When we got hurt as little kids, there were different tiers of accidents. The accidents involving the least amount of pain were covered with the cheap, boring tan band-aids, and then the animated band-aids were saved for bigger bumps and scrapes. And then of course there were the toilet paper and medical tape band-aids that my dad liked to make for us when we were out of the real thing, but that has nothing to do with today's story.
My family's favorite set of cousins lived in upstate New York. If you've ever been there you know it's the total opposite of what most people think when they imagine the big NY. You can drive hour-long stretches where the stench of cow manure fills your nostrils, and when I was little, I believed that only the hardiest of people can say they appreciate such a raw, earthy scent. Now I know it just reeks.
This is a continuation of Meeting Alex - Part 1. These stories of how we met are important to me. I like to remember pivotal experiences of my life with as much detail as I can remember. So even though it's been long enough (5 years) that I've forgotten a lot of the little or (at the time) insignificant details, I want to write down what I can manage to remember!
There are a few stories I never want to forget the details on, though I wish I wrote the back when they were still fresh. I'd have so many more details than I remember now, but better late than never! One of the stories I want to remember is the first day I met my husband in person (we met online).
Last winter I found these beautiful mittens at TJMaxx while shopping for something else. They were made with a thick blush pink yarn on the outside and lined with the softest plush material for extra warmth on the inside. I don't know how many people know this about me, but I rarely feel okay purchasing something totally on a whim.
Let's skip the preamble. I have a sweet little babe now, which means who knows how long I have to write? Dang it, I just heard her give a little squeal in her sleep. This might have to be shorter than I thought! Writing prompt for this week: What kind of ridiculous things did you do while fighting with a sibling?
My father chose to heat our house with a wood stove in the basement, rather than the conventional American heating method. I know — you and everyone else thinks I was Amish growing up. Other than the belief system part of it, you wouldn't be that far off. Using a wood stove, however, meant that every summer my family spent a lot of time down by our shed chopping logs for the winter months. Man, the more I type this and start throwing out phrases like "winter months", the more I'm starting to think we really were Amish.
People often imagine The Office when I talk about my workplace. My company is much bigger, but I can understand why everyone's imaginations go there. Most of my stories I bring to the outside world revolve around just my department, which has often acted like they belong on that show. I have a few different stories I could share, so maybe I'll save a couple for another time, but today — I'd like us to focus on my personal fave.
Yesterday, my mom brought me all my old notebooks from college to help clear some space in their basement. Most of them are just full of notes and homework assignments, but there is one notebook I'd like to keep for sure. It's the notebook I first started recording memories in. I have 51 recorded memories in it, some filling only a few lines, some multiple pages.
I've never paid much attention to my dreams, except for the short phase in my teens when I was having nightmares of people trying to kill me using various — let's just say "interesting" — methods. That was an odd stretch of time, and fairly inexplicable. I wasn't that much of an angsty teenager I don't think.