5:00 Fridays

Mac Daddy and I got married in Key West. Almost 10 years ago. That means we should be buying each other tin or aluminum to commemorate the big milestone. Clearly a cheapskate SOB groom came up with that addition to the anniversary gift list. I am pretty well stocked on Reynolds aluminum foil so I'm going to go with the modern interpretation and insist on diamonds instead.

A tennis bracelet would be lovely. A belly button ring would be...um, tacky. And not so lovely, not to mention extraordinarily painful since my belly button is not pierced. and nor will it ever be, regardless how closely I teeter to a midlife crisis or anything resembling such lapse in judgment. If you knew me in college you'd know that I already spent my lifetime of judgment lapses back then. I hear they're not reprinting that currency these days.

I recall hearing a quote from my idol Audrey Hepburn that women under age 40 shouldn't wear diamonds. I was about 22 when I heard that. 20 years ago. I'm well into my diamond years. Present the diamond jewelry in a tin box if you must keep the foolish tradition alive.

Mac Daddy and I used to travel to Key West every year with our dear friends Chris and Shan (@turn_design). Since we all acquired mortgages, student loans, and well, children (though they were more than a mere acquisition), we have not been back. We used to all live in the frozen tundra somewhere between Minneapolis and Chicago. We'd be enduring winter's wretched blast right about now, with no sign of spring in sight and the damn department store merchandising teasing our inner sunbathing beauty. Chris, Shan, Mac Daddy, and I at least had Key West tucked into the back pockets of our flannel lined jeans. We all wore Birkenstocks on the plane in anticipation of feeling the sun bring some pinkness back to our frigid digits.

While it's not "Minnesota cold" here in North Carolina, it has been a pretty cruel winter for those of us who burned our furry hooded parkas and Moon boots upon registering to vote in this state. As a nod to Key West and the warmth it burnished in our psyches, I bring you:

Key West Breezes

(Note: Much like my cooking, I never measure precisely so just go with what suits your palate.)
3/4 cup coffee (good quality, dark roast)
dash+ of Kahlua
dash+ of Frangelico
dash+ of Grand Marnier
dash+ of Baileys

Add all the liqueurs to hot coffee. Top with whipped cream and a quick grate of nutmeg or cinnamon.

Here's to whatever warms you on a cold winter's night. Other than a mug of this tucked into my cold shivering hands, I have Mac Daddy to thank. He lets me put my cold feet on him; he endures flannel sheets long after we've done the spring cleaning; he warms my chilly disposition; he heats me up in all the right places. Va va vavoom!

Dear Diary,

Before there were blogs there were diaries. Diaries scribbled in purple glitter pens and #2 pencils. I was a diary kind of girl. I remember having a Holly Hobby diary with a tiny gold key when I was a kid. That key was pretty flimsy so I knew better than to write anything damning in it. By damning I mean anything about boys, my older brother, or my parents' constant fighting. I did write about how that neighbor girl Anne stole my turquoise and silver horseshoe shaped ring. Instead I even left the diary open in front of her in hopes that she'd read it and know that I was on to her. I also wrote about inane things like what I wore to school. I chronicled every outfit I wore for a full year in fifth grade. I know, I know. Boring. Imagine if that were my blog. Even my own family wouldn't read it. But that was only the beginning of my diary keeping.

I have been fortunate enough to travel through much of Europe and India. I kept a travel journal on every trip. On one trip through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy I jotted down every meal I ate. Thankfully I didn't count the calories. On an annual Key West trip I used to capture funny quotes that anyone in our little foursome said. Most of those are not fit for blogosphere consumption. We still read those quotes when we get together and bust a gut, our guts a bit bigger than they used to be.

My mom happened upon a travel journal I started 24 years ago to the day. The first entry is March 8, 1985. I was 16 years old, traveling alone from boarding school to visit my mom in Washington, D.C. Here's a taste of my high school junior self.

"I'm on the train now so this is gonna be pretty messy. There are a ton of CHAUD guys in today. I played my moves cool and ended up sitting beside a good catch. From a distance he looks just like Scoot (minus the braces). Close up he looks like a cross between Scoot and Michael. Not bad! In front of me is a tall, good looking golfer and skier (he had one helluva time getting on the train with golf clubs and skis!). A couple of seats behind me is a real sexy guy who is a chich dresser. He kinda resembles Stephan but this guy is plus chaud. Scttered around up front are various fellas, most of which are rated as at least an 8.5. This is great! Well, I better aller. I wish it wasn't raining. Tres depressing!"

Now for the writer's scalpel.

I told you that tidiness has always been paramount. I even felt the need to justify messy handwriting. Notice my fine use of French. I'm certain Madame Pealer, my high school French teacher, would be proud. I love how I thought I had any moves, much less cool ones. I still don't have any moves, at least any that don't embarrass my kids and Mac Daddy. As for Scoot and Michael, I have no idea who they are. Did I really know a boy called Scoot? Was he named after a verb or a dog? And exactly how much does a 16-year old girl know about sexy? I mean, it was 1985, before girls shopped at Hoochies R Us. And again I ask, who was Stephan? Was there a foreign (s)exchange student I've forgotten? Clearly those hot guys made a lasting impression. I'm also curious what constitued an 8.5, much less a 10. Clearly the hot boys were not enough to perk me up from the rain.

Suffice it to say I simultaneously cringe and crack up reading this. A peek into my 16 year-old self sure makes me damn glad to be 40. We'll wait and see how these blog's words make me feel 24 years from now...when I'm 64. Cue the Beatles.

Bronzed

Happy 8th Anniversary to Mac Daddy!

Eight years ago today we were wed among the orchids and banyan trees at the Audubon House in Key West. Accompanied by our dear friends, Chris and Shan, we had the perfect, relaxed day (unlike the hubbub and frenzy of most wedding days!). We set off for a sunset sail, toasted margaritas, and devoured a fabulous dinner at Louie's Backyard.

The talented chef and gracious owner of Louie's Backyard gave us a personalized menu as a wedding day token. It was unfortunately damaged in a flooded storage unit with much of our wedding memories (but not photos thankfully!). The fine folks at Louie's Backyard promptly sent us a new one that now hangs framed in our kitchen. If you ever go to Key West, and you must, you will miss out on the supreme island experience if you forgo dinner and drinks at Louie's Backyard. It's unlike any backyard you'll ever experience.

So after eight very happy years of marriage, all I can say is that I am lucky, lucky, lucky. If scientists were to start cloning human beings, the unanimous vote among all who know know Mac Daddy, would be to start with him. I might not strike envy into the hearts of those who know me, but the fact that I have a husband as awesome as Mac Daddy makes everyone just a wee bit jealous. He is a genuine guy who is more tolerant and witty than anyone I know. He's the best dad, which makes me love him even more. And he's hot, hot, hot...even as he's teetering on the cusp of 40.

Every night before I fall asleep I say my prayers and say thanks to the Powers that Be that Mac Daddy chose me. I joke that he married his trophy wife on the first try. That's really just a defense mechanism because I also pray that he doesn't wake up one day and realize that he has married way, way down. Let's keep that a secret just between us, OK?