My Name is Not Eddie

My husband recently took on a part-time job in addition to his 40 hours a week as a career services advisor.  We have some financial needs.  It happens.  I don't see him much anymore, which is definitely not cool.  Tonight was the first time we'd get to eat dinner together in a week.

I know, my charming, clever, domestic self thought, I'll make my beloved hunk of man-candy something truly spectacular - an Eddie Dog!

If you lived in Clarion, PA, for any amount of time, you know what I'm talking about.  If not, then please go with me to a magical place that sparkles mysteriously in the starlight and only smells just the slightest bit of stale beer and regret.

The Hot Dog House was known affectionately as Eddie Dog's.  An Eddie Dog was also the product of said house.  You went to Eddie Dog's to buy an Eddie Dog.  Simple.  Which was good, because most of the people who went to Eddie Dog's were drunk.

It was only open between 9:00 PM and 2:00 AM.  It pretty much only sold about 4 different kinds of hot dogs and Coke products.  That was it.  

Eddie, you smart, smart man.

I was one of those rare college students who abstained from alcohol but still went to parties.  (With all due respect to my boys, the Phi Mu Alpha house, full of Star Wars posters and action figures, was definitely NOT the wildest place on campus, but that's probably why I felt safe there.)  Still, no matter the hour, I was always up to accompany an inebriated friend on a stumble off campus to Sheetz or Eddie's.

Because food.

Eddie was (is?) a character.  He was always in short sleeves, reaching into his bun warmer and slapping ketchup on lukewarm weenies.  He always miscounted change.  Always.  You could hand him a $5 bill for $3.15 worth of dogs, and you'd get $3.78 back in quarters and pennies.  And woe, woe, WOE to the unsuspecting student who commented snidely about the political news he always had on the TV.  Eddie was remarkably outspoken about politics.  And if a drunkenly slurred comment was slung his way, he was able to launch into a pretty impressive tirade about - whatever.  Immigration, the deficit, trade agreements.  

Stuff that drunk college students are really good at ignoring.  Or not.

On a few occasions, one of the more, um, belligerent of the fraternity brothers I was with decided that he wanted to get into a political debate with Eddie.  I left and sat on the shop's cold stoop, watching the misty midnight air swirl around the street lamp on the corner.

Those cheap little frankfurters were worth it, though.

Poor college kid chow.

So of course I thought I'd make one for The Hubbs.

Behold THE TACO DOG in its majestic, chili-smothered splendor!

Yeah...

...um, it was kind of awful.

I guess I just don't have The Eddie Touch.  

I used turkey dogs, which were probably 60 or 70 calories less than an authentic Eddie Dog.  I was really disappointed, especially because they were from Aldi and I really, really like most everything I've tried from Aldi.  The dogs themselves had kind of a funny aftertaste.  

I like to toast whole wheat buns and bread for sandwiches, which is exactly the opposite of the moist, limp, starchy white Eddie Dog buns.  Failure, again.

I used the Hormel chili with beans.  Also a mistake.  I remember Eddie's Taco Dogs being beanless.  

The cheese happened to be made with 2% milk and was acceptable.

The tortilla chips were slightly stale.

My husband ate two, then the last bite of the Faux Eddie Dog I left on my plate.  "These aren't that good," I apologized, but he shrugged.  "They're fine!"  He didn't seem to care, but I died a little inside.

I guess he'll never REALLY understand me, and I'll never understand that you do NOT mess with an original.

Understanding Your Introverted Female Writer Friend

We're the ones that you can't fully comprehend.  Why in the name of all things holy would we decline a Saturday night party in favor of sitting at home with microwave popcorn and Netflix?  

Because people exhaust us, generally.  And because we prefer the ones living inside our own heads.

We are the ones driving to and from work, or school, or the grocery store, listening to the radio and applying the songs to scenes in the movie-versions of our manuscripts.  

We work out and choreograph fight scenes in our mind.

We have the capacity to be incredibly kind and conversational to the cashier at Target but only for like four minutes and then we want to be done with people.

We remember you as you were when you inspired us to create a character based on you.  Not how you are today.  Which may be very, very different.

We think about writing fanfic, or we have written fanfic, and we wonder if it damages our ability to be taken seriously as writers.

We see ads in fashion magazines and create entire backstories for the people featured in the images.

We play dress-up in the mirror, carefully applying lipstick we may never wear in public, to get into our characters' heads.

We sometimes loathe selfies but we hope that ours - the ones we do take - make us look both pretty and pensive.  Smart is sexy.

We're in multiple fandoms and we do not take issue with people who like both "Star Trek" and "Star Wars" but for God's sake, people, don't confuse one with the other.

When we are not actively working on a story, we are dreaming up situations for our characters, playing with their histories and their futures.  We are listening to playlists we have created for them, trying to get to know them well enough to do them justice in print.

We like coffee.  And cats.

If you give us coffee and cats, we might put you in a book.

As a nice person.  Like, the hero.









...or maybe this is all just me.

The Bleeding Basement (and Other Homeowner Woes)

Surely I am not being too arrogant in assuming that at least some of my faithful readers have wondered where I've been these past six weeks?  Surely someone missed me?

Well, we moved.  It all happened rather fast, for something so big and dramatic and life-changing.  We weren't really looking for a house, but my husband was getting regular e-mail updates on local homes from his former boss, and now real-estate agent, Jan.  He wasn't reviewing them to move, per se, but was looking to purchase a possible rental property.  I wasn't keen on the financial risk, especially since we have a baby now, but he kept looking.

Lo and behold, a small house became available - on the same street as my parents.  Now, before we had the baby, I would never have imagined living so close to my folks.  Even though they are wonderful and I truly consider them among my favorite people in the world, I thought it was important to establish myself away from them.  I still do.  But a baby is a lot to handle, even a happy and relatively easy baby like Ronen.  

Long story short, it ended up being the perfect place for us.  Most everything is on one story, which is great because all of our parents are nearing that "limited mobility" phase in life, plus I don't want to trip down the stairs with my son ever again.  We call our new place the Hobbit House.  It was clearly built for short people (I can easily reach all the kitchen cabinets).  We love it.

Except...

Well, unless we started from scratch on a brand new home, there are always exceptions, right?  

The perks of the new place are many: recently redone hardwood floors, a galley kitchen (divine compared to my old "two-room" kitchen), two large and one small bedroom (which we turned into the TV room and are decorating with sci-fi posters and art), a slightly sloped yard, pleasant neighbors (kinda), and a huuuuuuge attic for storage.  The cats have already laid claim to their new spots - Loki sleeps upstairs, on the window ledge or atop the railing.  Freyja prefers the windows in the baby's room (the only grip I've got is that she leaves fur all over his changing pad!), and Thor likes to sprawl in the middle of the hallway between the rooms.  Which means I've already tripped on him 8,239 times since moving.  The basement is divided into several smaller rooms, one of which Ross has already claimed as his Man Cave, and another will be my writing nook (once we clear it of unpacked boxes).  

Oh, yeah...

The basement.

While it was absolutely a selling point for us, it's also let us in on some unexpected surprises.

Like the blood on the floor.

Well, it wasn't really blood, my hypersensitive olfactory powers determined.

It was balsamic vinegar.

And it was seeping up through the paint on the cellar floor.

If you go downstairs during a heavy thunderstorm, you will see "blood" drops glistening on the floor.  

It's terrifying.  And, yes, I had a "Telltale Heart" moment when I first saw it, oozing out from beneath Ross's gaming television.

Apparently, the elderly Italian man who had lived here was a homemade wine aficionado.  And apparently, he got rather clumsy when he imbibed.  So he spilled some.    We aren't exactly sure how that all worked out, but we guess that it stained the floor, dried up but was never cleaned, was painted over (with the wrong kind of paint), and now gets "rehydrated" during rainy days.  

So, yeah, maybe it's more Poe-esque than that, and maybe there's a horrible story associated with it.  I don't want to think about that, though.  Right now, we're just trying to figure out a way to dry out the cellar while keeping the litter-box smell from wafting up through the rest of the house.  The cats have their own "bathroom" downstairs, too, with a small window for ventilation and a door I prefer to keep mostly closed.  

Oh, and there's a bidet.

Did I mention the bidet?

I find Thor curled up around it, asleep, sometimes.  People, there's not a lot funnier than a cat wrapped around a bidet.  

Unless it's a cat in a bidet. 

(We're getting rid of the bidet.)

Frozen (in Time)

Last week, Ross asked me to pick him up from work on his late night.  I had some time to kill before driving downtown, and I was feeling rather nostalgic, so I made the maybe-not-so-wise decision to drive past my old house in Crafton.  The house where I grew up.  I parked in the alley next to the house and looked into the streetlight-flooded backyard.  The fence that my mom repainted every third summer.   Three vehicles, including one well-worn utility truck, in the driveway.  The eagle-adorned mailbox still there on the porch.  The porch that saw decorations for every holiday of the year – Mom didn’t discriminate.  There wasn’t a lick of Irish blood in any of us, yet sparkly shamrocks and a cheerful green and white wreath still went up for St. Patrick’s Day.  One year, she made the ill-advised choice to put pink-and-blue Christmas lights up, just for a chance of pace, and the neighbors kept asking  if she was expecting another baby!  (She went back to traditional multi-colored lights after that.)

 

The house where, frustrated, I’d mouth nasty words and make mean faces at her behind her back, and somehow she knew and grounded me anyway.  Where she washed my sassy mouth out with cream-colored moisturizing Tone soap.  Where she cooked up breaded liver so delicious that you forgot you were eating an iron-packed organ.  Where she painstakingly stitched homemade Halloween costumes each year for my sister and me.  Where I coaxed our runt cat, Lucky, out of hiding in the backyard so that I could pet her, even though she was riddled with mange.  Where Mom let us carefully pick out Motown records she’d play on her huge, ancient, British-made hi-fi. Where I fell in love with that music.  Where as a toddler, I splashed, wearing my little red swimsuit, in a baby pool on the back porch.  Where I sat down, shocked and breathless, in the dining room after I learned that my paternal grandfather had finally succumbed to his emphysema.  Where our white cat, Sparky, blissfully sunned his ample belly in the driveway.  Where the peony bushes buckled under the weight of their own dessert plate-sized blooms.  Where Mom carefully put together delicious family meals, only to have her father wax poetic about all the restaurants he’d been to that utterly amazed him. 

 

Where my father told us he and my mom couldn’t be together anymore. 

 

Where my sister and I dressed our Barbies in elaborate costumes and didn’t play with them so much as stage them and demand that my mother take Polaroid photos of their tableaux.  Where I hid behind the porch swing so that I could eat the lemons out of my mother’s iced tea, despite her threats that it would ruin the enamel on my teeth.  Where we’d sing melodramatic showtunes at the top of our lungs, making sure all the parts in the quartets were covered, and we were almost never told to “keep it down.”  Where flatulence was a regular topic of discussion over dinner.  Where I told God I never wanted to get married or have children because I saw how sad my mom was.  Where our previously-abused calico cat, Callie, lay in wait just to scratch our ankles as we passed by.  Where, in spite of her terrible allergies, Mom never requested that the lilac bushes be cut down. Where Dad balanced precariously on scaffolding as he remodeled the house and the siding.  Where we realized I was allergic to walnuts after a terrifying episode of vomiting and dizziness during Sunday morning brunch.  Where we sat on the kitchen floor and watched after-school specials and cartoons, waiting for the (now indoor) cats to curl up in our laps. 

 

Where I first told my mom I hated her. 

 

Where I sobbed for hours over my wayward bangs, learning only later in life that such miraculous things as flat-irons existed.  Where I discovered a “hidden” wine cellar in the basement, filled with ancient books and rusty tools.  Where we dyed Easter eggs in briny-scented plastic cups, only to be disappointed that the colors were never as vivid as they were on the packaging.  Where we watched genuinely bad but entertaining Saturday morning cartoons that are still better than most of what kids watch today.  Where I endlessly discussed writing Indiana Jones and Star Wars fanfic with my best friend Christin, only to be reminded that we didn’t have call-waiting and I was going to have to get off the phone. Where I fought with my sister and was punished with the dreaded silent treatment from my mom.  Where we told her we’d accepted Jesus as out savior, and her reaction wasn’t what we’d expected.  Where I sang along with the radio, never dreaming of what Paula Abdul’s lyrics really meant.

 

I didn’t go there to mourn, really.  I just went to simply say good-bye.  Again.  But the tears were inevitable, rolling down my face under the cover of a dark alley, and I made her another promise.  Mom, I am going to be what you wanted me to be.  I don’t think you had dreams of be being rich or famous, but I know you wanted me to be happy, make others happy, and let myself express my opinions creatively. 

 

So I’m going to keep doing that.

Blog Bit: Stuff My Cats Do (Part Three)

The cats don't often sleep with us.  We value our own rest too much to endure the perpetual purring of Loki or Thor's grunts as he shifts position.

Thor: EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before
I go to bed.  Pretty much going to steal
 my soul, I think.

Still, every so often, and usually on the weekends, we let the little buggers curl up with us.  Thor lays on top of me, practically curling up on my neck, until he gets bored, or I move, or try to get under the blanket (Thor is only happy when we are both on top of the blanket).  Then he sighs and leaves.

Loki, on the other hand, is pretty much like that toddler who you are REALLY trying to put in her big-girl bed...but who somehow finds herself wedged between you and your hubby, making weird noises and keeping either of you from falling asleep, while she blissfully slumbers.

She has a super-creepy and borderline dangerous habit of nudging me awake, then positioning herself so that my arm is parallel with her body.  Then she licks my fingers and wraps all four paws around my arm.  My hand usually ends up nestled in her soft belly fur as she purrs, while my flesh is gently enclosed by razor-sharp talons that could pierce my very soul at any moment.

It's pretty terrifying.

So, yeah.  We don't usually sleep with our pets.  And from what I hear about kids' fingernails and sleepy-time fist-pumping, we won't be sleeping with our children, either!

Blog Bit: Stuff My Cats Do (Part Two)

Loki plays fetch. 

At first, I genuinely thought it was a fluke.  What self-respecting feline, after all, would play with humans as a simple-minded dog might?  But then, Loki isn't exactly a self-respecting feline.

She's pretty much half dog and half skunk.

Thankfully, though, that "half skunk" part is diminishing, as we recently changed the cats' dry food to an indoor variety.  Up until about two weeks ago, I swear, that animal smelled like the devil's feet.  The odors coming out of her were otherworldly.  She farted when she got excited...when she was startled...when Ross came home (she loves him)...when she was picked up...so, pretty much, she farted dozens of times daily.

Ick.

But about that dog half...

Two weeks ago, when I was in the kitchen baking (unusual for me), I noticed that Loki had gotten yet another one of my hair elastics (I practially buy a new package every month, thanks to her) and was playing with it noisily on the floor.  A little frustrated at her claws tap-tap-tapping on the floor, I picked the thing up and tossed it into the basement.  She shot after it.  Then I returned to the counter.  I turned around, and she had already flown back up the stairs and deposited the elastic at my feet.



Loki with her preferred human companion.

Freak, I thought, and kicked it back downstairs.  Down and back, like a rocket.  I abandoned my baking and kept throwing the elastic.  We went back and forth maybe nine or ten times before she flopped down on the floor, tired.

That was cute, and kind of creepy, I mused.  Cats do strange things all the time; it's part of their nature to be spontaneous in the most inconvenient and odd ways.  Like the time I saw Thor puff for no reason and start to dance sideways.  Or the time he licked the shower walls for, like, an hour.  Or when the house is perfectly silent, and they leap to their feet out of a dead sleep and fly through the kitchen like furry meteors after each other.

The next day, I was making dinner and listening to an old radio program and there she was again, begging to play.  She even danced around like dogs do when they realize they're about to get some attention.  I threw the elastic and ignored her, but she added another rule to the game.  I was no longer allowed to ignore her, as she kept nuzzling against my feet and legs until I played.  This was a clearly new tactic; Loki is extremely affectionate, but she is not a leg nuzzler!  Perhaps she had seen Thor employ this clever strategy in order to snag a piece of ham or glob of tuna from me while I was cooking!  She was perhaps less simple than we had originally guessed.

Anyway, long story short, Loki and I have played fetch maybe seven or eight times in the past two weeks.  She's particular that we play with the elastics; even her small mouse toy won't make it back up the stairs with her.  And they have to be thrown down the stairs.  If I throw them into the other room, she won't bring them back to me.

So, fetch.  On her own terms.  I guess she's still a cat after all.

Things I've Learned Whilst Being Unemployed

1. I drink coffee more now than I did when I was working.

2. If you don't shower within 3 hours of waking up, you don't shower at all.

3. Eating can become a hobby if you aren't careful.  I am not careful.

4. I have more time than ever to maintain the house, and less desire than ever to do so.

5. My cats spend 85% of the day sleeping.  They are shockingly dedicated to their art.

6. I cannot hide birthday gifts from my husband (actually, I knew that before I lost my job).

7. Creating a routine without the obligation of a third-party (work, etc.) is nearly impossible.

8. Tumblr can be a scary place.

9. It is impossible to convince a cat that a laptop is not a heating pad.

10.  This isn't as relaxing as I was hoping it would be.

Fables, Frogs and Fearlessness, or: What I've Learned from the Muppets

Jesus used quite a bit of the time He spent teaching by sharing parables with His audience.  A parable is a simple story designed to reflect a much larger, more complex and ultimately, more important, concept.  His sweet little tale about the shepherd who leaves 99 sheep to find the one who strayed is a simplified picture of the love of the Lord, who actively and passionately seeks out the lost and needy, rather than only coddling and catering to the ones who are healthy and safe.

With that in mind, and also the sudden, renewed appreciation for the Muppets (as evidenced by the re-release of merchandise and movies, thanks to the latest Muppet film), I wanted to share with you some great life lessons that I am learning from those furry, floppy, fuzzy, friendly puppet-superstars of stage and screen.

Lesson #1: Your best defense - and your best offense - is TEAMWORK!  In every single Muppet movie, and in many episodes of the show, the Muppets must work together to achieve a common goal or overcome seemingly impossible odds.  Sometimes, one Muppet or another, who thinks he is better off without the group (or that the group is better without him), isolates himself and leaves himself open to danger or, maybe worse, the temptation of self-pity!  The author of Hebrews agrees with this.  In Hebrews 10:24-26 he writes, "And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another - and all the more as you see the Day approaching."  How much better are Christians - and Muppets - who work together, enjoy each others' company, and share their talents for the greater good?!

Lesson #2: It's okay to be different.  It's better to stick out in a crowd than to fit in but be heartsick inside.  It took Gonzo the Great years to finally realize this, but maybe he would have found peace sooner if he'd just read John 15:18-20: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.  Remember what I told you: ‘A servant is not greater than his master." If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also. If they obeyed my teaching, they will obey yours also."  As Christians, we are called to do things differently, and not to be ashamed when others question us.  Some people may see things as acceptable that we don't.  It's okay to take a stand - no matter what people might think.  Because, inevitably, you'll learn that...

Lesson #3: No matter how weird you are, you will still have genuine, honest-to-goodness friends who love you!  What a bunch of zanies the Muppets are!  They are wacky individuals with their own talents and styles, but they're held together by one small frog who sees the potential in all of them, and who loves them enough to prove it by being there for them!  Paul called both individuals and the young church bodies his "dear friends" in almost all of his letters to them.  Although he was eagerly trying to correct their wrongs and help them become more mature Christians, he didn't write these letters as though lecturing spoiled children; he wrote to lovingly discipline and improve them...just as anyone would want to see a good friend reach his or her full potential.  Paul had friends.  And Paul was a weird one.  Zealous Pharisee one day, born-again Jesus freak the next.  Trust me.  If Paul had friends who loved him, so do you!  And if you can't seem to find any, remember: Jesus is always on your side!

Lesson #4: Integrity is important.  Know what I love most about Kermit?  It's not his wicked banjo-playing abilities or his fashion sense.  It's his committment to integrity.  Although he is never afraid to change his approach to make himself heard (that is a whole lesson in itself!), one thing Kermit always holds on to is his sense of what is right, and what is important.  Thanks, little green dude, for reminding us that, when things get tough, the one thing we can never run away from is our own character.  So we'd better make the most of it!  In Proverbs 10:9, there's a short and sweet way of putting it: "Whoever walks in integrity walks securely, but whoever takes crooked paths will be found out."

Lesson #5: Always have a song in your heart.  On occassion, you may need to share it!  The roads of life get bumpy.  Bad things happen.  Sometimes, really bad things.  But if you're always ready with encouragement, you can help ease someone's bad day.  And, the cool thing is, sowing those seeds of kindness has a way of coming back to you.  Some call it karma...but I call it blessing.  There's a simple principle that leads us to believe that, when we plant apple seeds, we get apple trees.  Orange seeds give us orange trees.  When we plant kindness and encouragement, we do reap it.  It doesn't always show up when we think it should, but I truly believe that it all comes back to us.  Besides, life is just more fun with a soundtrack - even if only you can hear it! 

Felt Phenomenon

I saw it the night it opened.  How could I resist?  With a step-mum who's only as old as her shoe size (at heart) and a four-day weekend stretching ahead of me, how could Ross and I NOT go to see The Muppets?

I won't spoil a thing for any of you who have yet to see it.  It's worth it, worth it, WORTH IT.  It's adorable, hysterical, and, most importantly, it maintains the original spirit of Jim Henson's Muppets: that innocent, enthusiastic, joyful feeling of optimism that rides on the back of catchy, silly sings and shines through big, googly eyes. 

In light of the success of this latest installment, may I humbly make a few suggestions on some classics to revisit next?

"Pig and Prejudice", by Jane Austen: A pretty, prideful pig learns humility when she spurns a wealthy but misunderstood frog barrister.  Musical score by Rowlf.

"The Three Muppeteers", by Alexandre Dumas: A frog, a bear and a weirdo are all that stands between a beautiful queen and a royal scandal (regarding pearls and swine, of course!)

"Cyrano de Bear-gerac", by Edmond Rostand: A wanna-be comedian fails miserably at wooing a crowd, so he enlists a "silent" partner to help him bowl them over!  Unfortunately, the crowd falls for the weirdo instead, and the two struggle to make amends.

"Huckleberry Frog", by Mark Twain: A forward-thinking frog and his buddy, Bear Jim, a former slave, enjoy adventures on the Big River.

"The Hunchbear of Notre Dame", by Victor Hugo: A lonely bear, isolated by his duties as the dinner bell ringer on a dude ranch, learns that it's not hard to make friends if you start acting like one!

"Janice in Wonderland", by Lewis Carroll: An already spaced-out blond maiden enters a dreamlike world where nothing is as it seems...and then writes a hit album.

"Gonzo with the Wind", by Margaret Miller: A strong-willed weirdo learns how to rebuild after everything he's ever known is destroyed in a battle over cotton vs. polyester leisure suits.

"Frogenstein", by Mary Shelley: A mad scientist and his companion, who only communicates with squeaks, resurrect the lifeless body of a biology lab frog...with disastrous results!

"The Mark of Rizzo", by Johnston MaCulley: A wealthy, benevolent, land-owning rat, disturbed by the government's treatment of his people, dons a mask and cape and brings evildoers to justice...in style!

"20,000 Frogs Under the Sea", by Jules Verne:  A team of brave, felt-faced adventurers face ocean-dwelling dangers and make exciting discoveries.

"The Taming of the Sow", by William Shakespeare: A beautiful but quarrelsome pig finally meets her match through deception and a battle of wits.

(I, of course, would happily make myself available as a literary consultant for Disney.) 

Eye of the Beholder

Last week, Ross and I spent a day in Washington, D.C. I had been there four times previously, but never as a sightseer.  Once, I went for a debate tournament and ended up in the hospital with a severe allergic reaction (thanks, dude at Ben & Jerry's who didn't clean the scoop between uses).  Another time, I went as the wardrobe mistress for Songs for a New World, which Clarion University had the honor of performing at the Kennedy Center.  Another time, my sister and I joined the March for Life, held in a particuarly bitter January (we did end up with our pictures in a news article).  And once, I was just passing through, catchinhg a connecting flight back to Pittsburgh.  I got to fly over the Potomac at sunset.  It was beautiful.

But this time, Ross and I were the touristy sort.  I shamelessly flashed my camera everywhere, including places it was prohibited (I got three clean shots before being shut down but the polite but stern security guard).  I was surprised, though, at how many of the Smithsonian Institute Museums actually DO allow photography.  It was a sightseer's dream come true.

There was a particularly cool exhibit about the government's influence on America's eating habits, including rationing and government-sponsored food campaigns.  One was about eating more carp.  It was awesome.  I also noticed no apologies issued for America's over-consumption of simple carbohydrates, but then, you can't have it all.  To my delight, there was a small patch, much like a Boy or Girl Scout badge, that advertized "Heinz's Ketchup".  How charming!  Representin' the Steel City, baby!

In addition, Ross and I meandered over to the public archives to do a little digging about our respective family histories.  I've always been  fascinated about my unusual maiden name, and why it was so hard to trace my lineage back to my family's native Belgium.  Well, I found out why when I saw a copy of my great-grand-uncle's marriage certificate.  Louise Paulette married a Geroges Henri TILLIETTE on June 8, 1890.  The spelling of my family's name had, in fact, been changed when they came to America!  I was enraptured!  Finally, I might be able to trace my history further back than Ellis Island records indicate!  Still, there are some "holes" in my history that are proving more difficult than delightful.  For example, there's no record of Georges Henri actually coming to America, nor his brother Joseph, who was my great-grandfather.  In addition, there were three seperate women named Pauline in the family tree, making things even more twisted.  I learned more about both my grandfathers' service records, and that there is no birth record of my mother, my aunt, or myself.  Still, those records are being updated all the time, and since there aren't a lot of people searching for Thielets and Kuskils, I don't imagine they're being worked on too hastily.

We ate a quick but delicious lunch at Taqeria Nacional, a tiny Mexican joint wedged behind and incredibly classy seafood house.  We joyfully clutched our greasy bag of delicious tacos and our bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola and squeezed past the huge sea of "regulars" - almost all middle-class power-suited whites - and sat down against the building across the street.  With Ross's huge backpack and our scrubby jeans, people must have thought we were homeless.  I didn't care.  My fish taco was awesome. 

As fun as everything was, the best part, for me, came when we stopped at a Sheetz in Maryland.  There was a trio of noisy pre-teen girls jabbering about a boy or something, in front of us as we waited for my sandwich (turkey on wheat with veggies, no dressing) and Ross's smoothie (epic strawberry banana masterpiece).  The employee called out Ross's drink, and the littlest girl looked towards us, saying, "Is this yours?" Immediately, we had all their attention.  "Are you really in the army?" one girl asked, indicating Ross's shirt.  "No," I apologized, feeling his muscles. "But he looks like he could be, doesn't he?" "Are you boyfriend-girlfriend?" the other girl asked.  "We're married," Ross replied, showing them his wedding ring.  "We're from Pittsburgh," I offered.  "Oooh, I bet you're Steelers fans!  I'm sorry about that last game, but you guys have the whole season to make it up!"  I laughed.  Were these the girls who had irritated me only minutes before because they were being too noisy?  How unfair of me.  The ringleader of the group turned to me. "You're really pretty!" she said.  I melted.  Me?  Pretty?  A few moments before, in the car, I had been mercilessly picking at a pimple on my chin, complaining to Ross that I still had to lose the few pounds I had put on during my pregnancy.  I was in a shapeless black dress and dumpy sweater.  But this little girl thought I was pretty?

"Thank you, sweetie," I said humbly.  Ross came back from paying for our food, and the girls beamed.  "I wish you a happy marriage!" one said.

"God bless you girls," I said, silently thanking the Lord that he had arranged for that chance meeting.

"God bless you, too!" they replied proudly.