Also: for the record? I think hoarders are terrifying. I think I fear them more than cockroaches, clowns and Pillsbury dough cans.

So, we’re packing and moving. And we have this big bag of change living with us. We’ve had this big bag of change since we lived in San Francisco, if I remember correctly. And every day for about 7 years, we’ve tossed our extra change into this bag. Never much at one time, a dime, a nickel, a few quarters. But it kept adding up and adding up and we kept ignoring it. One night, before we had kids, we sat down, opened a bottle of wine and wrapped some of it up. We wrapped 360 bucks back then. Instead of cashing it in, we just put it back in the bag. We’ve added more since then.

This bag of change has some loose change, some wrapped change and some half-wrapped change because we discovered one day that Emory was stealing from our bag of change to fill his piggybank. SMART KID!

But we still have a lot of change.

My parents came up last Sunday so Toby and I could have dinner and celebrate my 38th birthday. As they were leaving, I pushed the giant bag of change onto them. I’m not sure why, really. Because it weighs about 60 pounds. (It weighs 45 pounds. My father weighed it!) But my father slung that bag over his shoulder and walked out of our apartment with the big bag of change.

He called yesterday to let me know what he’s discovered thus far. In loose quarters we have $208.00 dollars. Add that to the wrapped change, and we’re over $500.00 bucks. That amount doesn’t include all the dimes, nickels, or pennies.

At the end of the day, we should have about $700.00 worth of change.

Now, a smart person would use that to cover the move. But I’m not a smart person. I’m a person who looks at that 700 bucks and thinks, FREE MONEY! I suggested we either go out and get a really nice meal OR take it to Atlantic City and put the whole lot of it down on one a hand of blackjack. I also suggested we buy a flat screen TV for our new bedroom.

What frivolous thing might you do with 700.00 extra dollars?

And don’t bore me with things like, PAY OFF MY BILLS! or DONATE IT TO CHARITY!

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I love that my kids like animals so much and got used to them from day one. Just yesterday Em asked if we could get 97 more cats, making it an even 100. But I kind of want to keep my husband, so… after much thought I had to tell him no.

Elliot is 11 months old! Hard to believe. He took his first steps a couple of weeks ago, but much prefers to crawl and/or do this strange knee walk I’m trying to get decent video of. I can’t say I have ever seen a baby do this knee walk before. More to come!

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“So sad for JoePa. There aren’t many like him – inside or outside of football. I blame the vultures as much as the cancer.”

I hope he died peacefully. I hope he knows he is still admired and adored by many.

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Currently, I run four times a week, with long runs on Saturdays. I am training for two half marathons next year. I’m following a novice runner’s schedule. Basically, a variation/combination of this one and this one. It’s a little tricky for me since I’m a full-time mother. Em goes to school, but Elliot is with me every day, all day. So I run at night after Toby gets home from work. And holy crap! It’s been tough!

Y’all. It’s cold out there. And at night it’s even colder. Part of my running route is alongside the East River and sometimes the wind rips at you like a million tiny daggers, like Manhattan is purposefully slapping my face for residing in Brooklyn. Yes, I could change the route, but that would make sense. Plus, have you seen the view from Kent Avenue? It’s awesome! I’m not going to change my route. If I change my route, I wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask myself, “Why are you doing this? You’re just stupid.”

Here’s the deal: I believe to be a decent long distance runner one has to be a lot crazy and a little stupid. People say it’s about endurance, but I think stupidity has a lot to do with it. Why else would you plan on running during a snowstorm? (I’ve got an 7 miler tomorrow during a snowstorm.) Why else would a person come up with something like this to make sure you don’t miss one single mile? Why else would you dress like this? Because you’re a runner and you’re stupid.

Take Stuart Calderwood, for example. As of today, he’s been running every day for 25 years. If he’s not a lot crazy and a little stupid, I don’t know who is. Every day for 25 years. That’s insane!

I kid. A little bit.

In all seriousness, when asked why I run, the answer is simple: I run to beat me out of me. Running is my antidepressant. It has been for years. I outrun my demons. I let thoughts come and go freely. I don’t judge any of them. I don’t hold onto any of them. I don’t let them go too quickly if they’re troubling. It’s my therapy. And it works every time.

I love running.

So! Rain or shine, hot or cold, snow or ice, I make sure to embrace my inner crazy and make her go for a run. And while I’m a little less crazy with every run I complete, there seems to be enough of it to fuel the next one. And I’m totally OK with that.

Or maybe I’m just stupid.

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“It’s at 13, Michele.”

“Thirteen?!” I asked, shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

Earlier that day, I’d been to the ear doctor. I don’t like visiting the ear doctor. It’s the only medical professional who consistently gives me bad news. My ears have been a problem since I was a baby.

We went over my history. I have a long one. We did the usual song and dance. I tell him what I’ve had done. He looks into my ears and comments about how damaged they are. There was so much wax in the left ear, he couldn’t even see my eardrum. So he suggested he clean it out with water. I said NO WAY. He tried to suction it out. That didn’t work. That made my ear feel funny, which he took to mean that the previous operation had worked and the hole had indeed sealed shut. He convinced me to clean it out with warm water.

I haven’t ever willingly let water into either one of my ears. Ever. Every time I’ve accidentally gotten water into one of my ears, I’ve ended up in pain and with bloody pus coming out of the sides of my head. So, no. No water. But I let him. And it felt AWESOME, like being touched for the first time after spending decades on a deserted island talking to nothing but a soccer ball.

After he cleaned out the left side of my head, I went in and failed my hearing test. I’m used to that. But this time I failed terribly so.

“You need a hearing aid.” He told me. “Soon.”

“Really?” I wasn’t convinced.

“Yes. It’s time.”

I’ve been saying no to hearing aids for over a decade.

Here’s the thing about hearing loss: it happens over time. You adjust. You read lips. You turn the TV up so loud your neighbors bang on shared walls. It’s a slow deterioration. You adjust so well, you don’t know how bad it really is. I know I am hard of hearing, but I can hear, even if it’s just a little bit. It’s easy to pretend it’s not that bad.

But now I know how bad it is. I’m terribly hard of hearing. And all it took was a piece of rolling paper to make me realize just how much so.

Let me explain.

After we went over my test results, he suggested a temporary fix for the right ear, the one still with the hole. There’s a technique they use for people who have accidents where their eardrum is suddenly punctured, they go from hearing to not hearing in an instant. Their hearing is still there, and will return once the eardrum heals, but they need a temporary fix, basically a band-aid. (Whereas the hole in my eardrum won’t heal because it’s surrounded by scar tissue.)

“I’m going to put a tiny piece of cigarette paper over the hole.”

“Like, actual rolling paper?”

“Yes.”

Some might find this odd, raise an eyebrow or two. But I’ve been hearing about strange aural procedures all my life. This? This was just another possible cockamamy procedure in the long list of procedures. The difference this time was there was no general anesthesia involved, it only took a few minutes, and it couldn’t cause any more hearing loss. So what if it’s temporary and the moment the paper slips away from the hole, I would lose any hearing I’d gained? Why not hear for a few weeks or months?

Now, this next part is crazy still to me. But I could hear! INSTANTLY. I mean I could actually hear! Like a normal person! I could hear the fan above my head, the hum of medical equipment. I could hear his staff breathing. I could hear the traffic outside. I think I even heard outer space, which is weird since I don’t think sound travels in outer space. But it did for me!

HI SATURN!

What’s more? I was totally and completely freaked out.

I am not sure when I stopped being able to hear like a normal person. Maybe I never could? But, this little piece of cigarette paper put my hearing loss into great perspective. For the first time ever, I realized just how much I couldn’t hear. And if this is what it was like to feel normal, I am very hard of hearing.

Once I hit the Midtown street, I became even more freaked out. I had NO IDEA how loud New York City was! My thought: Why aren’t even more New Yorkers going crazy from this?

I called my mom. “I finally understand cats!”

“You’ll get used to it.” She reassured me.

Thirteen, y’all. Which is, incidentally, my favorite number. The TV volume was at thirteen.

Normally it’s at 25.

Thirteen.

I stood at the kitchen sink, my back to the TV. House Hunters International was on.

“I can hear what they’re saying. The TV is on 13 and I can hear them.” I began repeating what I was hearing to Toby Joe. “I can hear them! And I’m not looking at them! You have no idea how insane this is.”

“How do you normally hear people?” He asked.

“I usually hear a bit and fill in the blanks, like a puzzle. And I do a lot of guessing.”

“My god.” He whispered. “You must be exhausted at the end the day.”

I’ve since lost that temporary hearing boost. And it was great while it lasted. I could hear things I never knew were there. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wept that night.

(Man! I’m wordy! If you’re still reading this: I’m sorry!)

Anyway, I’m finally getting a hearing aid. After thoroughly making fun of the Widex naming convention, I chose the Widex Clear Passion. I am only getting one, because I’m not ready to give up on my right ear. Knowing all it takes is one tiny piece of rolling paper to fix the hearing in my right ear, means there is still hope.

And, yeah. I do hope I’m less exhausted, not that I was aware of how much work I’ve been putting into just getting by. But I reckon I might be able to put that brain power toward more important things—like talking to Saturn.

And I hope I’m able to hear better, and that I don’t totally freak out and dart into oncoming traffic. Because, I learned something recently: THIS CITY IS LOUD!

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• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

Favorite Moment In Time

I taped it. Only I didn’t know it would become a favorite moment. It was taken at 5 AM on February 21st, 2011. Toby and I were waiting for a car service that would take us to the hospital in order to welcome Elliot into the world. He was already two weeks late. I’d been having contractions all night long. We were about to meet our second son! Everything was perfectly still and eerily quiet. I felt at peace. So I shot a few seconds of what that morning looked like.

I could have stood in that moment for a while.

Anyway, here’s that video:

Favorite Recipe

Galette dough. I chose this because of how versatile it is and how often we use it at our house. It works with both sweet and savory. We’ve filled it with apples, pears, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, sweet cheese (like a danish), ricotta and broccoli, veggie meat with onions—just to name a few. It’s amazing. And it lasts for two days in the fridge. The recipe listed below makes five, decent-sized galettes, so feed your family or yourself for days.

Here’s the recipe:

• 10.5 ounces all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/5 ounce of sugar
• 8 ounces unsalted butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 ounce water

Prepare using flaky dough mixing method.

What does that mean? Well, sift all your dry ingredients together. Cut cold butter into small cubes. Rub the butter into your dry ingredients. Keep it visible! You want to see chunks of butter. That’s what makes it so damn flakey. Add eggs and water, mix it up. The dough should look messy. Form it into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for several hours or overnight.

When ready, cut up into 4 ounce pieces. Roll each one out. It can and should look rustic, so don’t bother forming a perfect circle. Add your filling, fold the sides up over the filling leaving an opening. Coat the top with a layer of milk. I use a pastry brush, but you can use whatever you want, even your fingers. Finished piece will look something like this:

Favorite Post:

Probably this one. I had been writing that in my head for months. And I was quite pleased with myself for actually taking “pen” to “paper” finally. :]

A Few Of My Favorite Tweets (in random order):

Favorite Tweeter:

Discount Dracula. She makes me laugh almost daily.

Most Played Band:

Okkervil River. I have worn this band out. They are often my running partner. (Along with Marc Maron and his WTFPod.)

Favorite Movie

I don’t get to see many movies anymore, and this year was no different since we had a newborn around. But I did see a few! My favorite was probably Melancholia. I don’t know. It was just so damn haunting! Not a film I’ll shake anytime soon.

Favorite Photo:

Favorite Accomplishment:

Dudes, I had a baby AND I graduated from pastry school. And if you missed my final cake, come check it out. I was pretty proud of that, too.

2011 has been a pretty kick ass year. If 2012 is even half as awesome, I’ll be happy.

Much love to you all! Happy New Year!

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What can I say? I was bummed.

So I tweeted about it and a bunch of people wrote back with suggestions, including my brother, who always cheers me up. (Thanks, Ryan!) So I signed up for the DC Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon on March 17th, which is the same weekend I had put aside for the NYC Half. Ryan is going to do the full marathon. We’ll have a great time. And I love DC.

Anyway, sorry I haven’t written much lately! The holiday season hit us hard this year and I was scrambling to fulfill a bunch of lollipop orders. This is my biggest season for lollipop sales.

I will write more in the upcoming year. I have goals: to run a half marathon and write more. Also: BAKING. But that’s a given.

Lastly, and more importantly: Happy New Year, my friends!

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Need a last minute stocking stuffer? Maybe Santa is gluten-free and needs something other than cookies? I’m offering 5 lollipops (of my choosing*) for 5 bucks. Enter coupon code “HOHOHO” to receive the discount. Stop by, dudes. Offer ends Tuesday at noon.

* You’ll definitely get one or more of the following: Double Dog Dare, Sweet Tea and/or Rise and Shine.

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OK. So, there are a few things that are kind of funny about this. I will start by saying, I’m grateful. Of course I’m grateful. Who wouldn’t be grateful for any sort of recognition, big or small? But! (And, yes, there is a but!) I barely wrote this year.

I have been blogging for 11 years. Eleven. That’s a long, long time. And I’ll be super honest with you, there were times over those 11 years where I became disgruntled about the whole blog ranking, award thing. To be frank: I worked my ass off on this blog in the past. I typed and typed and typed. To quote one of my favorite emo bands: “I typed for miles”. I put my heart into every post during some of those years. I wrote almost every day. I spilled my guts out about postpartum depression, Emory’s birth (which didn’t go too well!) and my miscarriage. Many suggest that if you write decent content, you’ll get noticed. I decided I must not be writing decent content. And then something kind of broke inside of me, unrelated to blogging entirely. I became sort of withdrawn online. (Hello, infertility!)

Now here is where I’m going to sound like an arrogant asshole AND an ungrateful bitch. Year after year I worked my ass off blogging and then some blogger award list would come out and no one ever paid me any mind. Not even a “Yeah! We see you, but no thanks. Others are better.” And I’d ask Toby, “Why doesn’t anyone notice at all?” And usually he’d reply with something about “playing the game”, which is how this post was born. And then I’d get really mad at myself for caring even slightly, because I’d like to think I’m above all that (even when I’m not).

Listen, I am seriously grateful. And it has me feeling a little rejuvenated to write. But, dude.

Why now? Why this year, a year I barely wrote at all? A year I have told Toby, on several occasions, pretty much every time we get a receipt from our hosting company, “Let’s pull this car over once and for all and get out.” Two things stop me every time: the archives that I never, ever want to lose. Backing everything up takes time. And we don’t have much in the way of time these days. The second thing (and the most important) are you people, the regulars who continue to visit, comment and email me.

SO! Thank you, Babble, for noticing me. There are probably other mom bloggers out there who worked much, much harder this year than I have, and I’d like to give those moms a nod and a noogie. And if you’re one of those people and you’re reading this now, send me a link to your site, because I want to read what you have to say. Lastly, as a blogger (hell, as a human being) I know how it feels when these type of lists come out. Believe me! I know. But keep writing, people. Don’t give up. Because who knows, after 11 (or never) years, someone may finally throw you a bone. And if they don’t? You’re still a bad ass motherf*cker.

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As of yesterday, I’d gotten all but one: the skateboard. You see, I’d been putting off the skateboard because of where I’d have to go to get the skateboard. Normally, I’d have just gone, thought nothing of it. But I’ve been going through something lately that has me acting strangely.

I wouldn’t call it a midlife crisis; I’m not thinking of joining a roller derby team. It’s that I’m aging faster these days, faster than I’ve ever aged before. I have a lot more wrinkles, wrinkles that weren’t there last year. I’m noticing grey hair, new aches and pains, my inability to do things I used to do. It’s becoming a minor obsession of mine, actually. I always have something to obsess over. Whether it be infertility, weight, pregnancy, or running, I have something. And, if all goes well and nothing truly tragic happens (please god, no) 2012 is going to be The Year Of Obsessing Over My Age.

I worry about everything now, from wrinkles to hair loss, from aches and pains to tumors and cancer. I was never a hypochondriac before. I never worried about my health even when I probably should have worried about my health. Now, suddenly, everything is bothering me. The fact that I used to smoke? Yeah, I’m dying. And that weird skin thing? That could be some “bad” cancer. Is this what it’s like getting older? Hypochondria, nasal strips and tiger balm?

Maybe this is due to my having two kids and being responsible for the both of them. And buying the 4-year-old a skateboard yesterday sure as shit ain’t helping. What if he gets hurt? He will get hurt! Of course he’ll get hurt! He’s an active little boy! They’ll both get hurt. They may even break a couple of bones. OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT DARK SPOT ON MY NECK?

Anyway, my new obsession with aging is manifesting itself in strange ways. At first I was becoming a little too concerned about fitting in—or not fitting in. I realized this only recently while at my externship. Most of my coworkers were right around 24-years-old. I’m not 24 anymore. I don’t want to be 24 ever again. I hadn’t even really thought about 24-year-old me until I started hanging out with 24-year-olds. And I think I needed that, to go back in time. In truth: at age 24, I sure as shit didn’t believe I was a kid. But I was. I know that now. Had you told me that then, I’d have wanted to punch you in the throat and then I’d have fallen from my barstool.

I was a kid. And I have no desire to be a kid again. But I enjoyed talking to my coworkers, and since I’m still not totally over-the-hill, I went back and forth between “friend” and “mother”. It’s not that I acted like their mother, at least I hope not. It’s that I started to think of my coworkers as my future sons. They became my educators, in a sense, glimpses into my future. What might my sons be doing one day? How hungover will they be on a Saturday morning at work? Will they still be drunk? Will one of them jump the turnstile in the subway and get arrested? Will they be doing drugs named “Molly”?

(I had a first skateboard once. My mom took me to get it when I was 13-years-old. I was just getting started, dipping my feet into my teenage years. There wasn’t a tomorrow. There definitely wasn’t any grey hair.)

Lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself of how cool I used to be, which is dorky on so many levels, I can’t even begin to describe them all. I might as well be the kid hanging from the tree by her underpants. Or the shitfaced aunt at a wedding who does the Electric Slide better than ALL the bridesmaids put together.

(This weekend, while at an event, a couple told me about a party they catered and how the people were trying to act like they were 24 again. But they weren’t 24! They were old! Like, 40!)

Perhaps it’s that I don’t want to let go of 24-year-old me. And there’s a part of me that wants people to know who I used to be and how cool I was, (or thought i was). I used to be able to drink all night, show up for work the next day without totally and completely wanting to kill myself because even that would be better than an adult hangover. And while I never did any drugs named “Molly”, I think made out with one under a table at Galapagos (before it moved to Dumbo).

But now? Now hangovers last two days. So I can’t do much in the way of drinking. And if I’m up past 10 PM, I get twitchy. I have wrinkles and grey hair. I’m getting older. That is a fact. And no one cares if I think I was once cool. None of that matters anymore.

So I strapped the baby to my chest and walked into our local skate shop to buy a board for my 4-year-old. The guy behind the counter could not have been any nicer. He helped me decide what to get and helped me pick out a helmet. And just as I was finishing up he said, “The first board is a big deal. You’re doing a really cool thing. My mom just sent me a picture of me on my first board. I was six. Make sure you take a picture of your kid on this board.”

What’s wrong with getting older anyway?

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These are my boys:

Here’s another one:

Rest assured, Murray still gets to chase Em around as well. No one here will ever forget about Murray even if Murray wants us to forget about Murray. He’s a VERY popular kitty cat these days.

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• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 132) A Video.
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 129) Murray Scares Emory. A Video.
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 128) A New Diet.
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• Wanna See My Kid Eat Dirt?

He’s now 9 months old! Why does time fly so fast after you have kids? SLOW DOWN, LIFE.

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But it’s also been a buttload of work! I work every weekend all day long. (Thanks to Toby Joe for being full-time dad.) I’ve also been working every Tuesday. My mother drives up from South Jersey every Monday, spends the night surrounded by stuffed animals, Thomas trains and found objects, watches the kids all day Tuesday and then drives back home that night. Yes, this is insane. And I can’t thank her enough. I couldn’t have done it without Toby and my mom.

Anyway, this is my last week at Mast Brothers. I’m done next Tuesday. And I’m going to miss these guys. They’ve made me cry several times from laughing so hard. And the weekend crew tells the most insane stories. I guess you could say I live vicariously through them. And I tell them that. Every Saturday and Sunday morning I get the lowdown on what took place the night before. Sometimes they come in hungover, sometimes still a little drunk. They remind me of 26-year-old me who had just moved to New York and had the energy to do all of that and then some. Their stories have me reminiscing about my own life. And last week it occurred to me: I’m pretty happy at age 37. I want to hear all about their lives, even bake them hangover biscuits, but I don’t wish to return to those days. I’m pretty OK with being done with all that—laughing along or just listening.

Anyway, it’s a bittersweet farewell, you see, because I’m finally going to have my weekends back. I haven’t really had my weekends (this goes for Toby too) since starting pastry school back in July of 2010. I’m not sure what people do on the weekends anymore. Spend time with their family? Go shopping? Sit around in their Saturday pants? Watch football? Blog?

YES! I will blog more. And make lollipops. And I will try and figure out what I’m going to do with my culinary degree.

P.S. I guess it’s a good thing I have a new alma mater since Penn State is going down the shitter. :[

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“Yeah. So?” I scoffed.

Back then, he was just a customer. I didn’t give a shit about football. The only reason I knew who he was at all was because of hundreds of cardboard JoePas I’d seen in windows all over Penn State. I didn’t care about football at all. I only wanted Penn State to win because of the tips. Sad, drunk fans left terrible tips.

Joe was just another customer.

The Penn State Thing.

When it happened, when everything unfolded, my emotions were all over the place. At first I was in shock. Then that wore off and I became obsessed. I read everything. I dug up Sports Illustrated articles from 1998 looking for hints, something. I read it all. And I tried to write about it. The more I read the more I wanted to write about it. But I bit my tongue. There would have been some pretty intense posts had I let myself write about it last week. First of all, I would have stated that I don’t agree with the firing of Joe Paterno. And I would have backed up why and that would have started a few fights. But I knew it was too soon. I knew that I would have written something I would have regretted. My emotions were raw footage; I needed an editor first.

Things have settled down a bit since then.

But not before I canceled everything.

I was supposed to meet up with a friend and her new baby. I canceled. I was supposed to meet a few moms at the playground. Canceled that too. I was supposed to go out for drinks. Canceled. I even canceled a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t want to do anything. I couldn’t muster up the energy. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wasn’t going to be very good company. So, I quit. Everything.

Last Thursday night, as I combed through even more articles and (stupidly) through comments sections, something finally occurred to me: I am depressed.

I don’t live with depression. I have written that before. I go through ups and downs like most people. My downs are manageable, and they don’t come out of nowhere; there is almost always a catalyst. My miscarriage was a catalyst. Our move to San Francisco, another. My infertility, yet another massive catalyst.

So last Thursday when I realized I was experiencing depression, I knew right away the catalyst was The Penn State Thing. But I couldn’t figure out why it was hitting me so very hard.

A Bit Of History

I moved to State College from Raleigh, North Carolina when I was 15-years-old. I didn’t want to move even though we’d been moving my whole life. I can safely say now that I was headed down a very wrong path in Raleigh, but I didn’t want to leave. I considered State College boring, lame, pathetic, loser-ish—all normal angsty teenage things. No one worth a damn could possibly live in a town called State College. And who names a town STATE COLLEGE? What a stupid name for a place to say you’re from.

I met a boy. A boy who broke the shit out of my heart. REM helped me get over that.

I got a job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I got fired a month later.

I made some friends. We’d drive to the Altoona Salvation Army, load up on Taco Bell and cheap cardigans. Nirvana’s Bleach was our soundtrack.

I got a job at The Diner where I would continute to work for 8 years.

I graduated from high school, something I probably wouldn’t have done had we stayed in Raleigh. Moving to State College saved my ass in so many ways. Who knows what would have happened to me had we stayed in Raleigh. I’ll leave it at that.

I was accepted into Penn State. I declared Philosophy as my major. (Ha!)

I got a second job at The Nittany Lion Inn. Eventually I got promoted and started working more important, smaller gatherings for high-ranking Penn State officials. (Incidentally, I waited on a few of the men involved in last week’s scandal.)

I declared Graphic Design as my major.

I made a lot of friends. Friends I still call friends.

I could sit here and recall every last memory, they are endless, but that’s like telling people about a dream. Boring. And I’m probably no different from anyone else when it comes to memories. But the backdrop for my memories are very much intertwined with the fact that they took place in State College. And at some point during my twenties, after graduating from Penn State, discovering (and loving) college football, and getting a “real” job, I realized something: State College is where I am from.

State College, y’all. What a dumb name for a town, right? Even the talking heads from last week’s media frenzy said it with confusion—like, who names a town State College?

I don’t know, Talking Head. But that’s where I’m from.

The Scandal and Its Aftermath

News broke. Several boys were sexually abused by a Penn State football coach. This, while not yet proven in a court of law, is likely the case. I’ve read the 23-page indictment. I believe it to be true.

Then more news came out about who may have known what and how they didn’t do enough (or nothing) to stop it. Several people were fired. Others quit. It was a shitstorm, a State College shitstorm. And the media ate it up! When 1,000 Penn State students rioted in downtown State College, the media went crazy for it even though that number represents the smallest sliver of Penn State’s student body. Suddenly every student, past and present, was guilty of some of the most heinous crimes known to man. Online, people began referring to Penn State as “Pedophile University”. People demanded the football team forfeit their upcoming game even though those kids have nothing to do with any of it. People slammed the whole lot of us. All of Penn State was guilty of something. Anything. Whatever. It didn’t matter. Fuck Penn State!

Or so it seemed to this wounded alumnus.

Twitter exploded with finger-pointing. Everyone had something to say about it. Those involved in the scandal were guilty as charged. So much for innocent until proven guilty. Hang the lot of them! For many, Paterno was the worst of all because of his allegiance to kids, because of his otherwise stellar history. He had a lot further distance to fall and a name.

Believe me, I don’t blame anyone for reacting with such intense outrage; Sandusky, and the people who allegedly did nothing to stop him, warrant your anger. I get it. I really do. It’s when you add it all up, and start to see every reaction as one big one, well, that’s when it looks really ugly.

And I couldn’t escape it.

Here’s the deal, State College has been our idealistic little town for a decade and Penn State plays a huge part in that ideal. Toby Joe and I wanted to raise our boys there. I very nearly got a job at Penn State two years ago. If it hadn’t been for the fact I would have to relocate from New York City, it would have been mine. State College has been on our radar for as long as we’ve been together. It has been our town, our little slice of heaven, an ideal. Hell, we’ve even been carrying around our dead cat’s ashes because (and I quote), “State College is his home. That’s where he’d want to finally rest.” (Go ahead! Commence with the eye-rolling!)

Basically, no matter how bad things got elsewhere, we always had State College. We knew we could make it in State College. It was safe. It was home. Even though in the back of our minds we knew we’d probably never return, it was home.

On Tuesday, a friend asked me how I was feeling about the whole scandal, putting aside my emotions regarding the crimes committed and the firing of Joe Paterno (which, I will go on the record with saying, I don’t agree with) I told her it feels like my town was bombed. My idealistic hometown no longer exists. The place I wanted to return to, the place I wanted to move my boys to, is gone. Just like that. Gone. And every time I think to explain my feelings, the thoughts come out sounding laughable, absurdly so. It’s a town, after all. Just a town. Why so dramatic?

I don’t know. But I do know it’s egotistical. This terrible story has nothing to do with me yet I’m making it personal somehow. And perhaps I’m putting State College on a pedestal. But it’s hard not to when it’s home to so many of my best memories. And doesn’t everyone have someplace they fantasize about when times are tough?

State College was my safe-haven even if it wasn’t.

In past last two weeks, I have received five emails from different business located in State College begging me, a prior customer, to come visit. Last night, I got one from my high school letting me know my 20-year reunion is next spring and that I should plan ahead! Because rooms fill up. These emails just made me feel worse. Because I know they are being sent by people who are facing unknown hardships. They are uncertain about their future. And they have their tails between their legs because their hometown was emotionally leveled. A place most people hadn’t even heard of before last week is now known as one of the ugliest, most horribly secretive places in America.

I’m even mourning the businesses of Penn State.

It feels like my town is gone, y’all. And Sandusky had a lot to do with it. But the media frenzy is to blame as well. State College is wounded and it will take years, maybe decades, for it to regain what it’s lost. The town will suffer. The university will take a huge hit. The football team is as good as done… at least for a while.

This is far from over. And my skin is thin right now. And the town I’ve been idealizing all these years, the safe place to raise my boys, it’s not there anymore. And that breaks my heart a little bit. I feel a little empty.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

You know how when you cut yourself, you know immediately whether or not you’re going to need stitches? There’s no question as to whether you can wrap some duct-tape around it and continue working. Well, I knew before that shard finished its slice I was going to need stitches. All the blood was just punctuation.

So Toby took out a baby bib (oh, yes!) and we wrapped it around my bleeding hand using an ACE bandage. (Note to self: buy boo-boo supplies pronto.) I called a car service and headed to the ER.

A visit to one of New York City’s ERs leaves a person with many stories. There are the usual characters: those begging for pain medication while putting on one of the worst performances of their life; those looking for some attention because they don’t get any elsewhere; the crackhead; and the homeless guy pickling himself in years and years worth of booze. You don’t see the people who are actually in need of immediate emergency medical attention because they’re off getting said emergency medical attention. You see the rest of us, myself included, bloodied baby bibs and all.

But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about my stitches.

On Thursday I was picking up Em from school and I ran into a friend. She happens to be awesome and she has a cool job. She does the art direction for the blood and guts in movies. She’s kind of like Dexter but for movies. And, like Dexter, she’s really, really good at what she does.

“What happened to your hand? Pastry knife wound? Making roach wedding cakes?” She asked.

“I cut myself doing the dishes. Nothing cool, unfortunately. Just the boring old dishes.”

“Can I see it?” She asked, possibly looking for inspiration for her next project.

“Sure.” I pulled down the bandage.

“Oh, wow!” She sucked air in through her clenched teeth. For a second I thought I made the blood and guts artist feel squeamish. ”Wow!” She said with amazement. “That looks like work done by a really bad makeup artist! But it’s the real deal. Who sewed you up? Where on earth did you go?”

I laughed. “It was a 10-year-old med student with no sense of humor. Terrible, right? I thought so too. Good thing I’m not a hand model.”

“Good thing it’s not on your face! Although, that have been great for Halloween. It actually looks like you did this for Halloween. It doesn’t look real at all. Terrible work.”

“I know. I was kind of surprised he’d only given me 4 stitches. It seemed to warrant more than that.”

“Definitely.”

Then she went on to say that I needed to go somewhere else, that the scar was going to be awful and that I may even get an infection since pieces of the wound were still open.

So, my wounded warriors. Do you think he did a shoddy job as well? Have you ever had stitches? What are your thoughts on my latest boo-boo?

Taken right after I got the stitches.

Taken today.

Sorry if I’ve officially grossed you out with all my skin issues lately. Happy Halloween!

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I was 30 and living in San Francisco when I first wrote about it. I wrote about the razor rash on my legs. At the time I thought it was from not ever changing my razors due to my neurosis about sharps in landfills. That wasn’t the case.

I moved back East and it persisted, sometimes it got worse, sometimes better. But it never fully went away. I wrote about it again.

I’ve been to at least a dozen doctors over the years. I’ve seen gynecologists, fertility specialists, primary care physicians, allergists, dermatologists, endocrinologists. I even asked a psychologist about it. The best I got was a prescription strength steroidal cream from a dermatologist. That helped, but it still didn’t go away.

Not one doctor had an answer for me. No one even seemed to care. I became more miserable and they wrote my misery off as razor rash or dry skin.

I decided I’d probably live this way forever.

But then last six months things have become much, much worse. The rash and hives have spread. They’ve moved onto my thighs and hips. And have finally reached my stomach and arms. Living a comfortable life was becoming increasingly more difficult. I’d wake up at night with blood on my shins from scratching. In the evening the rash was always worse. The removal of a pair of socks or pants seemed to trigger it. Taking off my bra made my chest itch. I stopped wearing shorts or skirts.

There was no relief. I tried every over-the-counter cream I could find. I gave up soap. I used certain detergents, none at all. I stopped taking hot showers, would go a few days without one. I stopped shaving. Started using natural ingredients only. Nothing got rid of the itch. I began to think maybe I was making it all up, that it was all in my head; maybe this was the first step into complete madness.

Desperate, I asked Twitter for new dermatologist recommendations because the woman I’d been going to for years wasn’t helping. On top of that she has a two-month waiting period. It didn’t even seem as if she listened to me anymore.

Missy came to my rescue. She suggested I see her dermatologist. This doctor had answered a lingering skin question for her. I got an appointment for the following week. This time I’d go in and beg for help. I wouldn’t leave without some sort of answer, even if it was just a plan.

On Monday, a 7-year long question MAY have been answered. After running a test on my back, the dermatologist diagnosed me with Dermatographic Urticaria, or chronic urticaria. She said there’s no way of knowing how or why I developed it. Usually there’s an event that jumpstarts it. A person might be bitten by a lot of mosquitoes all at once, triggering an intense histamine response. That response is remembered and the body begins creating its own hives. It could have started from stress. No one knows.

Here’s the bitch: the more I scratch, the more my body releases histamine creating a terrible cycle. The more hives, the more scratching; the more histamine, the more itching. Repeat until I’m covered in hives.

There are some days I look like a leper.

She prescribed me a super strong allergy medication, which will turn me into a zombie. I have two kids. One is a baby. Turning into a zombie, unable to stay awake, is not an option for me.

When I got home that evening, I had the biggest outbreak I’ve had in a while. I scratched myself raw. My mother was visiting and asked me to stop and I couldn’t. We covered my legs in ice and I took a Benadryl. It helped. About 30 minutes after the itching stopped, I had a piece of dark chocolate. My legs broke out immediately. I took a picture.

That’s when I realized that I’d had chocolate right before the initial outbreak. Could this be a food thing too? And, if so, could I find a cure without using medication?

So I researched. I discovered there’s low histamine diet where one avoids foods containing high amounts of histamine. You can’t avoid the chemical entirely, but avoiding foods containing higher amounts can help. Here’s the list.

The surprising thing is, several of the items on that list have given me allergic reactions in the past—more common allergic reactions. (At age 26 I went into anaphylactic shock after eating shitty shellfish. I have had an epi pen ever since.) Cinnamon is on that list, as is red wine, cheese, chocolate and bleached flours. Most processed foods trigger high histamine responses. And preservatives are the devil. All of those items, except for cheese, have given me problems in the past. (During my allergy screening, cinnamon and lobster were my two highest offenders.) What’s more fascinating to me is that the longer shellfish and seafood has been sitting around, the worse the histamine response. This explains why fresh seafood and shellfish doesn’t give me any problems. Weird, right?

I am entering day three of this diet and my itch is gone. I have no new bumps (the old ones are still healing) and there haven’t been any hives at all. Not one.

So, I’m going to follow this diet for at least a month to see if it does indeed help. I need to go for at least that long to make sure this isn’t still a hormonal issue, which is what I thought was the case in the past. One thing is for sure, this has gotten much worse the older I get and seems to progress with every pregnancy.

This diet hasn’t been easy! I don’t eat red meat and I enjoy seafood a great deal. So the list of what I can eat has become really, really small. Even soy products are a no-no for now. And I eat a great deal of soy. And giving up chocolate might be impossible, but at least I can cut back on everything and sneak some treats in from time to time. That is, if this works. If not, I’m back to square one.

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I mean, look at his face. Terror. Pure terror.

When he saw the picture, he said, “What’s wrong with me?”

Kid, you’re terrified. Here’s a closeup.

Terror. Yet, I still manage to laugh when I see it. (Then I immediately want to give him a hug and tell him it’s gonna be OK and then probably laugh again because, dude, look at that face! So the bigger question might be, what’s wrong with me?)

Anyway, he skipped Space Mountain, of course. But I didn’t! That’s me in the front wearing my nephew’s mask.

Underneath it, I’m screaming too.

Speaking of hilarious faces of terror, Check this out. It’s hysterical. Be sure to click the “Play button” at the top. It’s probably the best thing I’ve seen online in ages.

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We need to remedy this. I think a professional portrait might be in order.

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I’m trying to cram a whole lot into 7 minutes, now 6.

You know that question people ask you about which five CDs you’d take with you should you find yourself stuck on some deserted island? My answer always included at least 2 REM CDs.

You know how you have your heart broken in high school or college and you’re not sure you’re going to survive it? REM got me through all of that. (Paired with the Stones, naturally.)

Recently, I asked Toby Joe if there was anyone famous who, when they pass away, their death will hit him kinda hard. My answer was Michael Stipe. I know, I know. He’s not dead. And he might do some solo stuff for us, but REM is done. Done. And I feel a little saddened by this news.

I love REM. I have so many memories wrapped up with REM, so many hours spent listening to them, I couldn’t even begin to put it all into 7 minutes, now 1.

So I won’t.

Anyway, REM’s breakup got me thinking: I can’t think of another great band (of their stature) together for that long, who didn’t lose a band member to drugs, suicide or to some other downfall. That doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist, but I can’t think of one. Can you?

I have to run. I’m late to pick up my kid. I guess it just feels a little lonely knowing it’s over.

Or maybe it’s my youth that’s over.

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When I got this project, I pictured a really simple, white wedding cake. I wanted to try and do something really elegant. I imagined super fine piping, minimalistic but nice. And then I pictured something on it NO ONE would want to see on any wedding cake. Ever. A roach! A roach would be funny on a wedding cake, especially a wedding cake made in NYC where roaches outnumber people by like a billion. That would be funny, right? I mean, who wants a roach on a white wedding cake? Not me!

This image was funny to me. But the roach would have to be as realistic as possible. The cake would have to be well done, too. It would have to look close to perfect, as close to perfect as a pastry student could get. It couldn’t look cartoony or cheap. If any of the things listed above didn’t work out, the cake would suck. I had my work cut out for me.

Given I hadn’t ever worked with gum paste prior this cake, nor had I rolled out fondant before this project, I am pretty damn pleased with it. And it tastes good too! Even the fondant is edible. The roaches are as well. But I won’t eat gum paste. Or roaches.

I don’t know. I kept thinking of the last scene from Secretary. Where Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character (Lee Holloway) is making James Spaders’ (Mr. Grey) bed and it’s a perfectly made bed. And then at the very last moment, she puts a giant bug in between the sheets. I kept thinking of that scene. I don’t know why; maybe I have a tumor. But I love that movie. I love what that bug represents. So, yeah. Bugs, dudes. Bugs.

Anyway… that’s my cake. But for those who don’t like the bug, I took one without it as well.

In about 15 minutes from now, I am heading to Em’s preschool where I will show the kids the bug cake and let them eat the shit out of it. I hope to have pictures of that as well. Getting there will be tricky. I plan to wear the baby and put the cake in the stroller. This is NYC. No one will care.

Hey! I wonder if I’ll see any roaches.

The cake isn’t too weird, right? I bet the kids won’t think so! I mean, have you ever seen Yo Gabba Gabba? Kids don’t find anything weird.

ETA: this is what’s left of the cake after Em’s preschool got a hold of it:

It was awesome. They loved it. I loved watching them eat it.

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The lollipop business is still going strong. A year ago today, I had about five sales. At the time of writing this, I have 932 transactions. Many of those included more than one sale. I owe every last bit of that success to Etsy who featured me last October. Things have been going strong ever since. I am so grateful for their help and everyone who has supported me since then. Thank you!

Speaking of lollipops! I just rolled out my first Halloween lollipop. It’s called Trick Or Treat. It’s apple on the outside (just a hint!) and a candy corn on the inside. It’s quite good! I test everything I make before selling it. I usually make small individual candies first. I often end up with a stash. This stash is already depleted. I was pleasantly surprised by how good it is. So, if you’re a fan of candy corn, this one’s for you!

What else? I graduate this weekend! I can’t believe I’m finally done with pastry school. I started in July of 2010. I have given birth since then, which seems crazy to me. I was adopted by an entirely new class since then, too. It’s been a long time. Anyway, we’ve been working on our final cakes for the past several classes. Think of a wedding cake, but it doesn’t have to be for an actual wedding, if that makes any sense. Basically, we can do whatever we want within the timeframe we’re given. We do need a certain number of gum paste flowers for chef to grade, but they don’t have to be on our actual cake. We have to include some piping, as well as rolled out fondant. Other than that—color, style, concept—it’s up to us. Oh, and we can’t really do anything on our own. It has to be completed during class hours.

Anyway, I’ll have a picture of my cake next week. I will say this much: no one is likely to ever, EVER hire me to make their wedding cake. Also: I might end up friendless. At least that’s what I’m starting to think based on the response I received from my classmates. My “concept” didn’t go over too well with them. They looked at me with disgust in some cases. I got a snarl from one gal. And another said, “You’re not really doing that, are you? Because that’s really gross.”

Here I thought it was a little funny and not all that weird.

Something occurred to me on Sunday night while having dinner with Toby Joe. I’m 37-years-old and and I’m still very much considered “that fucking weird kid”.

“When will that finally change?” I asked him seriously.

“Never, Michele. You’ll die that way.”

“But I don’t, and never have, felt all that weird. I feel I’m very normal, even boringly so.”

“Well, that just means you’re really fucked up.”

So, yeah. My cake might be considered strange to some, which could be interesting since we’re “showing them off” on Sunday night during our graduation party. But I’m doing it anyway. It’s no stranger than fondant, y’all. And besides, I’m used to social anxiety and awkwardness.

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Conversation One

Em: “Nothing is in my pocket.”

Me: “Oh yeah? Do you want something in your pocket?”

Em: “No. Then there won’t be room for Nothing.”

Me: “Oh. Right.”

Em: “But if you hold Nothing in your hand, something will fit in my pocket.”

Conversation Two

Em: “Nothing told me everything last night.”

Conversation Three

Em: “I want Nothing in the bath with me.”

Me: “Really? Won’t that be boring?”

Em: “Nothing is NOT boring.”

Me: “Oh, right. I’ll go get Nothing.”

Conversation Four

Em: “Nothing is keeping me up.”

Me: “Then why are you still awake?”

Em, a little confused: “Because of Nothing! Can you tell him to be quiet?”

Me: “Nothing! Hush!”

But then yesterday Em had to have a little talk with me. I think I was getting too good with Nothing. You see, Nothing tells me stories perched from the palm of my hand. And I always give Em some details and he always loves it. But I guess I’ve been getting too good at talking to Nothing. Because Em listened to me go on and on. When I was finished, Em politely said, “Mama? You do know Nothing isn’t real, right?” Which is a profound statement in that of itself.

But Nothing is very real to me.

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Anyway, enough about how much I love her, her shop!

She makes amazing baby mats. They’re super well-made. They’re stylish beyond words. They’re original. They’re machine washable. I know this because we give Elliot naked time on our mat and Elliot always manages to poop or pee on it at that time. We use it for other things too. I use it at the park, the playground. I use it at the indoor playroom Emory goes to.

So! Do you know anyone who’s knocked up? These make excellent and original gifts and you’re supporting a kick ass woman. She’s seriously one of the best people I have yet to meet. Also: TURTLES! Cutest damn thing ever.

She does custom orders, too. So if you have an idea in mind, maybe your kid loves Yo Gabba Gabba or Goofy? She’ll hook you up.

Go on! Check it out.

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The new fish shack near the water. Haven’t been yet.

Bagelsmith. They stay open ALL THE TIME. Seriously, it could be the end of days and you could buy a a bagel there.

The Future Perfect with a perfectly funny window treatment.

East River State Park. Mandatory evacuation for this area (about four blocks from us) It was basically a ghost town.

Blackbird Parlour. Boarded up but bumping inside.

Oy Vey indeed. (I have no idea what this bar is called or how it’s still open at all to be honest.)

NYC Muffins. Boarded up but ready for business. As you can see, everyone is in a panic.

Teddy’s Bar and Grill. AKA place where scenes from Boardwalk Empire was shot. (Among other shows/movies.)

Oh, and this is my baby. Arrr!

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Quite possibly the best article ever written. (Thanks, scbob for the link.)

In related news: I am SO excited for college football season!

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This isn’t going to be easy because I have pretty serious addiction to milk-based bubble tea. Plus, I’m finding out that pretty much everything is made with some type of animal product. Take wine, for example. Most wine isn’t vegan and a lot of it isn’t even vegetarian. Everything is made with animal, even water.

Ok, not water. Although, I bet we’re drinking a fair share of little, microscopic creatures with every gulp. But they aren’t fuzzy and cute so who gives a shit, right?

So, yeah. Vegan. I’m going to try. Just for a month. Maybe. I hope.

Are you vegan? Were you vegan? Do you have any sites you’ve used? Books to suggest? I’m all ears! Learn me something, Internet. Or just call me stupid. I can handle that too.

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There was the naked couple who ran through the first snowfall of 2009. They moved out two weeks after we moved in and I still kind of miss them.

There was this:

There’s the girl who has so much sex and with several different guys, we have often wondered if she’s a professional. There’s the family of five, the lawyer, the guy without an air-conditioner who leaves his door wide open at night. He has a massive back porch, perched on the roof of four-story walkup, but never uses it. I covet his porch. But I bet he covets my central air.

There’s the gay couple, the couple who fosters dogs, the NYU student with the pet rabbit. There’s the little hispanic girl who rides her tricycle in the afternoon, the one my son loves to watch from our bedroom window.

There’s the polish couple who smoke together in the kitchen, then disappear for weeks on end. There’s the old Brooklyn lady who hangs out her window on hot days wearing a muumu. She watches people who are unaware, as we watch her.

There’s the doctor with the Flickr doormat, the couple next door to him who has a fat cat. They all share a backyard. Sometimes they combine parties. The yard is often illuminated with white lights.

There’s the guy on the third floor above them who BBQs on his fire escape almost every night and during every season. He sips Coke, hangs out his window and flips different cuts of meat.

I love these people. I love watching them come and go and work and play. I love their pets, their kids, their oddities. It’s the living equivalent to a blog—I feel like I know them, they haven’t the slightest clue as to who I am or that I’m even out here at all.

But there is one person within this view I cherish more than everyone else. She brings me the most comfort. And I want to explain why, put it in writing, I don’t want to forget her.

For the first several weeks of Elliot’s life I slept on the sofa. I wanted Toby Joe to get as much sleep as possible since he had to return to work right away. Elliot has always been a pretty good sleeper, but he does get up at night to eat. One of the feedings that remains relatively constant, and has since the day he was born, is the 4:30 AM feeding.

In the beginning, I had a case of the baby blues. And while they weren’t nearly as bad as what I experienced with Em, they were there. And that 4:30 AM hour was a particularly lonely one. It was February. The sun wouldn’t be up for hours, and I was alone with a baby who didn’t yet know I exist. The apartment was dead quiet, even the cats were in other rooms snoozing alongside other warm bodies. So I would nurse Elliot and look out over our view in search of some life, something, anything. There was a streetlight on Bedford Avenue, the occasional taxi cab, a hall light or two gleaming up through a domed skylight, otherwise, everything was dark.

This city really does sleep, contrary to what they say.

I would lie awake, staring outside, watching and waiting. And all my little TV screens, all my friends were sound asleep. All but one.

She wakes up every morning at 4:30 AM. I haven’t any idea what she does for a living and I can’t really see her. I can’t really make out her features, or how old she is. I know it’s a woman and I know she wakes up every weekday morning at 4:30 AM to go somewhere. I know it takes her a long time to get ready.

Besides work, she doesn’t get out much. She’s often home on Friday and Saturday nights all by herself. Her TV flickers and glows in the evening and usually goes dark around 11 PM. Sometimes she falls asleep with it on and it remains on all night. I guess her TV is her company. I get that. I’d have done the same if we had a bigger place.

For the first few months of Elliot’s life, when I was alone at 4:30 AM and feeling a little blue, I would sit with her. I wouldn’t bug her. I couldn’t. And she didn’t know I was there. But I would sit with her. I’d send her messages like: What is your name? Why are you always alone? Are you lonely? Where do you work? Why does it take you so long to get ready? Do you take vacations? Who are you?

What is your name?

Are you lonely?

Elliot is nearing 6 months of age. I’m floored by this. Six months! Time really does fly especially when the punctuation involved is generally the same. And my friend? She’s still out there.

I don’t get to visit her much anymore. But I do still sit down with her from time to time and I do still send her messages. She still takes forever to get ready. And I still feel comforted by her light, her ritual. And, yeah, her.

This woman has no clue who I am, that I know anything about her existence at all. But I really needed her company. My only hope is that she finds some of her own.

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I’m also in the process of trying to secure an externship in NYC and that’s been a bit difficult. I’m having to rewrite my resume to reflect my food industry experience. So to any potential bakery/chocolatier looking to hire me, it appears I have been a total slacker since 1997.

I don’t know how to do this. So if for some strange reason you’re reading this and you have any leads, or you’re thinking, Michele would be awesome working HERE! Please let me know. I’ll send you lollipops.

We took our vacation. Elliot rode up with Toby on the train, which worked out well. Emory and I picked them up in Providence. Elliot only had to be in the car for about 45 minutes. That was doable and there wasn’t as much vomit and tears because we SANG TO HIM ON THE TOP OF OUR VOICES THE ENTIRE WAY. We sounded completely insane, totally nuts. But it worked somehow.

Here’s a picture of the house we rented in Rhode Island.

It was great. Except there were a lot of ticks and mosquitos. I picked one tick off my boob while breastfeeding Elliot. That was disturbing.

Here’s who delivered our eggs.

Let me tell you, egg lovers, there is nothing better than a fresh egg. I baked with these suckers, too. It was awesome. Now to finally leave this city, buy a farmhouse and raise some damn chickens!

And lastly, here’s a self-portrait taken with Em. Can you see all my gray hair? That’s what happens when you have kids apparently. Or cats.

I’m going to try and find time to update more often, even if no one is reading this anymore. You see, I have used this blog for over a decade to answer questions about our lives together. When did we get married? Oh yeah! Did we really live in San Francisco at one point? Hot damn! Yup. Wait, we have kids? When did we have kids?

Speaking of kids, and looking back over the blog, I’m amazed at how much I’ve aged in 4 years, how many wrinkles I have attained in that time. I’m aging like a president. But it’s worth it.

Edited to add: Holy crow! I just now realized it’s Tuesday. I will upload something featuring Murray as well. I still get emails letting me know how much he is missed.

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My father took this of the boys while we were visiting. It sums up how Emory feels about Elliot. Emory adores his little brother. And Elliot definitely likes Emory the best. No matter what, he smiles for his big brother.

In the last couple of weeks, Elliot has started laughing a lot. And it’s just wonderful. Here’s the first video I got of Elliot and Emory laughing together.

Emory was given a bike by my parent’s neighbor, so he’s been riding a lot. We went to McCarren a few days ago and got caught in the rain. So we tree-hopped to avoid getting soaked. It was an amazing moment for me. The smells and sounds brought me back to my childhood; I was right there again! But I was surrounded by my own offspring. It was a moment I will never forget. Anyway, I took a bunch of pictures as the rain fell. Here is one of them.

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