Me: Hey, honey!  Someone that is in my show was in Jesus Christ, Superstar with you!

Him: Oh, yeah?  Who?

Me: (name.) She said she didn’t remember your real name, so I told her you were the old one.

Him: .. wha?

Me: You know, the old one.  Like, the oldest Apostle.

Him: Sarah.. I WASN’T THE OLDEST APOSTLE.  I wasn’t even that old when we did the show!

Me: No, not like YOU were old.  But you PLAYED the oldest Apostle.  DUH.

Him: …

Me: You know.  Don’t look at me like that.  You played The Elder.  The oldest Apostle.

Him: …

Me: Damnit, Bryan, why are you looking at me like that?  YOUR CHARACTER’S NAME WAS JAMES THE ELDER.  You were the oldest Apostle!

Him: Sarah.  ::sigh.. possibly another sigh:: Sarah, there were two James.  I was the elder of the two.

Me: .. oh.

Us: …

Me: Probably only in the King James’ Version.

Let it be known and forever remembered: I SUCK AT GIFT GIVING.

Truly and muchly.  SUCK. AT. IT.

Come Christmas time, I seriously have to pick some random genre of gifts because I need that sort of boundary to work within. (This year, it was books. I gave everyone books that I thought they’d enjoy. Not exactly creative, but personal just the same. Or so I tell myself.)

Valentine’s Day? OH, SO MUCH OF THE SAME SUCK.

It sincerely helps that Bryan and I are not rich.  Never have been, and we definitely cannot justify spending any large amount of money on ourselves. So our gifts must often be meaningful AND cheap.  Which makes it sound easier to plan, but .. um .. when you’re ALREADY bad at it, it doesn’t help much.  At all.

Over at Southern Fried Snark, we’re beginning a Valentine’s List of Gifts That You Do Not Under Any Circumstance Give, and while doing that, I was looking at the most popular Gifts for Him.

And I couldn’t help but smile.

My husband is not a fashionable man.  He just doesn’t care about trends.  He has a specific cut of jeans, and if I buy anything else, he will sulk and pout and he MAY try it on, but most likely, he’ll go back and return it for his preferred cut.  I had to gradually introduce him to cargo shorts.  He does not wear jewelry, other than his family heirloom ring and his wedding ring, and he doesn’t wear a watch.  He does have an extensive collection of shoes, but most days, his job has so much running around to be done that sneakers are his go-to pair.

It just smiles to write all of that, because when I was 22 and dating, I was always interested in men who preened.  I liked men who knew the fashions, who adopted the latest trends, who got excited about things like that.  And when I was 22 and dating, it seemed like a good fit.  It’s taken me this long to realize that those men also looked at me and critiqued what I wore.  If I wasn’t wearing something trendy enough, they’d remark on it.  Forget about keeping up with the Joneses; I was having to keep up with my boyfriends.

This man that I’ve married and built a life with?  Finds me beautiful in sweats.  Loves me when I come home late and throw on pjs and am too tired to move.  And is just as complimentary to me if I’m in jeans and covered in baby stains as he is when I’m in a formal ballgown.

I dress for me now, not for my date.  That’s pretty damn awesome.

(Although I still need ideas for Valentine’s Day.  Email me.)

(Preface: today is also Pearl Harbor Day.  Hug a Vet.)

December 7th is a big day in my world.  December 7th was the day that two very important men came into my life.

December 7th, 2004: I was running late, but it was entirely intentional.  Gotta keep ‘em waiting and all.  It was a very rainy night, nice and calming for our first “dark night” in the Christmas show. (Dark nights are when you have no shows or rehearsals; typically they fall inbetween scheduled shows.)

We agreed to meet at a Waffle House that wasn’t close to either of us, and I really don’t remember why.  I DO remember, however, wearing a gray mohair hoodie over a maroon tshirt.  My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which typically would have had me in fits for a date, but .. we weren’t really dating.  Were we?  No, we were just two people meeting for coffee.

I got there around ten minutes after we had agreed to meet.  He pushed over his untouched coffee so that I could have some immediately, but in my usual fashion, I snarked and thanked him for the cold coffee.

The next two hours passed quickly, us laughing and talking and at one point, he held my hand and I thought I was going to melt right then and there.  I knew very little about him, mainly that he was a recently single dad, and we learned more about eachother that night.  Our evening ended suddenly, without any contact or goodnight kiss or even a hug, and I threw down a $20 on the table before I left.  I knew that covered more than just the coffee, but I also wanted some major karma after realizing that I wanted this man.

It was love at first sight, and it hasn’t faded a bit.

December 7th, 2007: Our third trip into Labor & Delivery, but this time we had the blessing and cooperation of our doctor.  And pitocin.  The drip started at 5, water broken at 9, and then .. nothing.  NOTHING.  Family from both sides was camped out in the delivery room, everyone hoping that the child was coming soon.  James Taylor, Dan Folgerberg, and Norah Jones played.  Julie, the angel parading as an L&D nurse, was by our sides.

At 4 p.m., we began pushng.  I was asked if I wanted a mirror to watch the birth.  I politely declined.  Two minutes later, I asked that they move the tv, because when it was off, IT FUNCTIONED AS A MIRROR AND OH JESUS WITH THE NU-NU.  I?  Sucked at pushing.  Horribly.  Julie massaged and did what she could do in preparation for the actual delivery; I pushed fruitlessly.

The doctor cycled in and out, ignoring my pleas for a suction cup or forceps or surgery.  I was so, so tired.

Ten minutes passed.  Then thirty.  Then an hour.

.. then an other thirty.  Then I had been pushing for two and a half hours.

Dan Folgerberg came on .. the song that Bryan and I had always identified as “our song”, Another Auld Lang Syne .. and I pushed through the song.  God, I was tired.  I was delirious with exhaustion.  I was begging the doctor, Angel Julie, the Janitor, ANYONE to PLEASE GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME ALREADY.  I had nothing left.  I kept pushing.

The sax solo at the end of the song came on, and out he came.  The most precious, perfect little boy.  A head full of dark black hair, a football-shaped head, and no noise.  He and I spent the next two days watching A Celtic Women Christmas on repeat.  It was love at first sight.  And it hasn’t faded a bit.