What's your favorite memory?

Whenever I'm asked to name my favorite memory, my answer is always, "Oh, but I have too many! I can't name just one!" And it's true. I've lived a blessed life with so many friends, so many loving family members, so many great experiences, and a great sense of humor (some of the memories were bad experiences appreciated with a great sense of humor)... I wish I could have captured everything on film so I could just show everyone all of the memories with all their details. I've decided that maybe I could tighten up my writing and keep this blog alive by writing about favorite memories whenever I'm lost for an idea.

My parents are now happily divorced and have been since I was about 5-years-old. Everyone else's memory of their marriage are probably accurate memories of an empty, sad marriage that needed to end in order for our family to be happy. Mine, though, is a little girl's memory of a Mommy and Daddy who loved her. I only have glimpses of memories of having a mommy and daddy in the same house and it's cozy.

One of my favorite memories of our lives back then must have happened when I was 3-years-old. We lived in a relatively small blue house, dubbed The Blue House when my brothers and I look back to reminisce about it. I don't remember this part, but apparently my brothers shared a bedroom upstairs and that was all that was up there. I do remember that my parents' bedroom was on one side of the house across the hall from my bedroom, separated by the house's only bathroom. Unless the random toilet in the basement counts.

Unfortunately for me, my bedroom was my least favorite color of all. A bright, sunny yellow. A pretty yellow comforter on my huge double bed. Yellow wallpaper. Yellow, yellow, yellow. I couldn't escape it and I hated that color. The only thing worse, in my eyes at the time, would have been if my mom had made it pink. Even at 3, I was a tiny feminist and didn't know why only girls had to wear pink and I just hated that color. So I guess my 3-year-old self worked with yellow because it was better than pink.

Each night, I was tucked in to my yellow bed by my parents at 8 o'clock sharp. We would say our prayers, but the thing is, even to this day, I don't know where to stop blessing people. We'd get to "Bless Mommy and Daddy and Eric and Geoff and Teddy (the dog) and Gramma and Grampa and the bad people in jail and crickets and grasshoppers and..." when I paused to take a breath and think of who I might have missed, my parents would jumped in with, "Amen." They'd tuck me in comfortably. You know how parents do. The sheets are so tight and crisp around your little body, all the way up to your chin, the pillow so fluffy behind your head. They switched the light off and shut the door as close as they could without shutting it completely.

And this was when the trouble began. I was never, ever tired at 8 o'clock. It didn't matter that my mom had been putting me to sleep at that time ever since I slept through the night in order to make it a routine. I was born to be a night owl. So I had created a little nightly ritual to sneak out of bed and head to a window on the other side of my bed. Even at 3-years-old, I was a contemplative person. I liked looking out the night sky and thinking about my day. I liked gazing at the brightness of the moon, then down in my backyard and seeing the shadows that it cast. I got lost in my little 3-year-old thoughts, and then, I realized the light inside my room was getting brighter.

The door was opening.

I didn't want to get in trouble for being out of my bed, so I ran to it, flopped on it, threw the covers on, and waited for my mom's gentle voice. "Meggie?" That's when I put my acting skills to work. I stretched and stretched. I tried out a yawn. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I'm surprised I didn't throw in a, "Mommy? Is that you?" Instead, I said, "Oh, Mommy. You woke me up!!"

She just ignored what I said and took me to take a hot bath. At the time, I didn't realize it, but after years of reliving this memory, it has struck me that she was on to me. That whole Mom's Radar thing kicked in or something and she knew I wasn't settling down, so she thought a hot bath would calm me down so I could sleep.

After the bath, she let me curl up in their bed with my dad, who had the TV on at the foot of the bed and was reading the paper. Now, this was a treat. I remember leaning against him and looking at the black letters on the gray paper and explaining to him that I had been asleep, but then I woke up when Mommy opened the door, so she gave me a hot bath. "Oooh." He humored me.

That's where my memory ends. I just can't believe I was such a sneaky little liar! But I mostly like that memory because it was such a cozy night and I remember gazing out that window a few times while we lived there. It seems weird to do something like that at such a young age, but... no one said I was normal.

Love really is blind

I've had nosebleeds regularly my whole life. Well, actually, when I was a child, they came about in the summer and left me alone around October. We always assumed I'd outgrow them. Instead, with age, my nose has become less discriminatory and seems to enjoy springing up a disgusting nosebleed any time of the year. But that's besides the point, really, since this story takes place in the summer. All you really need to know is that I never outgrew it and I have regular nosebleeds. When I'm in the comfort of my home, I get lazy and most prefer to take care of these by rolling a tissue up and putting it in my nostril.

I realize this is gross, but that is the purpose of this story. I'm not here to impress you. I'm here to tell you how it is.

Another truth about me is that I am quite the site when I get ready for bed. It seems to me that most women can pull off quite the feminine look, even when they're getting ready for sleep. They may leave their hair down and put on a pretty nightgown. They may pull their hair back in a ponytail and slip into a tank top and colorful lounge pants and still keep a sort of prettiness about them as they pull the covers around them and read a book before turning the lights off.

Something about me is just off.

I'm learning how to dress fairly well during the day. I'm figuring out how to dress well for my figure. How to dress more feminine, how to dress like I'm in my mid-20s and how to dress like it's 2008. It's quite the task, but on a good day, I've got it down. Even my hair can look right on the best of days.

So on one of these good days, my husband had come home from work. After spending the evening together, he got on the phone and I decided I was getting sleepy and wanted to get ready for bed before my nightly ritual of watching Will and Grace.

This is when the transition to scary starts. I don't like to sleep with my hair down, but I also don't like to have it in a ponytail. Sleeping with the lump on the back of my head is uncomfortable. So I put my fine, limp hair in a little loop on the top of my head, the width of it about the size of one's pinky. On this night, I then put on my favorite pajama pants, which are... wait for it... Care Bear capri pj pants. I realize that these pants are disastrous. Not only are they Care Bears, but something about them makes my short legs look even more odd. I don't know what it is, but they make my shape look squat. But I can't help it. They're comfortable. A little big, but comfortable. To complete the ensemble, I put on a shirt that I stole from Kevin years ago. It makes me look as wide as I am tall, but that's where the comfort factor comes in.

As I was about to leave the restroom and get settled in the living room for Will and Grace, my nose decided to have its daily nosebleed. So to totally complete the look, I stuffed a roll of tissue up my nostril. Then, I strolled my squat, wide little self into our living room with my tuft of hair sitting on top of my head and tissue sticking out from my nose and curled up on the couch, my Care Bear-donned legs resting under my tent of a shirt. I realize that this does not shout "Supermodel!" Unfortunately, it does shout, "Meghan!"

Kevin was oblivious to my entrance (how, I do not know), as he spoke into the phone about roommates. A few minutes into this conversation, he said, "I, however, know how to choose the most perfect roommate of all." And he looked over at me the way Steve Urkel always looked at Laura on Family Matters.



He looked a little startled when he looked over at me, but who could blame him, what with the tissue shoved in my nostril, the tent I was wearing and the tuft of hair sitting like a small bird on top of my head and all. But he didn't retract what he said, like I expected. He just kept looking at me like he was Steve Urkel. I guess love really is blind.