all over his house. (Green) Then there’s the guy that when he was younger, he and his mother lived out of their station wagon with a U-Haul attached to the back. (Driver) All that kept my attention going when I found I just couldn’t pay attention one moment longer. Because now? Now I was interested in the actual players.

So our first year together we managed to score some tickets to see the Packers against in the Giants in New York. Paid face vale for 60 yard line seats, about 6th row if I recall. We got these awesome tickets at face value because the game was held in January. Outside. It was expected to be cold. Very Cold. New York cold. It was also the make-up game from the week of 9/11. My husband being a native New Yorker and all that… it almost didn’t matter who won the game. We just needed to be there.

And I had ideas. I knew cold, having grown up in Indiana. And I knew sitting still in the cold. Just because I’ve spent the 2nd half of my life in a state where I can get away with a nice enough leather jacket for the winter, doesn’t mean I don’t recall cold. Steve, meanwhile, has never really left the cold north. So he has lots of warm winter coats. But the really warm one? The down-filled, Michelin-Man type coat? That one was Packer Green. And I was intent that I’d be the one wearing it.

Steve tried talking me out of it. He tried bribing me with the idea of shopping for my very own down coat. (A tactic that usually worked as long as he came along for the trip.) I refused. We didn’t really have the money. We really didn’t have the money for the tickets and trip but I wasn’t passing that gem up. And, really, when would I use the coat again. Nope. Rather take that money and shop for something I can use again. Like a nice pair of heels. Something that makes my ass do that thing that makes my husband walk behind me when I wear them.

Finally he broke down and said “Honey, I don’t feel comfortable taking you to Giants Stadium with you dressed in Packer Green. It could get nasty.”

“Pshaw,” I said. “They don’t scare me. Anyone starts something and I’ll just put on my best Scarlett O’Hara accent and start yelling for everyone to watch the big bad man beat up the 5′2″, 95 pound girl. I must be really intimidating to scare such a big boy. Don’t you worry. Whoever it is will back right off. And if they don’t, half the stadium will be after him. The other half will be laughing at him.”

And with that, it was settled.

And game day rolls around. I bundle up. I’m excited. I mean, heck, I’m the wife who’s involving herself in the sport her husband loves. Which gives me diva points to squirrel away for a rainy day. I’m feeling good.

We drive into the parking lot. Get out. Start walking toward the stadium. Passing people grilling beside their cars. Tossing footballs around. And everyone is dressed in blue. Except me, of course. I’m dressed in green. Packer green. And I suddenly get, this isn’t about the Packers. This is about pack mentality. I lean into my fiancé, grab his hand and whisper. “I get it now. And I’m scared.”

… to be continued…

An Undefeated Season

For those of you playing along at home, today is our fourth wedding anniversary. Four years ago Ki Ki and I stood in front of a drive through window at the Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas, and flanked by Elvis, a pink Cadillac, my cousin and her maid of honor, pledged our fidelity to each other in the presence of a retired minister who I swear grabbed me by the throat and implored me to “keep God in your marriage”.

Never mind that after we left I darn nearly spilled out on to the street as the door to Elvis’s pink Cadillac unexpectedly flew open as we drove off, it was still the happiest moment of my life.

Indeed our marriage began with levity and silliness, and these are truly qualities that are essential in a successful marriage. To this day, my wife and I are very silly people. But don’t for a minute think that we are not serious about each other or our marriage…

I want to tell you a story: we have some friends who are young and experiencing some of the growing pains that young marriages do. In the course of conversation, the young lady said to Ki Ki “I wish we could have a marriage like yours”.  You’d be surprised how often we hear that. To me, there is no greater complement, and in return we are always willing to share the things that work for us, and the things that didn’t always go so well.

Our 4th anniversary. Sometimes my job is so stressful I think about becoming a monk (I can “grandparent” the marriage, right?). Sometimes the housework gets so overwhelming that Ki Ki just wants to put all our stuff in a dumpster and have the county haul it all off.

And sometimes it seems as if our child is a million miles and eons away.

But these are the times that I remember how we started: a drive through window, Elvis, a pink Cadillac, and a near disaster. And I remember it’s the simple joy and the silliness that life is that really matters, and I remember that Ki Ki and I together can overcome anything. We’re 4 and 0: four years and zero defeats, and a lifetime to look forward to.

Honey, let’s go get our child.

Happy Anniversary Baby.

It’s all in the numbers

Today Steve turns 44!

Is it safe, in this day and age, to give out birthday props to your mad/cool husband online and mention his age? Does it help if I tell that mine will be 33 in December? How about if I mention in passing that we’ll be celebrating our fourth year of marriage this October?

What’s up with all the numbers? Well. Follow this:

When Steve and I first hooked up I was told, in no uncertain circumstances, that he was a Packer (football) fan and I’d have to cope. I responded with a “cool dat” so long as he’d teach me the game so I could enjoy it along with him. Teach me with out yelling at me, without making me feel stoopid, and again with the whole no yelling thing. He held up his end of the bargain and I’ve held up mine. We are now the other’s favorite person to watch Packer games. We even schedule our social events around these games. (And yes, sometimes I am the one to remind him of an upcoming game time.)

Last year, when the birthday boy fulfilled MY number one thing to do in life thus far by taking me to the Great Wall of China, I stood there and promised to fulfill HIS number one thing to do in life thus far by taking him to see Brett Favre play a game at Lambeau Field. That trip, technically, was an anniversary gift. (And why not? We experienced a second honeymoon while in China. Only fitting dontcha think?)

So this year, for his 44th birthday (Also thought of as #4 - Brett Favre [or years we’ve been married] times the 11 years of age difference between us) I’m fulfilling his number TWO thing to do in life thus far by taking him to see yet another Brett Favre played game at Lambeau Field.

Why is this trip now his number two thing to do in life? Because, for us, we’re both on the same page about number one: to become parents.

Happy birthday, husband of mine. I hope all your dreams come true.

Family Reunion Part 3: All for one and one more meatball please

It took about 20 minutes for Samantha to decide she liked me. I’m not sure what I did or what she saw, but at one point during lunch Samantha decided to waddle on over to me and make nice. This of course charmed me to no end, and so after finishing my sandwiches I headed over to the yard in search of some new game to invent.

What happened next was the creation of the greatest game ever invented in the history of games. The game was called “Fish” and I am convinced that to this day Sam and Michael still talk about it in their own special baby language. Translated it would sound something like this:

Sam: Do you remember that time Steve was here playing Fish?
Michael: Remember? How could I forget! That was awesome
Sam: Totally! Steve must be one of the greatest Fish players ever. I wonder if he’s ever on ESPN?
Michael: On it? I’m sure the guy makes the top ten plays on a nightly basis!
Sam: Totally.(they high five each other)

Here’s how it's played: Steve takes a rubber fish toy and tosses it in the air. Then he catches it. He tosses it again and catches it behind his back. Then Samantha takes the fish and throws it. She chases after it, and throws it to Steve. The process repeats. Michael joins in as well, completing the Fish team as he tries his best to out distance his sister.

After inventing “Fish”, Samantha and I were inseparable.

The big family reunion was set for Sunday afternoon, so on Saturday night we all went out to a drive-in movie. The sheer novelty of a drive-in didn’t escape me. Even here in the quaint South, drive-ins are few and far between. Come to think of it, I have no clue where the nearest one is. For all I know it’s the one near my cousin’s house. Anyway, we saw “Superman Returns”, and Samantha and I tried to cuddle but I had difficulty finding a cozy spot for her on my ample midriff. Eventually I handed her over to Ki Ki whose boobies provided a soft cushion for the child.

On Sunday we woke to fresh bagels and the excitement of anticipation. I hadn’t seen my family in over two years, and I was really looking forward to seeing them all. Or would we? My brother Frank had said he wanted to come but thought they might have to spend the day with his wife Anna’s family. All week long Aunt Jean and Uncle Frank had been leaving messages for Brother Frank wondering if he would make it to Cousin Frank’s because frankly the family needed to know how many pounds of franks to pick up at the supermarket. So at 1:00 when Cousin Frank and I were setting the table we had no idea if Brother Frank and Anna were coming. We decided to set a place for them and hope for the best.

The first to arrive were Aunt Jean and Uncle Frank along with my brother Vinnie and his wife Deborah. We were so happy to see them! The hugs were plentiful and the drinks soon followed, but I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you this one story: as we headed out the porch door to the yard below, Vinnie turn to Ki Ki and said “I’ll never forget what you did for my mother”. It was a loving acknowledgement for all the time Ki Ki spent with Mom during her last days. I could never do justice in this post to what my wife did those days, but someday soon I will try.

We sat down and caught up on old times, Ki Ki and I asking about their lives in Arizona, Vin and Deb wanting to know more about Virginia, and all of us missing Butch and Pat who were still in Arizona and unable to make the trip. Vin told tales of retirement and Deb shared their travel tales, while we spoke of work and Ki Ki’s family, but the big news we wanted to share would wait.

Soon after my cousin Anne and her husband Rich showed up with their kids: Danielle, Jennifer and Alex, collectively known as the Triplets. I was amazed by how big they’d grown and how well they behaved! I swear these weren’t the same kids I used to know. Those kids were wild hellions, tearing around wherever they’d go and leaving a trail of dust in their wake. These kids were different. Alex wanted to watch the Soccer game while the girls wanted to play with their little cousins. What an amazing sight!  We talked more about work, drank a bit more, and then we heard the news: Frank and Anna were on their way! It would be a reunion after all!

When I first saw my brother Frank, I was surprised that the mane of salt and pepper hair on his head had a lot more salt than I remembered. So did his goatee. I swear the guy looked like Col. Sanders, but needless to say I was thrilled to see him. Anna too. We hugged and hugged and then Brother Frank grabbed Ki Ki and hugged her so hard he lifted her off the ground. There was much meaning in all of this, but this is not the forum to detail. Suffice it to say there was much love shared, and forgiveness given where forgiveness wasn’t really required. We were all so happy to be together, we hadn’t been so together in so long.   

The family sat together at the picnic table Cousin Frank and I had set up earlier. Everyone had copious plates of food in front of them so I knew I finally had them where I wanted them. I stood up and positioned myself behind my wife. The mere fact that I’d just stepped away from a plate of food was a huge indication that I was about to say something quite important.  “Everybody, first of all I want to tell you how happy we are to be with you all here today at our first family reunion. Ki Ki and I love you all so very much, and being here is just fantastic. With that, we have a little announcement to make”.

At that point you could see the chewed food in the open mouthed gapes of my family.

“Ki Ki and I have started the adoption process, and we are expecting a baby girl in about 12 to 18 months”.

Everyone started to applaud and cheer, it was so sweet. I turned to the “kiddie table”, only to see Alex, Danielle, and Jennifer clapping and cheering too. And I saw Jennifer look at me and give me the biggest smile. Sometimes kids do things just because that’s what the adults are doing. This was not one of those times. The joy in my little cousins was genuine.

We ate and celebrated, and ate some more. We took lots of pictures and if we ever find the darn USB cable for the camera we’ll post a few here.  Samantha and Michael and I played Fish, but mostly the triplets occupied the twins. We talked into the night and I didn’t want it to end.

But it did, and when all was said and done my family’s first family reunion was a success.

There are days that stick to my memory that are different from all the others. The day I came home from taking my high school entrance exams, to the pine smell of my Brother Vinnie cleaning the floors on a spring Saturday morning.  Why that day is so vivid in my memory I’ll never know. Or the day my Dad and I took a pedal boat out on Lake Buena Vista in Florida and I pedaled my Dad around for an hour, feeling for the first time that now it was my turn to take care of my Parents. If I look up in my minds eye, I can still see the blue breaking between the clouds in the August sky of 1978. The family reunion is one of those days. I can tell because the memory is different, in bright resilient colors, encoded in my mind’s eye and only a thoughtful wish away.

Family Reunion Part 2: We're spending our vacation with MY family???!!!

There was a moment during the time before the trip to New York when all was spinning wildly at work, and it seemed that if I didn’t have a vacation soon I might collapse from exhaustion or at least have a mild nervous breakdown. It was the moment when it occurred to me that on top of all of this consonant dissonance we had decided to spend our summer vacation with my family.

Now hang on, my family isn’t all that bad. It’s just that when things are spinning as wildly as they had been the best therapy for me is quite time with Ki Ki and only Ki Ki, far away from everyone. Places like the Eastern Shore, or a ranch in Santa Fe, or a cave somewhere outside of Bedrock come to mind. But with my family? My large loud Italian family complete with 10 year old triplets and 2 year old twins?

I feared the worst.

We left for New York on Saturday morning, July 8th at about 5:30 in the morning, aware that the Virginia State Police had ordered a crack down on speeders. One thing that’s nice about Virginia is that they announce the locations of the speed traps on the news. The day before, a large smelly looking trooper had appeared on the local news broadcast and said that the State Police would be doing a saturation on I-95, and basically that was your warning and don’t bother telling your out of state friends because they had a quota to meet and if they didn’t meet it then the next time we’d be on our own. OK, I made that last part up.

In the 90 miles between Richmond and Maryland we counted 11 troopers.

Ki Ki drove until we hit Mikes Famous at the foot of the Delaware Memorial Bridge. If you’ve never been there, you should visit. Mike’s Famous is a combination Harley Davidson dealership, gift shop, and restaurant. The place harkens back to the days of the old roadside attraction, complete with its own radio station and a collection of bikes that is quite astonishing. We arrived a little before 9:00 so all the happy bikers were just rolling out of beer, err, bed and opening the place up. We each gobbled down a delicious biker breakfast sandwich of eggs, sausage, cheese, more sausage, and a defibrillator on a hard roll with fried potatoes and coffee and headed back on the road. This time I was driving.

On the other end of the Delaware Memorial Bridge lies the New Jersey Turnpike. The New Jersey Turnpike is the most uninteresting stretch of road ever constructed on earth. It’s straight, dull, and stretches 16 exits over its 110 miles. There’s nothing exciting to see or do on the New Jersey Turnpike, so when you think about it, it’s the perfect metaphor for its home state.  However what it did accomplish was it transitioned me from gentleman from Virginia driver to lunatic from New York driver. At exit 8, I tuned in the local New York “news traffic and weather on the 8’s” station, and could feel the adrenaline starting to flow. By the time we hit the George Washington Bridge, I had remembered how to cuss. By the time we left da Bronx, I had remembered how to cuss in Spanish.

We began the drive north towards Dutchess County where my cousin Frank and his wife Lisa and their twins Samantha and Michael live, and passed the places I lived when I first moved out of my parent’s house. It brought back a flood of memories as I accelerated our car a bit faster, the way I used to when I drove those same roads in my 20’s. The towns flew by, and they were closer to each other than I remembered: Tarrytown, Elmsford, White Plains, all separated by a few miles and a few minutes. We drove further north towards Shrub Oak, the first place in New York Ki Ki and I spent any time together, and were surprised by how much construction was going on in the old neighborhood. It was wonderful and exhilarating and I enjoyed every moment of that ride with my wife by my side.

Finally, we had put the miles behind us and had arrived at my cousin’s place. It was as I remembered it, so new and perfect with a view that was breathtaking. I love that place. I wondered what my little cousins would look like, for the last time I saw them was at their Christening. How big would they be? Would they talk? They’d be shy of course, Ki Ki and I are strangers, but we’d win them over.

And then we saw them.

Nothing had prepared me for that moment. They were beautiful children, both Samantha and Michael, and they seemed so grown up. And there was my cousin Frank, and he was all grown up too. He was a Dad now, and he carried himself like a Dad. There was fatherly and scholarly air to him, and it was amazing to see. My cousin’s wife Lisa was there too, and she was Mom now. She’s a fun loving, beautiful, designer wearing Long Island girl, and now she was with her children, showering them with love and affection. And setting limits, and always teaching.

And at that moment, Ki Ki and I both knew that if God forbid anything ever happened to us, we would want Frank and Lisa to raise our child too.

Family Reunion Part 1: Inconceivable Conception

My family isn’t very good at the things most families are good at. We don’t send post cards to each other when we’re on vacation, or call each other on the holidays. We’ll drive right past each other’s houses on the way to other destinations and never even think about stopping by for lunch. On my last birthday I received phone calls from Ki Ki’s Dad, Ki Ki’s Mom and Ki Ki’s Brother. I received birthday cards from the aforementioned in-laws as well as Ki Ki’s Grandmother. If it weren’t for a lone phone call from my cousin Frank, my family might have pitched a shutout.

But I’m not complaining.

All my life and to this day I knew my family loved me, and they knew I loved them. Try to come between us, and you’d suffer our wrath. Say an unkind word about one, and you’d have to deal with all. It was like being part of a weird pasta eating cult, with my Mom as its sauce wielding leader. Mom was the matriarch that kept the boys together, so when Mom passed I sort of figured we’d all go (lovingly) on our separate ways, and that’s exactly what happened.  Two of my brothers had moved to Arizona, one lived in New Jersey, and I lived in Richmond VA.

I like it in Richmond, and frankly I never liked New York all that much, so for a long while I had no desire to return.  But last Christmas something strange happened: I started to miss New York. I missed the snow, and the smell of chestnuts in the city. I missed the tree at Rockefeller Center and I missed Macy’s and I missed 5th Ave.

I missed having a warm scotch in the city on a cold December night, and a hot chocolate by the fireplace at the Algonquin. But even more baffling was this, the strangest sensation of all:  I missed my family. On Christmas day as I sat staring at a Christmas ham surrounded by Christmas casseroles and Christmas sweet potatoes I wondered: “What are these strange foods doing on my Christmas table, and where is the old sauce wielding woman who doled out the meatballs with love in her heart and a rolling pin in her hand (in case you got out of line)”.

I told my wife “We have to visit my family this year”

And so I decided to do one of those things that other families do: I called my brother Vinnie.

Oh yeah, my brothers all have proper New York Italian names: Vinnie, Frankie, and Angelo, except don’t ever call Angelo “Angelo” because he’ll kill you with his bare hands. No, seriously. He goes by Pete, or as we affectionately call him “Butch”. We never ever use the “A” word and (insert Gump voice) that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

In the course of our conversation Vinnie mentioned that he and his wife Deborah were going to New York to visit the family in the spring or summer. At first we talked about having them visit us in Virginia, but then I had a brainstorm: “I’ve got an idea, we’ll come to New York and meet you!” Wait, that’s wrong. It was Ki Ki’s idea. I think she mouthed it to me and then I presented it as if it were my idea. Whoopsie! Credit officially given where credit is due. OK, so I say “I’ve got an idea, we’ll come to New York and meet you!” and Vinnie fires back with an even greater stroke of brilliance “I’ll call Frank, and we’ll have a family reunion”

And that’s how it began: the family with the ethnic names and the lifetime membership in the cult of the overcooked ravioli that isn’t very good at all those things that other families are good at began its journey towards that very traditional All-American event of events: the family reunion.

Tomorrow: Family reunion Part 2: “Wait, we’re spending our vacation visiting MY family???”

Driving in circles

I still drive the car my uncle gave me as a graduation gift back in 1992, when I finished high school. Back in the day I called her ‘Girlfriend’. Today she’s mostly called ‘The Old Hag’. Or, if behaving particularly badly, ‘That Cantankerous Bitch’. She’s a 1989, Mazda 323, four door sedan in speckled (now peeling) tan with a moon-roof. Her seats and dashboard are cracking, the floor is permanently stained and the trunk leaks. She had 15,000 miles on her when gifted to me and currently has 134,134.1 miles. (I just ran out and checked.)

The air conditioner no longer works. Or rather, it does, but knocks against the engine so badly and loudly, we took off the belt. I’ve had the radiator replaced once but it needs it again. She often overheats in the summer stop-and-go traffic making a 95 degree day even hotter when you have to turn on the heat to pull it off the engine. The struts, as it was once explained to me, are bending inward and could stand to be replaced. The shocks gave out a long time ago so you can feel every bump in the road. And she doesn’t have the pick up, ready-at-your-beck-and-call-just-step-on-the-pedal, she once had.

But I know her better than I know most people. I know exactly how long she takes to brake when I stand on her full weight. I know what top speed she can take any curve just by looking at at the road. By the shimmy in the steering wheel, I can tell you if she needs to go to the shop or if it’s just the stutter due from the scrapings at the bottom of her gas tank.

She’s taken me over those West-By-God-Virginia mountains in rain, snow and sleet. Usually at night when the mountains block out any light you could hope to get from the stars and moon. Making it safely to the family waiting to see me on the other side. I drove her to my college classes, earning the first degree on my father’s side of the family. To innumerable parties, clubs, midnight rendezvous with boys not worth my time, daytime trips with girlfriends I shoulda spent more time with, and tons of sucky jobs I’d rather forget I ever worked. She’s driven my favorite four-footed friend home from the shelter that rescued him. And then drove him to the vet 6 months later remove the bullet his previous owner saw fit to torture him with. She drove me back and forth to New York City. First to spend time with the man I would eventually marry. Then to take care of my husband’s mother who welcomed me into the family with true Sicilian warmth, even as her health failed.

I’ve loved this car. All the miles she’s carried me. All the adventures we’ve experienced.

Two years ago Steve and I had just started saving up money to replace one of our cars. When, just as Murphy’s Law dictates, his car died in a most permanent fashion. Not having the extra $10K difference between his convertible Toyota Solara… we bought the Toyota Camry I wanted. And she’s pretty. Pretty leather interior, sun roof, and heated seats. She drives like a dream and has room for the children we want in our lives. So, Pretty Car is what we call her. Pretty compared to our old busted down hag.

We agreed to start over with the savings and in two years we’d get his convertible. Here it is, two years later, and the money is exactly where we agreed it would be. We’ve been looking forward to road trips and jaunts to the beach with the top down. Simply driving around town while we’re still at an age where it could look a little more cool than a little more fool.

But plans change. Or life changes. Maybe it’s more along the lines of: life changes the plans we’ve made. Whatever it is, the convertible is once again out. We’re going for something (much) cheaper but reliable. Something practical. And we’re going to try and hold off until next spring, to build up the cash reserves. But before the heat of summer, along with the heat off the engine, roasts me for another sweltering August.

We’re happy with that decision. Actually, we’re ecstatic about that decision. Because that decision, that car decision, means we’re one step closer to creating the family we’ve been wanting.

But I sure will miss my little round about town gal. My Girlfriend. My sweet, Old Cantankerous Hag. And I have nine more months to say my goodbyes to her.

Uncle Ron, I only wish I’d been given that kind of time to say my goodbyes to you.

Second time’s a charm

The adoption agency application is a long and arduous task. It doesn’t appear that way at first. Three simple pages. Fronts only. A whole page of which is to list friend’s and family’s addresses. How hard could it be? Well… take a look at some of these and tell me you wouldn’t get stuck scratching your head:

Race.
Caucasian. (And they didn’t give you choices. You have to spell it out yourself. That meant a little trip to the dictionary, folks.)

Ethnicity.
Kiki = Heinz-57. (Or does Pure Bred American Mongrel sound better?)
Steve = Italian-American. (Can’t have them thinking he just walked off the boat. That was his grandparent’s job.)

Complexion.
WHAT?? Seriously?? Okay. I admit it. You got me. Scarred. My complexion is scarred. All those years of adolescent acne. Accutane hadn’t been invented yet, what’s a gal to do?

Religion.
Sure. Whatcha selling? If I haven’t tried it, I might be game.

Emergency contact people, list three. Each.
Really? We did check the box saying we’re married. To each other. So… um… seriously… my three contact people are the same as his. But. Okay. Whatever.

5 people who are not relatives who have seen you with children.
Did you catch the part that he’s Italian? His friends ARE his family. That’s how it works. The mob prefers it that way but shhhhh… don’t tell. We don’t talk about family business. Other than that. Well. We don’t have children. Which is why we are here. So we don’t really hang with people who do have children. Kinda a catch-22 there, folks. But that’s okay. We’ve got some good dirt on people. I’m pretty sure they’ll lie for us to keep their secrets. Again… shhhhh… we don’t talk about family business.

One head-crimping week later, three fully chicken-scratched pages and a $400 check lighter, off it goes to the post office. Chocked full of our friend’s and family’s information. Not to mention our complexion and social security numbers.

Only to get a call the next day saying they received our envelope.

“Wow.”

“Great.”

“That was fast.”

“Post office is on the job!”

“What?”

“What was that?”

“Whaddya mean it was empty?”

“Well, then, how did you know who to call?”

“Are you SURE it’s empty?”

“Of course I’m certain it’s not sitting on the kitchen counter. I don’t normally mail out empty envelopes.”

Lovely. Now some crazed postal worker has all our personal information, right down to the colleges we never graduated from, and a $400 check. And as an added bonus, we get to fill it all out and mail it off a second time.

Seriously. We aren’t trying for the third time’s a charm gig. I wrapped that sucker in so much scotch tape they knew exactly who to call to say they’d received our application and it’s going straight into the system pronto-like, without even looking up the phone number.

So. The good news is the application is in. Our first meeting with our social worker is next Wednesday. And if you get a call asking if you co-signed on a loan for Kiki and Steve. So sorry. Blame it on the postal system.

Numbers one through ten

March of last year, Steve fulfilled one of my life’s top tens.

You know, that secret little list of the top ten things you’d like to do in your lifetime? How many we actually get done is, well, as different for the each of us as what’s contained on our lists. My number one item has always been to visit China.

The desire to travel has been passed down through the blood of the women in my family. My grandmother’s travels would be and encyclopedia of information. She visited Russia back in the 1970’s when it was still the Iron Curtain. She’s seen Europe more time than I can count. And, I do believe, has seen every state in the U.S., usually from the driver’s seat of a Cadillac.

My mother picked up the traveling bug from her mother. We drove back and forth from Indiana to Florida so often that by three I could read a map and knew just what to say on the CB to find out where all the speed traps were hiding. My mother, like her mother, has also been to Europe more times then I care to count. And, like her mother, has never shied away from jumping behind the wheel of a car at a moment’s notice to head off to some great destination.

Myself? Well. I’m told I took my first airplane ride at one year of age. I know that by three I was traveling by myself to visit one relative or another. By nine I asked to no longer be signed in as an unaccompanied minor because the flight attendants made catching connecting flights a near-miss. I was better off doing it myself. And, as I already explained, I grew up a bit of a gypsy, talking to truckers and fiddling with the car stereo. Once I had a car of my own, like the women before me, I’d jump at a chance for a road trip. Making a two week honeymoon traveling from Vegas to the east coast on back roads only, an easy sell for my new husband.

But the love of all things eastern, that came to me direct from my grandmother. I don’t know if it’s their history, a time line that records to before Christ, before the start of the Romans. It may be the artistry. China developed porcelain and introduced it to Europe. So, don’t get all confused when you’re having a nice cuppa tea at Buckingham Palace. China started that particular tradition. Perhaps it’s the gardens that are both structured and natural, all blended in together.

Whatever it is, I finally got to knock off the number one thing I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl when I traveled to China with my husband. Five cities in four and a half weeks, all but the last week was work for Steve. Hong Kong, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, Shanghai and finally Beijing.

While Steve worked I would whiz around whatever city we were currently in, absorbing everything I could. Temples, parks, open air markets, food and people, people, people. They may not speak English and I most certainly did not speak Mandarin. But with a smile and a willingness to try, we all managed to communicate just fine. At the end of the day, I’d be waiting for Steve as he arrived back from work. We’d take time over tea to share our day’s adventures. He regal me with tales from the computing side. I’d tell him stories like:

• the Chinese businessman who saw me in the park taking pictures and offered to take a picture of me with our camera
  or
• the teenagers who followed me around half the day practicing their English
  or
• the conversation with the temple guard who spoke French but understood English (while I speak English and understand French)
  or
• the free-to-the-public park that turned out to be a zoo where I saw flamingos (all the way to China to see flamingos!!)
  or even
• getting lost in a forest high on a mountain somewhere overlooking Hong Kong… with no cell phone service.

And on and on and on.

We’d carefully plan out the weekends where I’d take Steve to my most favorite of sights from the previous week. I’d relive the first moment I saw it through his wonderment. We’d grab hands and smile, smile, smile. It felt like stolen moments out of time for us.

Five weeks and five cities later, as we stood on the Great Wall, it dawned on me that a dream I never hoped to be fulfilled was realized. It was that moment I looked at my husband and recognized he was truly my numbers one through ten in life. Through him, all my life’s desires have come to fruition.

Steve and I agreed before we got married that no mater how we were blessed with children in our lives, at some point we wanted to adopt. As we began to recognize that adoption may be our only way to have children, we started looking at options. Time, cost, restrictions of age and health all played a role. In the end, China has one of the most forgiving adoption criteria. They prefer older parents, venerating their own aging citizens for the wisdom that comes with the years.

Plus, it feels a bit like home. China really was our second honeymoon. A place we reconnected both to ourselves, our marriage and our world.

So, for these many reasons and many many more, we’ve chosen to adopt from China.
And now we have something (someone) else to make up our life’s top ten.