Several weeks ago, I went to a Pampered Chef party hosted by my friend Becky. Becky lives just shy of a mile away from me, and she is a hosting fiend. She seems to enjoy entertaining people…having them in her space…plying them with alcohol…I love Becky.

Anyway, whenever she has a party, I go. At first it was just for moral support…then it was for fun…and now it's because the threat of me spending money makes my husband froth at the mouth. After all, it was through her that I got hooked on Wildtree, after which I stopped using almost all other oil but grapeseed and proceeded to replace our spices with their blends. Now, we both enjoy Wildtree, but it wasn't exactly wallet-friendly to up and revamp the pantry like that.



You can just imagine what raced through his little penny-pinching head when I wrote in my party plans on the calendar.

Two of the goodies I bought were a slicer and microwave-crisper. Now, I could take or leave regular old potato chips—I don't garner the same enjoyment from them as some of my associates…cough-NICK-cough. Now, a bag of sweet potato chips: I could do some damage there. To be fair, you could probably do just about anything with a sweet potato and I would eat it and love it. I abstain most of the time because (in case you didn't know), deep frying anything that is naturally nutritious actually makes it unhealthy.

I wanted an easy way to make homemade, healthy snacks for both me and Nick (but especially for Nick because chips aren't one of my main food groups). I thought he would be tickled if I made him homemade potato chips—he was tickled when I made him homemade scones, so why shouldn't he have the same reaction to chips? Well, my goodies came yesterday, and my first order of business was slicing up a potato.

I lovingly sliced that potato, painstakingly blotting out the excess moisture and seasoning the slices just so. The crispness was ideal, and they just tasted so perfect and fresh (I had to try one). I carried the trays out to him where he was sprawled on the couch watching sports. I expected a reaction, something. His eyes never left the television as he shoveled them into his mouth with his cocky, "I can eat whatever I want and not gain an ounce—and dammit, I'm hungry!" mentality.

I swear those chips were demolished inside of 30 seconds.

My jaw dropped. He noticed my look and at least had the decency to look ashamed.

I guess I should be happy that he can mindlessly eat my chips with the same vigor as the greasy stuff. But still. I'm downright deflated.

Sometimes, I am so disgusted by her. She has nasty habits…she buries her poop, rolls around in ecstasy on Nick's pile of sweaty running clothes, and plays with bugs. Why does she have to be such a…a…such an animal!?



It's my fault, really. In my imagination, Sophie is mostly human—I wouldn't have entire one-sided conversations with a cat, after all. She has a handful of ironic expressions that she cycles through depending on her level of disdain for my chatter, a moody glare that erupts when I have the audacity to put something of mine in her way, and a wide-eyed profession of total adoration for all the times in between.

She's two steps away from being my closest confident.

I've just taken the anthropomorphism too far. (I know this surprises you immensely.) As such, I am a little turned off when she starts behaving like a cat. One of our wedding presents was a pretty hanging plant. The day after our party, Nick brought it into the living room while we prepared a place for it. Meanwhile, a stowaway deposited himself on the floor. Sophie got her bully on and started pushing him around—trying for intimidation so that she could overpower him, obviously.

Meanwhile, I could only see the scene from Lion King when Timon picks up a squishy bug and talks about it being cream-filled. I started to gag, squeaking for Nick to get rid of him before Sophie could finish him off! He could tell that it wasn't a time to torment me because I was horrified that she might actually put that nasty thing in her mouth.

To distract Sophie while he took care of business, I topped off the water in her mug and we settled in to gossip about the family who just moved in down the road.

I am feeling marvelous sitting here in my bicycling gear, enthused about today's ride. I don't question the source of my great mood: I know exactly what it is. I have a shuddering flashback to a darker time when padded shorts did not live in my closet. Let me go back…



A couple years ago, I spent what seemed like an embarrassing amount of money on a pair of padded bike shorts. We were at Trek waiting for our bikes to be serviced before our first ride of the season. (It's one of the perks of buying a Trek bike: free annual maintenance.)

Nick already had a pair of padded bike shorts for our bicycling adventures. He was very diligent about wearing them, and I thought it was the silliest thing I had ever heard of. You see, I didn't bike much before dating Nick; I'm still learning how to be one of the cool kids. When I spotted the display of pricey shorts that day, a war waged in me.

All of my medical issues, procedures, and whatnot involve my very low back. Due to the proximity of this boo-boo, Nick and I refer these as my "butt" problems. Not entirely accurate, but it injects a bit of gaiety into the situation. Anyway, I'll be honest that one of my most persuasive arguments FOR buying the most expensive pair of padded bike shorts on the rack was this: if my HMO was willing (or forced) to put six figures into my butt, I should be able to justify three.

After signing my name on the dotted line, I changed in one of the the store's dressing rooms. After I came out, we continued to wait for the bikes to be ready. I did not sit until we were in the car on the way to the trail head…and I think I actually moaned in unbridled pleasure. I felt like I was sitting on a cloud, and it was luxurious. I wasn't even on my bike yet and I was wondering how I could fit these shorts into my everyday wardrobe.

Once my backside was happy, all kinds of doors opened for me. I smiled easier. I was more outgoing. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed all the time. I had no idea what kind of pull my posterior had on my perspective…but now that I know, I feel the need to give this knowledge to the world (you know, for the good of mankind).

In retrospect, it was one of the best three-figures I've ever spent. Life-changing. Epic.

My only regret is that I still haven't found a way to work them under a pencil skirt.

It's that time again!

Not to be predictable or anything, but I think Nick and I can ink in plans for the last weekend of the rest of our Septembers. We first went to Minocqua, Wisconsin together in 2007. We were going solely for the purpose of hitting the bike trails…but the weekend we scheduled just happened to be this local festival: Beef-A-Rama.

The festival weekend kicks off with a Rump Roast Run. The top three finishers actually win a rump roast. This is funny to me on a lot of levels, but mainly because I'm not fond of beef…so it's as good of a reason as any why I won't ever place in the run. That's right, folks: I throw the run because I don't know what the heck I would do with an 18 pound roast.

Anyway, that first trip during Beef-A-Rama was a fluke, but it started a tradition.

Don't get me wrong: we would still have a nice time without the festival. I think Bearskin must be my favorite biking trail…and Wisconsin's north woods in autumn are breathtaking:



But somehow the weekend feels much more special with all the merrymaking. People are in the streets…happy, friendly, and in the mood to celebrate with perfect strangers. It's a beef festival and all, but they're really not celebrating beef (perish the thought). They're celebrating a day of lightness, a day to feel good for no reason at all.

I can't wait!

I started writing this post in July, so the dates are a little off. My brother's birthday is June 10th.

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My brother's birthday was last month, and I always stress over which card to get him. Inevitably, I pick the funny one because it's easier to say something to him on a laugh. We've been through a lot of difficult years together…and today we are each other's main link back to Mom. No one understands what her being gone feels like to me—no one except Charlie.

There is absolutely no one in my life as close to my heart as my little brother…but I've never told him. I know that he feels the same way about me…but he's never told me.

On the surface, this admission of closeness might surprise a lot of people: we don't talk often. We see each other only a few times a year. The only line of communication we maintain somewhat regularly is the occasional text message.

I was watching a movie years ago, and one of the characters said something that has continued to ricochet in my mind all this time. The thought was so simple, real, and…somehow…relevant to my relationships.

Rather, it was relevant to one of my relationships.

"Sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it. Because if we actually felt how much we love them, it would kill us."

The relevancy was a curious thought. I've never considered myself numb to anything—actually, the opposite is usually true, and I feel too much. I've learned over the years to process most of this internally before reacting—giving the appearance of numbness, I suppose.

But actually numb? Nah.

Yet, there was a personal truth there.

I was very close to my brother when we were young. We were best friends before the problems started. I was eight. His temper was violent and completely uncontrollable by the adults. The situation made me grow up very early in life. I was dealing with mature struggles, automatically accepting that I needed to defend and protect the little monster who tormented my family…because somewhere inside that monster was my brother.

It didn't matter that the doctors said there was a reason for the outbursts. Reasons rarely matter in the moment. I learned the art of walking on egg shells and tried to make myself invisible. I blamed him for a long time for stealing my childhood from me, never allowing myself to imagine what life looked like from his shoes.

I wasn't only protecting him; I was protecting me.

When he turned 18, he began distancing himself. He became aloof and taciturn, a stranger who wanted nothing to do with his family. At the time, I was very angry with my brother. He had broken my heart countless times, but we all stuck around. Now he was turning his back on us. I returned the behavior in kind. He wouldn't even look at me the last time I saw him before moving to North Carolina. He was sealing himself off from everything that had ever caused him to feel.

It occurred to me while I was away that he wasn't only protecting himself; he was protecting us.

The reason we always got the brunt of his temper was because he loved us, he felt safe to let it out with us, and he knew at the end of the day that we would still love him. And also at the end of the day, he hated himself for hurting us. The farther away we were from him, the less likely that we would be around when all of those bottled emotions became too big to contain.

In adulthood, he has full control over his reactions—a hard-won battle, I am sure. I am proud of him—there isn't a word in the dictionary that adequately expresses how much I celebrate his accomplishment. He grew to be such a good and decent man…unfailingly kind.

…and I get to be his sister.

I remember being bickering children and Mom telling us that one day we would be each other's best friend. I didn't believe it. I remember thinking that it was one of those canned phrases that parents say to their kids when they are sick of saying everything else.

I was wrong

Try to find that on a birthday card.