Logan

If you ask me, my dog is a precious little boogleedoo. I'd have his sweet little face posted on here, but I'm scandalously writing this from work. Instead, my writing will have to do.

When people ask what his breed is, my husband and I glance anxiously at each other take a deep sigh, because Logan is not what we thought he was and we want to answer slowly and carefully, so as not to offend anyone. People are often taken off guard by our response. I'm sure they expect us to giggle a little and say, "Oh, he's just some mutt." or go ahead and say, "Oh, he's just a widdle itty bitty Yorkie!" But it's so much more complicated. Logan thought he was a Yorkie and that's what we thought we were getting when we adopted the fuzzy little golden boy. So we prepare the inquirers for our answers, sit them down and, with understanding faces, we begin the story.

"Well," we start, "he looks like an oversized yorkie. We thought we were getting a yorkie, you see. And we like to make sure he doesn't feel bad about himself, so we haven't really discussed the discovery that he is actually a Silky Terrier, something no one knows of, but something that I find to be a blessing, bless his tiny little fluffy soul."

So there you have it. He looks like a precious yorkie on steriods, weighing in at 12 pounds, when yorkies generally weigh about 4 pounds. He doesn't really look real, is the weird thing. He looks like a stuffed animal that moves with these most animated moves, and looks at us with these amazing brown eyes that melt your heart like Gizmo's do on The Gremlins.

What being a silky terrier means is that Logan is very timid upon meeting new people. He doesn't bark much, he's pretty laidback about what people do to him. He's just a pretty chill dog. The only thing that makes him hyper are knowing that treats or chew bones are on the way and the arrival of people he knows. Even then, he doesn't bark. He flaps his arms for me. So hard that if I attached little wings to his arms, he'd totally fly.

The problem is, he is my little angel. Stress on the my. When it's just Logan and me, he behaves so well. Seeing as how he is two, there are absolutely no accidents. He tells me he needs to go outside either with a whimper or by pushing on something with his nose. He doesn't have any barking fits. He spends most of his time chewing on chew bones, curled up in my lap, or snoozing on his back somewhere. When I do my stretches, he'll even join me with his own little yoga poses. We have a great time. When it's just us at home, or if just I travel with him to my mom's he's an absolute picture of the perfect dog.

But when Kevin joins the picture or when it's just Kevin and Logan... something happens. I'll tell you now, on our lease, they accidentally put that Logan is a "Silky Terror" and even though Kevin loves him as much as I do, he tells people, "Isn't that the truth." With Kevin around or even when Kevin takes him to his parents' house, Logan suddenly has this need to show him who's boss. He'll have barking fits that used to last up to a half hour. He'll act out and have an accident, even though he's capable of holding it for 16 hours if he must. He'll steal Kevin's socks and put holes in them. He'll do everything he can think of to push Kevin's buttons. I don't think Kevin believes me when I tell him what a picture of innocence that puppy is when the two of us are alone for a couple of days.

It's not that they never bond, though. At night, Logan chooses to snuggle with Kevin, which makes me jealous. When Logan isn't having a barking fit as Kevin watches TV, he can be found lying on his chest.... that is, Logan can be found lying on Kevin's chest, looking like he's in heaven. And when I go to hug Kevin, Logan will leave whatever snuggly spot he has created and run to us, jump on Kevin's lap, put his hands on Kevin's shoulders and join the hug.

He is a precious little bundle of fur. I just don't get why he must push Kevin's buttons.

Mom

The blogs I read are mainly written by very loving mothers. While I am not a mother, though I love my dog dearly (I always wonder if people are offended when they ask if I have children and I bring up my dog. I don't mean to offend, he is just the closest thing I know to having a child), the stories I read usually take me back to my own childhood. I always wonder if the mothers of the blogs ever see themselves in their own stories, or if they're in such a busy world of mothering that they don't see it, yet.

My mom told me that it only recently hit her that I view her and have memories of her the way she views her own mother. Of course, they have completely different parenting skills. My mom took what she liked about her mom's parenting and kept it, then took what she didn't like and put in her own way of parenting that she thought would be better. But, for whatever reason, it didn't occur to her that I would look back on my life and have "Mom Stories" that she wouldn't relate to or remember. Or that my brothers and I would have "Mom Stories," typically funny ones, that we share and are independent from her.

I'm used to being the youngest child, both in my family and in my mom's extended family, and having everyone tell me stories of me being knee-high to a grasshopper. But my mom isn't used to hearing stories of being The Mom. She just was The Mom. I hope I'm getting the point across. It was just a new concept to her to realize that, although she knows almost every little detail about me, she can't actually go in my head and see the memories that I have of being her little girl.

It would take a novel to describe what being my mom's daughter is like. I have years of blogging to do that, I guess. In one word, it was a blessing. I wish all children could feel that. I wish children who are blessed with great mothers but go through their teen years turning their backs on their moms would get over themselves and appreciate what they have.

My mom and I have faced dark struggles together, possibly bringing us closer than your average mother/daughter team. But that's not what I want to focus on in this blog. I want to write a story about the time we went to Starr's Cave, this huge plot of land with trails, caves... perfect for an outdoor lover... something I've never known my mom to be.

We had just moved to Burlington and I'm going to assume that my mom wanted to do something with my brother and me to help us see what the town had to offer. Get us out and have some fun. So, a'hiking we went down the trails of Starr's Cave. Being an optimistic 9-year-old, I recall enjoying it as we got started. I can't say much for my brother, but what I know of him from that time, I can't say I picture him whistling and skipping along side me. I do recall having a snake scare, but my mom kept the energy up.

I remember we finally spotted a cave. I was far too scared to step into the dark hole. Who knew what that could lead to? Bears? Witches? Well, my brother was curious, so he stepped in and about 2 seconds later, the usually calm teen came running out screaming like a baby girl as bats flew out after him. Turns out that's what's found in caves. That freaked the doodle out of him and I wasn't really about that, so we were done with caves.

We kept tromping around and after a while, I noticed that we had passed the same cornfield three times. Four times. Five times. I knew it was the same because I saw a piece of farming equipment sitting in the middle of it. At this point, my mom and I had to join my brother in his lack of enthusiasm. The sun was starting to go, no one was coming our way, so we couldn't follow anyone back to the parking lot, if we even had a map, it had obviously failed us... visions of snakes and bats nibbling on our fatigued bodies were dancing through my head.

I have no clue how, but we did find a path that led us back to our car. Thank goodness. All my mom wanted to do was show us a fun side of Burlington. The move had been hard on the whole family, that includes her, and she thought getting the two of us out for a day of hiking would be great. For some reason, that backfired and she told me to never to go on trails ever again.

I followed her new rule until I was 18 when my friends and I, unfortunately, returned to Starr's Cave for a cross country ski trip and we got lost as the sun was setting. That's another story for another day.

John Stamos

It always seems to me that when people go nutty on the Internet about their favorite celebrity, they get to him him/her. So I thought, "Self, why don't you give this a try?" It's just... I don't want to get so nutty that I sound obsessed because (a) what if John Stamos does really read this and is scared of me, or (b) what if he doesn't but everyone else does and they're just plain scared of me?

So I'm going to keep it tame, but let it be known... I heart John Stamos.

Our (one-sided) love affair began in 1992. Maybe '91. Please don't do the math. I don't want to scare John away with how creepy young I was when I first loved him. I mean, if I heard that a 9-year-old was drooling on me, I'd be pretty grossed out... whoops. Anyway, he was on Full House, but without the mullet when the lovin' began. I looked forward to the show every Tuesday night for a while, but at this point, it might have been every Friday night. Besides that, I also watched two episodes right after school before I went outside to play until dark. It was my afternoon ritual. Not because of those Olsens. Not just because Stephanie was super cool and my age, though that was also a big part of it. But the big bonus was that they had the cutest uncle I had ever laid eyes on.

I will admit that as the show came to its inevitable end, I realized that it was pretty lame and time for it to go. But I missed my weekly dose of Uncle Jesse and couldn't wait until I could find him somewhere else. Unfortunately, I didn't live in New York to buy tickets to his Broadway shows.

So I had to wait until college when he was on a short-lived show called Jake in Progress. That did it for the time being. What was even better was when he did commercials for 10-10-987, a number that made your landline long distance phone calls cost only ten cents. He would knock on people's doors to tell them about the number. I wrote a whole paper for college about how I'd get all dressed up at home, just waiting for him to come a'knockin' with his schpeel about the number. Then I'd invite him in for some food and who knew what could ensue after that!

(Of course, John, this "dressing up and waiting" thing totally never happened. Totally not that obsessed. Only obsessed enough to consider it for a paper.)

Eventually, though, the 10-10-987 commercials were gone and I was left with the occasional picture of him in People magazine. Unseen on television, not not forgotten in my heart, John. As proof, when I got my dog from my loving and doting husband... he let me name him Logan John Stamos.

And then, it happened. John got a role on one of TV's best television shows. ER. I can get my weekly dose of him, again. I can find interviews with him on daytime and latenight shows. He's more likely to be found in mindless magazines. He's everywhere!

When I find him on a latenight show, I quiet down anyone else in the room, for fear that I'll miss any hilarious or heartfelt thing John says. I laugh harder at his jokes than anyone else. Basically, I'm like a teenager on a date with her biggest crush.

I really want to meet John Stamos. However, I'm afraid that if I ever did, I would do the stupidest things and make a fool of myself. He'd probably say, "Hi." and I'd probably laugh really hard and say, "Oh gosh! I knew you'd be funny in person! You're great on latenight shows, but this! This is funny!"

Oh. John. So great.

The Struggles I Face

I take the city bus home from work. Um, opposed to the school bus, I guess. I don't want to scare the children. Anyway at this point in the day, I am absolutely exhausted. I usually have a twenty minute wait between the time I get off from work and the time the bus arrives, so I'm generally one of the first on the bus. I like to choose a window seat when I get on. I don't want to be one of those uninviting people who will make someone stand instead of making sure everyone is safely seated. Back in the school days, I might have done that, but I'm 26, now, not 6, so I don't really get why people must be so needy about their space for just a few minutes.

Oh, but that's what I'm here to talk about.

So, as I said, I'm really beat after work, especially these past few days when it has been chilly and cloudy. And being on the bus for 25 minutes just reminds me of my traveling days as a child. We usually traveled by plane, but there were train trips, car trips, and maybe two bus trips. I was a good little traveler, not whiny. We often got compliments about how well my brothers and I traveled (what's that we hear? Oh, yes, me tooting my own horn). I usually just got sleepy on those long trips and relied on a shoulder of my big brother or dad to snuggle on to get me through the rides. And so the travel + the sleepy = reminders of my youth.

Well today, a man in a delightfully puffy coat came on the bus. All of the loner seats were filled, so he and his inviting coat chose to sit next to me. My exhaustion really began to set in, and this man's coat was coaxing me. I considered setting my head against the cold window, but what good is that? First of all, it's hard and cold. Secondly, think of all the oily heads that have sat upon that surface. Ew. The man's coat, however, with it's burgundy color and puffiness, slightly resembled the comforter of my bed. Just a little 25 minute snuggle with that would give me a good power nap for some energy to clean my apartment. The temptation was bordering on unbearable. I had to tell myself reasons why this was unacceptable, even if this man looked like my dad if I squinted my eyes just so.

First of all, I do realize that it is just inappropriate. Americans have their standards for personal space and just the fact that he was sitting close enough for me to tip my head and get a power nap in is uncomfortable for most Americans. I do enough inappropriate things in public to last a lifetime- dance routines down the aisles of WalMart, lift my leg while the dog pees outside, sing to my patrons at work. I need to learn where to draw the line.

Secondly, he might have mistaken my violation of his coat for a hint that, perhaps, I find him attractive. I struggle enough with why strange men think I'm interested in hearing their pick up lines. The last thing I need is to mislead this stranger simply because I decide to wrap my arms around him and push my head into his puffy, cotton-filled coat for 25 minutes. It's a simple temptation, but I don't need such consequences.

Finally, well, uh. Well, I don't have a "finally." Those just kept going through my head for 25 minutes to keep me from leaning on the stranger's puffy coat.

If I had given in, I would have found a way to blame him. Don't wear such a puffy coat and maybe I wouldn't have to use you as a body pillow, Sir.

Hippy to the Hippy to the Hip hip hop

Ay! I'm not so good at posting everyday, now, am I?

So, as I stated earlier, I began a dance class on November 3rd. We will meet every Monday at 9:00 at night. This, alone, is a big deal for me. On a normal night, I am in my pajamas and ready for bed at 9:00 (okay, maybe 8:00) and if there is a show that I want to watch that starts at 9 *cough*thehills*cough*, it takes a lot of will power for me to stay up. I really like to be in bed at 9 with a book until I can't keep my eyes open any longer.

On more than one occasion, The Husband has suggested that we run to the store, and before looking at the clock, I have looked at him incredulously and said, "I can't do that! It's practically time for bed! Do you know what time it--" and then I will look at the clock and see that it is only 7 o'clock. As a child, my neighbors were just finishing dinner at this hour. So when I see that I have no argument, I will begrudgingly get out of my sweats and into something that looks like I've been acting like a lively 26-year-old and we'll dash to the store.

So in order to be awake enough to dance at 9, I have decided to take an afternoon nap. That's what I did last week, and it worked. When 9 o'clock rolled around, I slapped on some sweats designed just for people with short legs, a dancing tank top that I bought for just $1 ($1!!) at WalMart, and my work out shoes. I then drove out to the boonies to the National Dance Academy that is located on the edge of a gorgeous neighborhood that I never knew existed until that day.

I hopped out of my car in a way that said, "I've done this before. I'm totally an experienced dancer." as I walked against a current of preteens who were piling out of the building and into minivans. It was the first time I stood in the building, because I was told I could pay after my first class, and I wasn't immediately sure which studio to go to... until I saw 30-somethings walking straight ahead into the first studio I saw. I followed them and asked if that was the beginners hip-hop course, and BINGO, I was right.

There were about 10 other ladies with me, in their 30s and 40s, all shapes and sizes. Our instructor looks to be about my age and is really friendly and bubbly. I was feeling comfortable right away. We started our 40-minute class with about 10 minutes of yoga-like stretches. I was digging that. I was mostly happy to see that I'm still pretty flexible. I've still got it!

After that, we started a new dance routine. I was relieved that they were starting something new, since I've missed the first seven classes. She must make a new routine each month. Now, this routine goes a little something like: step, step, snake your body, clap, turn, repeat with the left, repeat with the right, repeat with the left, ball change left, throw your arms, ball change right, throw your arms, ball change left, throw your arms, ball change right, throw your arms, feet shoulder length apart, arms straight down, sway four times, turn backwards (this all has a name, but I don't know what it is) and end. That's the beginning of the routine that we've learned so far, and I trust you follow.

I was really slow to learn. I can hardly remember what I just did five minutes ago, literally, so this was hard for me to catch on. I kept forgetting about the turns, which, as some may know, are done by crossing your legs and twisting yourself around. When I forgot about the turns, I found myself just walking in a circle, much like a dog chasing its tail. I also sometimes forgot to snake my body before the clap, so I would be the only student of all of us to clap and hear it echo around the room, over the music... I hoped people would just be so focused on themselves that they didn't hear it. And every time, when we finished, I was one beat behind everyone else. By the time the instructor turned around to see what we thought, I was still finishing.

Plus, we obviously had to keep practicing so we could get the steps down, and by the end of the class, the world was spinning after all of those turns.

Soooo, I'm not really good. BUT, I absolutely love it. I've practiced everyday this week and have improved (and lost a pound, to boot!). I like the music, the challenge, the exercise, and that I don't have to be the best at it. The point is just to have fun, get exercise, try my best to learn what I can and be capable of laughing at myself when I'm not quite there. I'm likin' this!

So Proud of America

I think I've missed just a day of posting. Yipes! I was busy being into the election. I'm so proud of our country for voting for change. We have a lot of work ahead of us, and, as citizens, we're going to have to start thinking of each other with this work... but I think it's about time we realize that we are the United States of America and not just America. It's time to think of each other.

And with this new president, we are going to get:
*Accessible and affordable health care. Something a person like me needs.
*Our failed economy will get back on track.
*Our nation's children will be put first, with investing in early education being one of the most important topics at hand. Even college will become more affordable - put in community service and take $4000 off your tuition. I'd be up for that.
*Our planet will be saved with renewable energy and alternative fuels which will also create new jobs... back to our economy.
*Our foreign policy will become more secure so we will become a safer and respected nation, once again.
*Our homeland security is going to be increased... something that has been lacking in the last few years.
*The war in Iraq will end responsibly and the war on terrorists that we need to work on will become our focus.
*Our seniors won't have to worry about losing their Social Security.
*95% of middle class workers will receive a tax cut. I sure don't make $250,000, so this will effect me and those who do make so much should understand that those of us who are struggling for our money can use the break. The people I know who make so much understand it.
*Our troops are going to be taken care of when they get home. Something that is often overlooked and won't be anymore.

This is just the tip of the iceberg and I'm beside myself with this new era that is about to unfold. A young man whose father was from Kenya (hey! like me!) and married his mother from Kansas (practically like me!), who was then raised humbly by his mother and maternal grandparents, lost his mother at a young age to cancer, worked hard enough to get into Columbia and Harvard for his law degree, but took a job in the southside of Chicago to work as a community organizer and then lawyer and professor before he became a senator... and now here he is. Humble beginnings that took him to the most powerful job in the world... and the first half-African American to do so.

It reminds us that America is really where you go to dream and make your dreams come true.

Now we need to do our part as citizens and break the political boundaries, come together, and make America the best country that it can be. I say that as someone who isn't registered as a democrat or republican because I don't know why there can't be shades of gray.

"We are the change we have been waiting for"

Superstar

I've got the cutest jacket this fall. Basically, it makes me feel like a superstar every time I put it on. And for bonus points, I bought it on clearance at Target.

I don't have a perfect picture of it... This is probably the best I can do, and you can hardly see what makes it so extraordinary, but my face does show how good it makes me feel:

It is the first jacket that I have bought in years and we were meant to be. When I put it on, I just strut around like I know I'm sort of a big deal. Sort of how my puppy prances around when he realizes we're about to go for a big walk. Compliments from acquaintances and strangers flutter to me like pretty little butterflies fluttering to a bright little flower. When it comes to style, I don't really know what to do, but I do know how to rock this jacket.

The only problem is that this jacket does me no good when it gets below 50 degrees. I do have a nice winter coat. It's cute and all, but... I don't feel like a super star in it. I don't strut like an excited puppy. Compliments don't come flying, because, though it's very nice, it's a common style.

There's only one solution to this. The temperature this fall and winter simply can't get colder than the 50s. I love this jacket too much.

Dancing Queen

Tomorrow I am going to attempt to pick up a new hobby. Dancing. Of course, as it is, I dance all the time. When I'm cleaning, when I'm in the car, when I have ten minutes left at work, when I'm shopping. If I'm not with a friend, I try to keep it to a subtle head bob or toe tap. No need to freak people out. But if someone is with me, there are no holds barred and whatever body part wants to jut out and shake to the beat is free to do so.

But I think it's time to learn the actual art of dancing. Some actual steps and perhaps an actual whole routine to a song. I enjoy music and find it irresistible to dance to (seriously, how do people listen to their iPods in public and not dance??) and am excited to learn how to really, seriously, dance to it. I've chosen to take a hip hop class, because that type of dancing goes with my favorite type of music.

My mom is pretty excited that I'm taking a dance class. These days, I often hear her say, "I've finally got a daughter!" because I was such a tomboy when I was growing up. I didn't like dresses, now I do. I didn't like shopping, now I do... on most days. I didn't want to take a dance class, and here I am, starting tomorrow. I know if my mom had chosen the type of dance I'd learn, it'd either be jazz (which I'm not against, I just got excited when I saw beginners adult hip hop was available) or tap.

I have this vague memory from when I was approximately 6-years-old. We lived off garage sale deals. Some of the best things from my childhood came from garage sales and cost my mom only fifty cents- desks, favorite shoes, huge teddy bears. We also had an amazing basement. Half of it was a finished play room for us kids. We had a huge TV, two couches that could be spilled on or whatever kids do to harm furniture and it didn't matter, my brothers' toy trunks were down there filled to the brim with GI Joes, Transformers, and Star Wars action figures and there was plenty of room to just run around and go safely nuts on the carpet. The other half of the basement was unfinished and turned into a little gym. My brothers had a kid-sized basketball court, I could rollerskate down there, I set up my little plastic bowling equipment there... it was a kid's dream!

So the point of this information is, one day, my mom came home from a morning of shopping at garage sales and found me playing in our mini-gym in the basement. She told me she found a great gift for the both of us. I was pretty interested. Maybe it was a doll. Maybe it was a water gun. Maybe it was a baseball glove so I wouldn't have to borrow from my brothers when we played catch. How this would reward her and me, I'm not sure. Maybe just the look on my eyes when she presented me with one of the above was going to be her part of the gift.

So she told me to stay in the basement while she retrieved the gift. She came down with a plastic grocery bag, incredibly excited to reveal this treasure for the both of us. I opened it up and inside were... two pairs of black tap shoes. One for her and one for me, complete with ribbony black shoelace.

I wasn't really feeling that.

My mom was super excited. She had us both put the shoes on and she reached back in her memory to her days of dancing with her twin, I assume, and tried to teach me the basic dancing skills in our mini-gym. You know... shuffle, drop, step... I think? I think that was our routine. I wasn't hearing any tapping and I was disappointed. My mom was trying to keep the energy up and get me excited so hopefully I would fall in love and want to take a class. Instead, I was eager to get the shoes off but thought my mom would look really great on a stage. I had a thing about always imagining my mom on stages performing. I've never even seen her on a stage, so I don't know where that came from.

Anyway, I don't know how long we tried our routine, but my mom made a great effort to try to get me pumped about dancing and it didn't work. I don't know what happened to the shoes, but I avoided them. I wouldn't be surprised if I hid them. As much as I loved watching people tap dance on TV, I wasn't up for another session of Shuffle, Drop, Step. I was just a soccer kind of girl back then.

But it has been 20 years, now, and I'm ready to take on the dance studio. I just hope I don't pull anything.

Where there's fire... I'm probably cooking

I don't get it.

The cooking gene seems to have forgotten me. My mom can make a tasty meal when she wants, though since I was a teenager and my brothers were out of the house, she and I switched to Healthy Choice dinners. My dad makes really excellent meals full of flavor. My brothers can both make great dishes full of spices that I've never even heard of. They are both excellent chefs. My aunts, my cousins, my uncles... they all know how to make a good meal, flawlessly. And, to top it off, I believe they enjoy it.

I'm not exactly saying that I can't cook. Put a recipe in front of me and I'll likely figure it out. The only thing I've really ruined has been some sort of baked good that has ended up runny or too salty. It's just that I really despise cooking and often times, smoke and/or fire is involved. I get confused about why smoke comes about, but whatever I'm creating can still taste good. What's with the smoke?

I remember the first time I was cooking and a fire sprung about. I was maybe 18-years-old and living with my mom. I'm going to guess that I was "cooking," so I was probably heating up some pizza rolls or something. The little buzzy thing on the oven went off, so I opened the door and a fire was a'blazin' on the, uh... you know... the cookie sheet. That's it. Even though my mom had told me many times what to do in this situation, everything had fled my mind, and my reaction was to pace back and forth. My mom was in the next room, just chatting away on the phone with her best friend. So I paced over to her and said, "Fire. Oven. There's a fire in the oven." I expected her to tell her friend, "Hang on, Meghan needs me." Or, "Omigosh, the house is on fire! Let me call you back!" Or, "I HAVE TO HANG UP TO CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!!" Or some sort of reaction.

No. She just kept on chatting to her friend, all nonchalant, probably about men and how we should throw rocks at them, while I was burning the oven down. She calmly walked to the cupboard next to the burning oven, grabbed baking soda, tossed about a cup of it on to the fire, returned the box to the cupboard and walked away, never even acknowledging my existence... or watching to make sure that the fire really went out, which it did. She just kept yakking into the phone like nothing happened. Her friend had no clue that I practically burnt the kitchen off the house.

That was the first time I started a fire in the kitchen.

The second time, I thought I was pretty sly about it. At this point, I was used to my weird cooking ways and the fact that when I cook, smoke happens. Because of that, I often set off the alarm in the first apartment that I lived in with two roommates. I took care of that by waving a pillow at the alarm while I heated up my soup.

I am a big believer in cleaning as you cook. So one evening as I was heating up my soup, one roommate was talking to me. I noticed my soup had spilled over on the stove a little, so I took my paper towel and wiped the stove clean as we chatted and the edge of the paper towel touched the stove that was on for my soup and WAM, it was on fire. But as soon as it caught fire, it was out. So I did my mom's ol' trick there and kept talking like nothing had happened and my roommate stared at me incredulously. When I looked back up at her after my sentence she looked at the stove, then back up at me and said, "You do realize that your paper towel had caught fire, right?"

I was hoping she hadn't noticed.

Now I am 26-years-old. I have been cooking for 17 years. I have a 2-year-old oven mitt and it would share many-a-stories if it could talk. My latest fire happened just in the past week or two. Again, I think I was taking Kevin's pizza rolls out of the oven and touched the heating-up-thingies at the bottom of the oven. The oven mitt, given to me as a wedding present, started blazing up, but as soon as I pulled my hand out from the oven, the fire was gone.

Somehow, having this burnt oven mitt (with melted cheese all over it) just seems more fitting to me. It just says Meghan.