First Love, or Asher

I just got my latest copy of The Sun magazine.  My favorite part is "Readers Write," where readers write a few paragraphs on a given theme.  I always read this section first.  Jack reads it, too.

This month, the topic is First Love, which remind me of the story of Asher.  I met Asher one day at U Village.  Claire Adele and I were shopping at U Village a few years ago when I saw him in the Seattle Humane Society mobile shelter.  Asher was a German Wirehaired Pointer mixed with a shepherding dog.  I walked in the mobile shelter, and Asher snuggled against my thigh, as if I were his.  "Just letting you know I am here," he said as his back met my leg.  He wasn't jumpy or trying to get my attention.  He was a comfortable and confident dog.  And he was so ugly he was cute.  He was white with a big lopsided head.  He had one blue eye and one hazel eye.  His body is a patchwork of colors.  It was love at first sight.  I had a dog growing up that I loved, but Clancy belonged to my mom.  I was being a little selfish in wanting a dog who loved me most.

I rubbed Asher's back, and my hand was covered with fur.  This was a bad sign.  I am certainly allergic to cats, and allergic to some dogs.  Would my love for Asher last if I were to spend the next next years miserably sneezing?  I wasn't sure, so I paused.  Jack was at home with the Boy, and I am sure he would not have been pleased if I came home with a dog, especially one who weighed about 50 pounds.

When I got home without Asher, I read up on Asher's breeds to see if he would be reasonable.  According to my research, Asher's breed is loyal, friendly, intelligent, affectionate, active and willful.  All good things, I thought.  The Humane Society's description of Asher matched the breed traits, which was good.  I stalked the Seattle Humane Societies website to see if Asher was still there.  I showed my family his picture.  I have never done online dating, but I imagine it is close to looking for a dog online.  You can read all about someone in the digital world, but chemistry is real.

A few days later, I got my haircut.  My hairdresser has dogs, so I asked him what he thought about Asher as his dogs were of a similar breed.

"Do you have horses?" he asked.

"Ah, no," I said.  It should have been obvious.  I live in the city in a small house with a small lot.  No horses.  I am not a country girl.

"That dog was bred to keep up with horses," he said.  "It is a hunting and cattle herding dog.  Unless you have horses, I would not recommend a dog like that.  They can run for hours and still want to run for hours."

"But he is so cute and I love him and he loves me..." I said.

"Do you have horses?" he replied.

I got the point.  He was right.  Asher descended from dogs who were bred to work.  The description of dog breeds are euphemistic.  "Intelligent" means he will eat your furniture if he doesn't get enough exercise.  He will figure out how to get in your garbage can to find the leftovers from last night's steak dinner.  "Loyal" means they only obey a small number of people.  "Affectionate" means they jump on you.  "Active" and "willful" straight forward, and are traits you want in a dog who can keep up with horses for eight hours a day.  The total picture: "We warned you this dog is a handful."

Even though Asher was the wrong dog for me, I continued to follow him online.  One day I went to the website, and Asher was gone.  The good news for the Seattle Humane Society is that good dogs go fast.  He who hesitates is lost.  Or loses.  Asher was not to be mine.

A year later, we got Fox.  Hooray!  But that is not the end.  Like many of the "First Love" stories in The Sun, the write someone finds his or her first love years later.

I was at tea with a friend who lives in Maple Leaf, and we started talking about our dogs.  I told her about my first love, Asher, and how we were kept apart by my fear of allergies and lack of horses.

"How long ago was this?" she asked, so I told her.

"What does Asher look like?"

"His eyes are off center, and his head has an odd shape. He is kind of ugly..." I said.

"...so ugly he's cute?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"Asher lives down the street from me."

I couldn't believe it.  I found Asher, and Asher found a home.  "How much exercise does he need?" I asked.

"His owner is a runner, and takes him out every day."

I was glad Asher was happy.  His new family was probably a better match, as Fox is a great match for us.  But there will always be a little spot in my heart for the dog so ugly he's cute.

What are my Kids Reading? or Young Adult

I was at a dinner and reading with Maria Semple, author of Where'd You Go Bernadette, which is now one of my top ten favorite books.  At this dinner were two people who worked in publishing.  One was a sales rep for a publisher of Young Adult books (YA for short).  The other worked in the YA department of a bookstore.  They were both delighted when I told them I had an eleven year old son and a fourteen year old daughter.

"What are they reading?" they asked.  They probably assumed my kids were voracious readers since their mother was a big enough geek to go to a dinner event focused on a writer.

"Uh..."  I said.  "I don't know."  I was slightly appalled at my own answer.  I should have a vague idea of what my kids are reading.  I don't need to monitor or censor what they read, but I should be a clued in parent who has an interest in what my kids like.  Why don't I know what my kids are reading?

They both have e-readers, the Boy a Kindle and Claire Adele a Nook.  Claire Adele's Nook has a peacock blue cover that is now kind of ratty.  The Boy's Kindle has a basic black cover.  These covers give me no indication of what's inside.  I seriously doubt they are reading Fifty Shades of Gray, but when they left their paper books around the house, I could tell what they were reading.  My kids still have analog books.  I am usually involved in the acquisition of them, too, whether I pay for a book they picked out at a bookstore or I take them to the library.

Fortunately, the two carried the weight of the conversation, and gave me several recommendations, both for me and my kids.*  I could contribute to the conversation of what my kids were reading, but I was aware there was a major gap in my knowledge.  I didn't feel quiet like a fraud, but almost.

The other thing I found slightly distressing is that there is a whole genre of Young Adult.  I am not saying this is a bad thing, just different from when I grew up.  I remember visiting the Schaumburg Library when I was a kid.  It has a large children's section, which I outgrew when I was eleven or twelve.  After that, I went upstairs to the main part of the library to get books to read.  I went straight from children's books to regular books--there was no special section for kids between the ages of 10 and 16.  I felt like a right of passage to get books upstairs instead of in the basement.  It was wonderful to wander in the tall stacks.  The children's section was bright and colorful, with arts and crafts on display.  The main floor was serious.  It was just about books.

I've read some of the YA books my kids have read.  I've loved some (Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell is lovely) and been bored to tears by others (I won't name names.)  The YA books are filled with loud crisis, like poverty and abuse (Eleanor & Park), cancer (The Fault in Our Stars), disfigurement (Wonder), or are dystopian fantasy (The Hunger Games).  They bring kids to the brink of disaster and back.

I still love Bernadette and her quiet crisis.  She was lost, both literally and figuratively.  I won't spoil it, but something my friend said yesterday reminded me of the ending.  She described her current stage of middle age of life after the kids are reasonably able to look after themselves:  I am metamorphosis-izing back to me.

Quiet crises are subtle and perhaps harder for young readers to grasp.  Even in my twenties I didn't understand some of Wallace Stegner's work, including Crossing to Safety about people in late middle age.  I read the whole thing, but missed the point.  I wonder if I try it again if it will speak to me.

Young people missing the point of adult stories isn't always the case.  My daughter read Bernadette, and liked it.  I am trying to get both of my kids to read The Boys in the Boat, but they are reluctant, I am not sure why.  Kids are so wrapped up in YA these days, but they should read books about what it is like to be a grown-up.  What will be their right of passage into regular literature?  Will they wander in the tall stacks, or will they read YA for the rest of their lives?

_______
* In case you are wondering, here are the reading recommendations from my dinner conversation. Some of them were based on what my kids have liked in the past, so the recommendations might be somewhat specific.  I won't tell which recommendations are for kids or for me.

• The new Ishiguro
• I'll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson
• Counting By 7s by Holly Sloan
• Noggin by John Corey Whaley
• The Wallcreeper by Nell Zink
• The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman
• Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald
• stuff by Brandon Mull
• Beautiful Boy by David Sheff
• The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin
• The Dark is Rising by Ellen Cooper
• Hausfrau: A Novel by Jill Alexander Essbaum
• stuff by Gail Forman
• The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander
• The Silo Saga by Hugh Howey

Dammit, I forgot

I had a brilliant idea for a blog post this morning and I completely forgot it.  Argh.  I'll keep thinking.

Teenage Drug

Claire Adele is 14, and spends time at home alone.  Jack and I will take the Boy to a soccer game, and Claire Adele gets to stay at home, sit on the couch, and read books and check her phone.

I recently discovered a new concerning habit of hers.  She is getting into my stash.  I can control my consumption, but apparently she can't control hers.  I caught her this morning in a conversation.

Me:  What happened to all of the chocolate chips?

Claire Adele:  There is another unopened bag in the pantry...

Me:  And you know there is an unopened bag which means you are tracking the amount of chocolate chips we have in the house.

She didn't argue, which is the opposite of what she usually does, which means she is guilty.  She didn't disagree.

I went to the grocery store this morning and complained to the checker that my daughter was eating my chocolate, digging into the pantry and cleaning me out.  She polished off half a box of Valentine's Day chocolate (bought the day after at 50% off) and ate a bag of jelly beans.  I thought the chocolate would last more than a week, even sharing it with the three other people I live with if we each ate one piece a day.  What gives?

"Sugar is favorite drug of teens," he said.  I guess I should be happy she is into sugar and chocolate and not other things.  Given Washington's recent legalization of marijuana, it is easier for teens to get weed than beer.

This reminded me of a conversation I had earlier in the day.  I was walking Fox and ran into a neighbor outside the coffee shop around the corner from my house.  This man also has a chihuahua, so we started to talk about how hungry our dogs are all of the time.

"Dogs are motivated by food," he said, "But so are we.  People just don't admit it."  He told me how his wife is capable of rationing Oreos, but whenever he sees one, he has to eat one.

"They are just too delicious," he said.  "I tell her we can't have them in the house or else I'll just eat them.  It is not like we live in a place where we are deprived of treats and once a season if we are lucky we get a peanut butter cookie.  We live in the city where we can get a treat anytime we'd like," nodding at the coffee shop.  He's right.  In the meantime, I'll have to keep my chocolate stash low while Clair Adele is in the voracious stage.

Or I'll have to hide it.

Embracing the Nap

I love sleep.  I need more sleep than the average bear to function properly.  When I don't get enough sleep, I am miserable.  Coffee is not an option to get through the day after a rough night.  Have I previously mentioned that I become manic when I drink caffeine?

Last night, Jack was called into the hospital around 4:30 a.m.  I don't know the exact time, I was trying to sleep.  He normally gets a warning that a patient is coming in, but in this case, he had to jump up and get there ASAP.  He couldn't find his wallet, so he was stomping around looking for it.  After a bit, I nodded off.  About an hour after Jack left, the nurse (or fellow or resident) who called him earlier pocket dialed the house on her phone.  Five times.  I fell back asleep, only to have Jack's alarm clock start chirping, followed by Fox jumping on the bed to get my attention.

It was not a restful nights sleep.

Hopping back into bed after the Boy left for school was not an option.  I was meeting a friend first thing after the Boy left for school, and then I ran errands.  Around 1:15 p.m., I was hitting the "Lack of  Effectiveness" wall:  I wasn't so tired that I couldn't get things done, but I was afraid of doing things half-baked or sending someone the wrong email because I wasn't sharp enough.  Or worse:  I dig into two hours of Facebook or other internet trolling to keep myself awake.*

At 1:15 p.m. came the question: to nap or not to nap.  The Spanish do it.  Granted, they eat dinner at ten o'clock at night.  Of course they need a nap the following mid-afternoon.  I read an article in the New Yorker once (or some other magazine) about the history of sleep.  Back in the days pioneer days, people would not think it odd to wake up in the middle of the night and take care of things.  Napping was not uncommon then.

So why shouldn't I nap?  I love naps.  Why should I feel so guilty when I take one?  While I love extra sleep, naps remind me that

a)  I don't have full-time, paid job.  People with paid jobs don't have the official luxury of napping; although, more than one person I've worked with has dozed off during a postprandial meeting.  The number is higher for meeting with PowerPoint slides in a dark room.  I have some friends who power nap, even at work.  They will shut their office door, turn the ringer on the phone off, and sleep for fifteen minutes at work for a quick boost.

b)  I associate napping with depression.  Whether I should or not is up to debate.  I really shouldn't.  When I am really tired, I feel depressed anyway, so why not cure a temporary bout of the blues with some well deserved rest?

c)  I fear I will not be able to sleep at a normal hour at night.  I don't need to my body to think I am living in the same time zone as Hawaii while I am living in Seattle.

So I split the difference.  I took a nap, but set my alarm clock.  I always keep a journal and pen by my nightstand.  Just before I drifted off, I started thinking about a presentation I need to give in a few weeks.  It will need to be vetted by a few people, so the earlier I start, the better.   I had a few good ideas, so for about five minutes, I jotted down a reasonable outline and a few questions to ask the group.  I dropped my pen, and snuggled in for a snooze.

I need to get over the guilt of naps.  My email box filled like the tide while I rested, but I was in a much better position to work when I got up.  I was also nicer to my kids when they came home from school.

* Thanks again for reading my blog.  I hope you find this productive and not a complete waste of your brain cells or a cause of distraction.

Quiet Crisis

I was talking with a friend today about Jack.  I might have mentioned on my blog before, but my husband Jack is very good in a crisis.  If there is a crisis, Jack is your guy.  I partially fell in love with him because of his ability to deal with crisis.  He is calm, cool and unflappable.  I have had more than one major crisis since I've met Jack, including when our first daughter died.  That was huge, the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  Jack was there for me, and I was there for him, which was good, even better than expected.

The downside of being really good in a crisis is that Jack doesn't sweat the small stuff.  Sometimes one needs to sweat the small stuff so it doesn't become big stuff.  I tell Jack little things that need adjusting or how I need help and support, like how I would like to know his work schedule in advance.  He'll smile and say sure, but then there isn't a change.  It isn't that Jack is unflappable.  He just doesn't flap.  I'll gently remind him again, and again and again.  And no reaction.  After months of politely asking for his work schedule, I end up screaming like a nut to get his attention.  I really don't like screaming like a nut--it's totally not my style.  By time I am screaming, I have mentally divorced him fifteen times.  And I am sure he is ready to chuck me to the curb with my lunatic behavior.

Last spring, I was having a quiet crisis, but a crisis nonetheless.  I didn't know where I was going or what I wanted to do next.  In one sense, it is quite the luxury to have nothing to do.  In another, it was maddening.  I have a hard time not being productive or involved in something.*  I like being busy.  Idleness comes hard to me.

So this was a crisis, even though it was going on inside of my head.  Many of my friends knew I was struggling to find my purpose.  Unlike losing a child which is a loud, messy, public crisis, this was a quiet crisis.  There was no major announcement.  Friends didn't bring me flowers and dinner.  This crisis didn't involve other people -- it was pretty much just me, myself and I.  Jack's job was taking over his life, and I was left alone in my head.

How does one connect during a quiet crisis?  I have had other friends who have gone through similar things, whether an illness or a long period of unemployment.  I am lucky to have good friends who supported me when Jack was checked out, but I still think perhaps the world needs a formal way to honor these quiet crises.

* Thank you, my small but loyal group of blog followers!

Puppy Love

The Boy and I were running errands today when we came across a man walking a golden retriever puppy.  The dog was about three months old.  The Boy stopped to pet Tucker, and he (the Boy) almost couldn't leave.

"His fur is so soft," said the Boy, as snuggled in closer.  The dog seemed to like him, too.

Puppy love.

"Time to go," I said.  I imagined this man wanted to get on with his day, not spend half of it in front of Office Depot while a boy played with his dog.

I am so glad we have Fox.  I can't imagine the Boy without a dog.  My friend Helen said that dogs are great because not only do they love their families, but it gives kids a chance to give love to another being.

As much as we all like Fox, sometimes I wish we had a bigger dog so the Boy could have a snuggle buddy.  Oh well.  When the Boy grows up, he can get a bigger dog.  In the meantime, we will take what we have.

The Motherlode, and My Memory Has Just Been Sold

Two days ago,  I googled Jake, a boy who I went to my elementary school.  He didn't have much of an internet presence other than a Facebook account.  When I got to his account, I clicked on his friends to see if there was anyone I knew.  I found Greg, so I clicked on his page.

Greg was the motherlode.  He was friends with about a dozen or so kids who went to elementary school with me.  He was the connector, keeping in touch with people he went to high school with.*  All of these people who I last saw when I was twelve years old magically aged thirty-plus years.  Some looked very familiar, like Lisa.  She looks like she grew about five inches taller and put on ten pounds since she was twelve.  Her thick, dark hair was the same.  I recognized another girl's name, but the woman online did not at all resemble the girl I knew.  Other people had posted pictures of their kids, who are now about the same age as when I knew their parents.  

Greg was recognizable, but still different.  So which Greg is the real Greg?  The one I remember from 1980, or the one on Facebook?  My memory of him--and everyone else--is as if were sealed in a time capsule.  Those kids have never changed to me.  On Facebook, he had a cigarette dangling out of his mouth in one picture, and his bowl hair cut from 1979 was long gone, as his hairline was slightly starting to recede.   While I couldn't look away from my internet stalking session, I was slightly sad that what I remembered all of them to look like was replaced with new internet profile pictures.

I am sure they would say the same about me.

This might be from 5th grade, not 6th.  Puberty was not kind to me, so I'll spare myself the embarrassment of posting those pictures.

* I am too lazy to figure out how to not end that sentence with a preposition.  

Bully

Jack and I were walking the dog last night and we were talking about bullying.  I didn't recall much bullying of kids when I was in elementary, middle or high school.  Jack seems to think it must have existed, and I didn't notice.  I didn't notice the boys pushing and shoving each other around.  I got in the conversation about bullying this morning with my neighbor as we crossed paths on the morning dog walk.  I told him we saw The Imitation Game this weekend about Alan Turing, the man who is credited with developing the universal machine, or the basis of the modern computer.  Some of the criticism of the movie is that Alan really wasn't a bully in the workplace, but was in fact a nice, affable, guy.  No doubt he was odd, but not really the jerk he was portrayed to be.  A few months ago, I started reading Alan Turing: The Enigma by Andrew Hodges.  Alan was significantly bullied at boarding school.  It seems that bullying is de rigueur in boarding schools.  The New Yorker recently had an article about a man who tracked down the boy who bullied him at board school.  The bully could not remember bullying the author of the article -- he only remembered how he himself was bullied at school.

I digress.  I started thinking about this one kid in my elementary school who was considered a bully.  I was telling Jack last night that this guy Jake was kind of a jerk.  No one really liked him, and he had no friends.  He wasn't so much a kid who pushed of shoved other kids.  The modern definition of bullying is intimidating or trying to over power someone.  This guy was mostly a loud mouth and annoying, yet kids thought he was a bully.  He was bigger than everyone else by a head or so, and he had that tough guy look.  He wore the same clothes everyday -- a white t-shirt, but more of the lightweight underwear type.  His eyes were slightly crossed, not horribly, and he had a furrowed brow, which made him look like he was trying to be mad.  He probably did do something rotten to some kid along the way, and the rest of the class thought Jake was a jerk.  I think he threatened to punch kids once in a while, but I don't think he ever did.  We were rather open about our disdain for his behavior, making up little songs to make fun of him.  Maybe we imagined he threatened kids to justify our mean songs about him.

This morning as I was talking to my neighbor about The Imitation Game, we got on the subject of bullying.  I told him about the New Yorker article, and I thought again of Jake, the boy I knew in elementary school.  I seem to recall that Jake was not the best student, perhaps he struggled.  He ended up switching to a different elementary school, where word has it he ended up doing fine, making friends and the like.  

Now as a parent, standing on the corner thousands of miles away from where I grew up, I started thinking of Jake as if he were a student in my kids' school.  He might have had a learning disability that went undiagnosed.  Perhaps he had a hard home life.  Maybe his dad was an alcoholic, or his parents couldn't afford any clothes other than the three pack of Fruit of the Loom sold at Kmart.  

I started to think that maybe we were the bullies, the entire class who mocked and teased this boy.   We thought he was a jerk, so he was generally excluded from recess and lunch games.  I suppose his social skills were mediocre, and the only way he might have known to connect was through being tough.  I thought, "Well I am girl.  I don't have to be his friend or nice to him.  It isn't expected of me."  We weren't as bad as a boarding school, but in a way weren't much better.  Here was a kid who didn't fit in, and all of us turned against him.  No one gave him a chance to be his friend.  Granted, he brought some of this on himself, but we didn't help.

My whole elementary class wasn't completely crappy.  When we were in third grade, an administrator from the district came to school and told us that we were chosen to have Alex in our class.  Alex was a special kid, different from others.  The district had to be very selective about which class could have Alex.  They needed students who would be kind, understanding and patient with Alex.  Our class was picked to be best out of all of the elementary schools around.  Alex had braces on his legs and some behavioral issues.  We all were nice to Alex because we were chosen, selected to have him.  Instead of laughing at Alex, we laughed with him.  We didn't have hot lunches at my school, so the PTA every few months would sponsor "Hamburger Day" where the moms would order a few hundred plain hamburgers from McDonalds and a similar number of individual size bags of Jay's potato chips.  The bags of chips were puffed up with air.  I remember Alex saying, "Hey, watch this!" as he pounded his fist against the bag of chips.  The bag exploded, and little shards of salty and greasy chips went flying everywhere.  I was a goody two-shoes who never stepped out of line, and I thought this was the funniest thing ever.  I imagine the room parents were highly annoyed at the mess, but the kids thought it was hilarious.  Even as an adult, I think it is funny.

When I got home from my morning walk with Fox, I googled Jake to see if I could find him.  I found his profile on Facebook, and found that he was friends with several kids from my elementary school.  I moved from suburban Chicago to Ohio when I was twelve.  I didn't go to middle or high school with this group of kids, so I never heard the rest of Jake's story.  Somewhere along the way, he got a second chance, not just from the teachers and schools, but from the kids.  I am glad they gave it to him.

Jelly Rolls, Fat Quarters and Charm Packs

My friend Diane warned me about a friend of hers who was hoarding fabric.  I am shortly on my way to becoming one of those people.

I just finished a pillow, so I was looking for a new project.  I wanted to give this pillow away, but the Boy insists I keep what I make.  I shipped my first pillow off to my parents, and I don't think my kids noticed it is gone.  I can see why my aunts and Grandma Jennings gave away their creations:  there just isn't enough room or use for all of this stuff in one house.  And of course I want to make more!

Instead of buying fabric for one project, I bought fabric for several.  And my "project," I mean one twin size quilt and two full size quilts, plus a little blanket.  I can ponder on an plan for the next project while I am working away on a project that I have already started.  It is too much pressure to buy fabric and begin right away.  Half of the battle is picking the right pattern and organize the fabric in the right way.

Since I am a beginner, I am not very good a picking matching fabrics.  Thankfully, the quilting industry has fixed that problem for me with the invention of jelly rolls, fat quarter sets and charm packs.  Matching fabrics are sold in sets, so there is less stress about finding fabrics that go well together.  The next genius step they made is to sell the fabric in precut packages, making it even easier to sew something awesome.  Jelly rolls contain 40 strips of fabric 2.5 inches wide by 42 inches long.  Fat quarters are rectangles of fabric 18 by 12 inches.  Charms are little squares usually 2.5 by 2.5 inches.  The pillow above was made from a charm pack.

In addition to fabric, I needed batting and thread.  What I might not have needed but bought anyway were two books on quilting ideas for jelly rolls.  Long story short -- this is an expensive habit.  About ten years ago, I bought I full size quilt at Bed, Bath and Beyond.  I don't remember the exact price, but it was between $100-120.  Finished.  With lots of great colors in a beautiful pattern.  It even had circles, something I have yet to figure out how to sew.  Heck, I can't even do triangles yet.  The fabric and supplies for a quilt are about the same if not more than what I paid for a finished quilt ten years ago.  And I have no promise that this fabric I've bought will one day be turned into something useful and/or beautiful.

I suppose that is the fun part of a hobby: waiting to see what a bag of supplies will turn into.

Here is my current stash:

I bought this bright colored fabric jelly roll.  When I brought it home, the Boy decided he wanted the a quilt for his room made out of this fabric.  We scrolled through some pictures of jelly roll patterns, and he picked out one.  It isn't the one I would have picked out, but it is fine.

These patterns remind me of something my Grandma Conti might have had at her house.

Halloween prints are in, or these are leftover from October.  I don't know.  The little monsters are super cute.

Here are some fat quarters.  These will be the hardest for me to figure out.  I love the bike print and the tree house print.  I need to get this one done soon so I can get back to the quilt shop in Ballard and pick a matching fabric for the back.

Nineteen Years

Jack and I just celebrated nineteen years of marriage last week.  One of the interesting things about being married that long is seeing things we use every day that we got as wedding gifts, and realizing they are nineteen years old.   I buy things all of the time, but then never calculate how old they are after I've had them for a while.  I recently went to the Title Nine warehouse sale.  I went to the sale years ago and bought a coat.  This year, I bought a new coat.  When I got home, I looked in my check register to discover I bought my old coat in 2007.  Yes, it was time to get a new coat, but I never knew how old it was.

Wedding gifts, on the other hand, have a precise age.  The duvet cover on our down comforter?  Nineteen years old.  While the color is still fine, it is in reasonable condition, I wasn't planning on using it for nineteen years.  I picked out a new one (one sale, of course) but Jack thought it was too flowery.  The Boy overheard our conversation, and was torn on which side to take.  Should he pick the side of his beloved mother, or side with his dad who doesn't want a bad cover that looks like an English garden?  What is wrong with an English garden?  This duvet was cheerful.  Eh.  I deferred to Jack and didn't get it.

The down comforter is also nineteen years old (gift from Jack's parents).  Our steak knives from my cousin Matt and one of Jack's friends are still in service.  The food processor from another friend is still working, though we had to get a new bowl and blades.

The sadder thing is looking at things that I've had since before we were married.  Nesting bowls?  Older.  Pots and pans?  Older.

I don't remember getting older.  How did I end up with all of this old stuff?