The Girl with the Bible Tattoo

bible tattoo

God is in the midst of her

How bad is it gonna hurt??

Come on. If you don’t have a tattoo, you’re wondering. If you do have some ink (look at me with my hip, I’ve-now-been-inked language!), you remember wondering. Because fact of the matter is that in order to get some permanent body art — you gotta break some skin.

For the record, skydiving was way more terrifying.

Wait. I take that back. Telling my mother I got a tattoo was up there with jumping out of a plane.

“You’re 30, Jenny. You can get a tattoo,” Ashley reassured me.

“But but but … my mom!”

For the record, mi madre was great, and loved the scripture reference, and made no indication at all of any inner thoughts along the lines of OMG MY DAUGHTER JUST DISFIGURED HERSELF AND WHY WOULD YOU PUT A BUMPER STICKER ON A PORSCHE?

Thanks Mom.

It took seven minutes and cost $50. I didn’t cry even though I’m a total crier. My artist Roger said he was impressed about the skydiving thing — he said he didn’t have the guts for it. Yes, I mentioned it like 8,000 times, because I had to convince everyone there that I wasn’t a wuss. And by ‘everyone’ I mean me. Roger had a neck tattoo, by the way.

That’s right, the dude with the neck tattoo thought I was badass.

Then later he said he was glad I turned out not to be a screamer, and I uttered that’s what she said under my breath because obviously I had to.

Anyway.

I love it.

God is our refuge and strength, 
a very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, 
though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, 
though the mountains tremble at its swelling.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.

The nations rage, the kingdoms totter;
he utters his voice, the earth melts.

The Lord of hosts is with us; 
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come, behold the works of the Lord, how he has brought desolations on the earth.

He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the chariots with fire.

“Be still, and know that I am God. 
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!”

The Lord of hosts is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Best Life Now

I really, really don’t care for Joel Osteen — his teeth and his platitudes irk me.

Prosperity gospel? Pfffffttt.

“It’s God’s will for you to live in prosperity instead of poverty. It’s God’s will for you to pay your bills and not be in debt. It’s God’s will for you to live in health and not in sickness all the days of your life.”

How Mr. Osteen reconciles that with the bible verse about the rich man, the camel, and the eye of the needle is beyond my comprehension, but maybe I’m just not enlightened enough. *insert eye roll here*

Anyway. Never in the history of ever has God given any indication whatsoever that He wants us to be rich, temporally happy, or even healthy. What does He want? He wants us to delight in Him and Him alone. He wants us to delight in Him so badly that He sent His only Son Jesus Christ to Hell and back so that we may know Him.

You didn’t think Christ’s suffering ended on the cross, didja? He paid the price for our transgressions, and that cost is Hell. Christ literally went to Hell and back for you. That’s all kinds of amazing, and something I can’t fully wrap my mind around, because every time I try, my brain figuratively explodes from trying to comprehend such a love.

I can’t even stand it when my kids bonk their heads or scrape their knees … the idea of sacrificing them like lambs so some ungrateful lot of vagabonds might have an opportunity to knock on my door and grace me with their presence? Inconceivable.

What God has done for us is so beyond dollars and cents, love lost and love won, life on Earth at all — that He must view us as squabbling children fighting over the favorite toy of the moment most of the time.

So when people like Joel Osteen say things like, “It’s God’s will for you to live in prosperity …” I scoff or roll my eyes or blow raspberries. Because I’m totally mature like that. But I’m pretty sure the creator of the universe invented the #facepalm, so I go with it.

God’s will is for us to love Him with our whole hearts and souls and all our strength and minds, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. Nothing more and nothing less.

So then what about the rest?

As much as I don’t like Joel Osteen or his cockamamie prosperity gospel, I do believe in living the best life you possibly can — now and forever.

Sometimes life hands you lemons — so go find some sugar and a pitcher and make some friggin’ lemonade. Add vodka if you have it, and invite some friends over. Or maybe even a friend will bring vodka! Those are the bestest friends.

Anyway, God calls us to suffer, but I think I missed the part where He said we’re supposed to wallow in it.

Yes, my marriage fell apart. For better or worse, no matter whose ‘fault’ it was, and not through any lack of trying to fix it — it fell apart. That’s one heck of a lemon, my friends.

And I’m handling it the best that I can. I’m putting on my big girl pants and trying to live my best life now as I put my broken heart in Jesus’ hands to heal. I’ll squee over sales at Target and find other ordinary things to appreciate. I’ll jump out of planes and I’ll spend what would’ve been my 11th anniversary weekend while my kids are at their first full week at their dad’s with my best friend in Texas.

It’s not flippancy; it’s recovery. It is joy and peace and light and trust in the God of hope. Every day I want to live my best possible life. Some days that’s just getting through without bitch-slapping anyone, and others it’s taking the kids to the beach to delight in His creation. Whatever it is, it is completely and totally relying on God to get me through.

My burden was heavy, but I took His yoke and am finding rest for my soul. And it is sooooooo good — lemonade for the soul level of good.

It’s my best life now, and though it may not look like it, it is my way honoring God, of thanking Him for the abundant mercies he has blessed me with. Thank Him even for the suffering. Because suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

You may see a sandwich, or a glass of wine, or bowling with a friend, or veging out on the couch catching up on Nashville, or any other number of little things that make me happy … what I see is a Godsend.

It’s my best life now, because God did not leave me in the wilderness. He came and got me … somewhat brutally got me to stop placing my faith in myself and put it back in Him and relearn to trust in Him and Him alone.

And that is the joy that surpasses all joy, even in the midst of suffering.

The Jump

When you’re in the process of getting divorced, questioning religion, and generally trying to figure out who you are as a person after three decades under your belt on the planet, you have your bad moments.

I had such a moment last weekend.

“Eff it. I’m done with the sad. I’m going skydiving!” I half yelled at a friend.

“You should totally do that,” was the response.

I got off the phone and looked up some companies in San Diego that might be willing to toss me out of an airplane. Left the tabs open and went to sleep because it was like 1am.

The next morning, I reread the reviews, confirmed to myself that I actually liked the one I’d picked out the night before (note to my mama — see! I totally made a rational decision about skydiving NOT at 1am.) (I’m going to guess that doesn’t mean much to my mama, whose only comfort right now is that I’m still alive.) (I love you Mom!), and I booked it.

**Everything written up to this point was pre-free fall. The following is my thoughts and reactions to being PUSHED OFF AN AIRPLANE.**

Ok, I volunteered to be pushed. And it’s a good thing I was pushed, because I probably would have sat in that open airplane door all freaking day if my tandem jumper Igor (how cool is that name? He’s Russian, apparently. But he lived in Australia. His Russian-Australian accent was dreamy.) hadn’t fallen out of the plane on top of me 10,000 feet in the atmosphere.

Anyway. I showed up to Pacific Coast Skydiving this afternoon, and it looked so much like a movie set I was half expecting to see Matthew McConaughey walking around the corner. It was open and funky and breezey and it was kinda like a hip hanger barn with airplanes and parachutes and old couches and a ping-pong table.

The people there were warm and friendly, and totally made me feel at ease. I signed and initialed a bunch of stuff, including something that said I had made provisions for my children in the case of my death. I laughed that off and didn’t think too much about it, because no one likes to think about dying.

All of a sudden a thought crossed my brain that I swear had not even entered it since I made the reservation — what if the chute doesn’t open?? Seriously. I hadn’t even entertained that idea. As soon as I thunk it, I unthunk it. No point in worrying about being their first causality. Besides, that’s why you go tandem with a professional — you die, they die.

So they got me all harnessed up and on the plane with this other chick and her skydiver, and then we took off. It took maybe 15 to 20 minutes to reach altitude, and of course the view was amazing. Igor got me all hooked up to him, and told me that when the door opened, I needed to swing my legs out (I was going first) and sorta hook them under the plane. Then look up, hold onto my shoulder straps, and arch my back.

The plane door opened and I think I cussed. This part happened so fast that I’m not sure if I wanted to change my mind, but by the time my legs were out, I know I had changed my mind, and before I could very politely and calmly explain to Igor that I would not be falling out of the sky today, we were tumbling. I cussed some more I think, but mostly just screamed.

Someone asked me if it was like being at the top of a rollercoaster but more so, but it was nothing like a rollercoaster. The only way I know how to explain the sheer terror and adrenaline of it is to say it’s like that feeling you have when you think you’ve gone down all the stairs, but there’s one more step you missed, and you have a mini panic attack as your foot doesn’t find solid ground where it expected it. Times a zillion.

One thing I’d heard was that it’s over before you even know it, but I had a different experience. I think I lived a lifetime in about 30 seconds. I think I still might be up there somehow.

It was amazing and empowering, and the perfect way to celebrate some of the very difficult life changes I’ve made recently that completely knock out the status quo. For a very long time leading up to the split, I used ‘jumping’ as an analogy for going through with it. I was scared — so scared — that my ‘life chute’ wouldn’t open, and I would crash to the earth a broken and bloody mess.

It came to the point that not jumping became a scarier thought than letting go, so I got myself as prepared as possible. I did my safety checks. I talked to people that had done it before, and what their experiences had been. I examined the potential (and the certain) negative outcomes that would occur if I did this.

Ultimately, even though the actual skydiving was something I had wanted to, and planned to do — when it came to that split-second moment of truth, I didn’t want to go through with it. But a little push out the door led to feeling more alive than I ever have before, and I have no regrets.

I not only got some closure today for my broken marriage, but I got some weird closure for my broken relationship with My Pastor. If things hadn’t happened the way they did — if telling Leif I was leaving him had been left to me entirely — I honestly have no idea if I could’ve gone through with it.

I thought I could. I planned on it. I prepared for it. But could I have ‘jumped’ out of my marriage of my own volition? I don’t know anymore.

But I’m glad I did. Yes, there’s some terrifying freefalling at first when you feel like you’re inside a gyroscope and you’re spinning and the earth is spinning in the opposite direction around you … but then you’re flying.

Er, um … falling with style.

No regrets.

Blueberry Farming

blueberry group shotRemember I had that list of things to do before I turned 30? Well late is better than never, right?

Besides, if ever there was an excuse for putting something off temporarily, the total implosion of a marriage might be it. That or death. Or just plain laziness. But it was definitely the marriage thing in this case.

So here I am, a day late, but not a dollar short (metaphorically at least — this chica is on a budget), and I’m back to trying to do some of the things on my list because gosh darn it — life is for living.

C running through blueberriesVisit a ‘You Pick’ orchard and pick too much fruit

Last week, one of my BFF’s Nancy and I packed up all six of our kids and visited a blueberry farm. That’s two car seats, two boosters, half a bottle of sunblock, 12 shoes that are bugging at least seven feet, and that’s only because the other five have been kicked off at some point. Oh, and two mamas with cameras. And cameras I mean iPhones. Because it’s 2013.

So we got the place and sauntered shambled in to find out how the process worked. Each kid was given a small bucket. Each bucket had a capacity of two pints. Each pint cost $5. Six kids, six buckets, sixty dollars.

YOU MAY ONLY FILL YOUR BUCKETS LESS THAN HALFWAY!

We screamed that at them as they tore off down the rows of blueberry bushes.

We needn’t have worried.

blueberry spoilsI’m going to go ahead and guess that blueberries are friggin expensive because they’re so dang hard to collect. After 10 minutes or so, the kids all had at least three blueberries each.

Eventually we ended up with four pints of blueberries altogether, which may or may not have been too many, but when you think about it … who can have too many blueberries?

And if you do, you put them in the freezer and make pie out of them in December.

P.S. The kids pretended they were ninja power ranger super spy blueberry farmers. They had a blast.

P.P.S. The majority of them declared afterward that they hate blueberries and how dare we suggest they eat them.

This Is Not a Post About Church — It’s About Target.

So hi.

I had this big long post all typed up for y’all about the church drama aftermath, but I forgot to save it.

Just kidding. Jesus saves my soul, and I save all my writing just about every other sentence. The truth is that it’s long and messy and super sad and I’m trying really hard to have a positive attitude and not get trapped in the quagmire of crap surrounding this particular situation.

There’s more to life than that. Which is why I use words like quagmire — because that’s seriously a great word.

So I’ll tell you that Leif, to his credit, has decided to take the girls to church elsewhere on his Sundays.

And that’s all I have to say about that, because a dead horse is not worth beating.

Now onto more interesting things — like shopping at Target.

You may or may not have heard, but I’m a single mom now. And single moms aren’t exactly rolling in dough. Also, I’m the one that moved out, and I took very little with me. So now I have this mostly empty house that needs some stuff.

The girls took care of the lack of a dining table by turning the dining room into a campground. Done. And they have beds, I bought a couple cheap couches, and there are stools at the kitchen counter. We’re making do, and honestly, I’m enjoying the minimalist lifestyle for a bit. Cleaning is much easier this way.

But I really wanted some backyard furniture. The girly girls have been loving having a yard after years of condo-living, plus I’m one of those I-love-nature girls, so I’ve been wanting a place to park my rear that wasn’t the retaining wall or the plastic child-sized picnic table my parents let us nick from their house.

Enter Target. I took the girls to get some sunscreen, a kiddie pool, and a box-o-wine, and looked up to see this:

Target girls on chairs

 

And then I saw this:

Target chair price tag

Which led to this:

Target cart

But then on the way to the register, I saw these!

Target stools

And this:

Target stool tag

And so with one hand pushing the loaded cart, the other carrying one stool, Thing 1 diligently carrying the other, and Thing 2 dancing along backward behind us, we made our way to the register.

The lady took one look at us and asked, “Would you like some help out today?”

Yes. Yes I would, thank you.

Then this happened:

Target trunk

And that, my friends, is Target done like a boss.

Turning 30 & Other Chatter

So I didn’t get my list done. I mostly blame that whole campaign thing. Did you know you barely have time to breathe when you’re working on a campaign, let alone go shooting or ride horses or take a helicopter ride? Then the whole drama of coming home and everyone needing to readjust to the normal again.

Plus the holidays.

But it’s not the first time I’ve set out to do something and failed, and it certainly won’t be the last. So Imma gonna keep my list and try to keep on trying new things, because what’s the point of life if you don’t?

I haven’t been blogging much recently because … well because I haven’t really felt like it. There’s personal drama. A few of my closest friends are going through their own dramas. My political party is basically a circular firing squad at the moment, and everyone’s either yelling or ignoring each other. My taxes are going up.

“Hey everyone! Things are sorta crappy right now, but thanks for stopping by!” <– Didn’t seem appropriate. Neither did putting on a fake happy face and pretending everything’s hunky-dory. So I’ve shared a story here or there about something cool that happened, but I haven’t been sharing the ins-and-outs of my life like I normally do, mostly because there hasn’t been that much worth sharing.

SEE?? NOW I’M DEPRESSING MYSELF. Gah.

So here’s what I know:

  • Barrack Obama only has one term left
  • This too shall pass
  • Getting older is better than the alternative, which is dying
  • I have some amazing friends that I wouldn’t trade for their weight in gold (that’s saying something in this economy)
  • My girls are amazing

Thing 2 cute story — This morning she hopped into bed with me after Leif went to work, and while nuggling asked me, “Mommy? You wanna know who I love more than even you and Daddy?”

“Who’s that, baby?”

“My sissy. Because she always knows how to calm me down when I’m crying, and then she makes me laugh.”

My heart melted. I want nothing more than for my girls in this life to be close to each other, so moments like this totally rock.

Other things I know:

  • Ashley is going to visit me in a few weeks — YAY!
  • Duck Dynasty is one of the greatest shows on TV right now
  • Convincing myself that cheese for lunch is a good idea because it’s not carbs is backfiring in the form of tight waistbands
  • I’m going to have to start running again
  • Something about endorphins

I just got off the phone with Justin, and mentioned my lament about my 30 List. He said, “Hey, you’ll still be in your 30th year, so you have time!” I told him he was wrong, it would be my 31st year, since a baby is in it’s first year of life, and immediately replied, “Well, by Obama math…” See? I have awesome friends.

More things I know:

  • Nancy is taking me out for my bday tomorrow
  • My mom is taking me out Sunday
  • Leif is staying home from work on Monday (the BIG day)
  • It’s atrocious that I have to turn 30 on a Monday
  • I looked it up, and at least I get to turn 40 on a Saturday
  • My dog desperately needs a bath
  • Sniff sniff … I, um, could probably use a bath too

Sorry.

Here’s to a better 2013, everyone!

The Time Ashley Taught Me About Football

I really did want to go to a professional football game before I turned 30, but then I looked up how much tickets to those things cost, had a heart attack, and decided that learning about football in a sports bar in Las Vegas with my best friend Ashley sounded fine by me. More money for beer!

And we watched college football instead of professional football because it was Saturday and also because it was some big important game called the SEC or something. Hey, I said I learned about football, not about the divisions and structure and whatnot.

We were at the bar with a pitcher, and there were TVs all over the place with all sorts of football stuff going on. At this point, I knew there was something called a down, and it might be ten yards long. Seriously people, I was a football dunce.

Ash was an awesome teacher. We got a take-out box and turned it upside down to make our ‘field.’ Then we couldn’t find a pen, so we used lipstick to diagram. We are very resourceful girls, after all. She explained to me about the four chances to move the ball ten yards closer to your goal, and I asked why the quarterback didn’t just throw the ball down the field, then thanks to our lipstick players on our take-out field, I answered my own question — because then the other team would catch it and gain possession. Ok, that makes sense.

We eventually found a pen.

Whenever there was a big play in the game, Ash would (very patiently — I love you Ashley!!) take the time to explain what just happened. We talked about the advantages and disadvantages of strong offense or strong defense. I remembered Leif telling me one time that there’s a version of football where the same players play both offense and defense for their team. I asked her about that and she said, “Rugby. That’s called rugby.” (Later Leif told us it’s called ironman … I think that’s right.)

At one point they moved the sticks, and I was understanding what was going on, and asked what else there was to know about how to play the game. Ash told me that I got it. I mean, of course there are tons of plays, nuances of players on the field, coaching styles, etc., but as far as the how-to-play-the-game-of-football part of it was concerned, I got it.

“Are you telling me that this entire game consists of guys in tight pants chasing a ball up and down the field in 10 yard increments?” I asked incredulously. How come no one had ever told me that before?

“Yup. God bless America.” Bless it indeed.

“How come no one ever explained it to me rationally like that?”

“Because you’ve probably been taught by men, and they always make things more complicated than they are.”

That’s a fact.

And now I might even watch the Superbowl for more than the commercials.

P.S. I’m sure all eight boys that read my blog are wanting to explain to me right now that it’s much more complicated. Chillax, guys. I watched football and I didn’t hate it. Be proud of me. 

The Time I Argued with a Libertarian in a Bar in Vegas and Got Free Aerosmith Tickets.

New York New York is totally the same as NYC, right?

Even though there are still weeks until Christmas, the likelihood of actually getting myself to New York City to do the whole Rockettes thing is slim to none. I didn’t end up winning that lottery, and since I try to be responsible with my money, NYC is out.

So I did the next best thing and went to Vegas with Ashley.

We had planned to run the Rock and Roll half marathon like we did last year, but she had foot problems and I had campaign problems, so training was out the wayside for us. Instead, we just went for a fun weekend of girlfriend time.

There was plenty of food, fun, wine (there was much wine), and lots of laughing (because we are hilarious and also probably because the wine), and not even a little bit of running.

It’s time for a cool story and a lesson in why it sometimes pays off to argue with libertarians in bars in Vegas at 2 a.m. On Friday night, Ash and I headed to bed relatively early, but after chilling out for a bit, I wanted to go back down to the scene. Ashley was asleep (we’ll blame the time difference for that).

Cocktail dresses and plastic seats ... concert time!

I went down to the bar and ordered a Grey Goose and soda, because that’s my go-to drink, and I fiddled around on my iphone. A couple dudes made sloppy passes at me and I totally brushed them off (because gross), but I actually got to chatting with this coherent guy named Rocky.

We did the whole “what do you do” song and dance, and I admitted that I just got off the Romney campaign … and he admitted that he likes Ron Paul. Nooooooooo! Say it ain’t so, Rocky! So we talked about validity of ending the fed, what national security means to us, etc, and I told him he was wrong. Chemtrails did not come up. Thankfully.

Guess what Rocky does? He works for Cheap Trick. Cheap Trick was opening for Aerosmith on Saturday. Rocky asked me if I wanted tickets. Um, yes please. I wrote my name and number down on a napkin with no expectation of ever hearing from him, especially when he bolted fairly abruptly soon after that.

Steven Tyler still rocks for being approximately 108 years old.

The next day, I was at a sports bar learning about football when my phone buzzed. It was Rocky. I had two tickets at will call. I told Ashley, who immediately did a happy dance before going stone cold sober and asking, “We’re not going to have to have sex with him, are we?”

“I don’t think so…” (Don’t worry Leif, I wouldn’t have)

We went to the concert. Great seats. We were next to the stage with other “friends of the band” and one of the things I love about Vegas is that when I met Doug who was sitting behind me, he said that “built this place,” referring to MGM Grand, and I honestly don’t know if that means he’s a major investor, or he swung a hammer.

We didn’t get to meet up with Rocky again, because by the time Aerosmith with done playing (AMAZING, in case you were wondering), he was already on the road to the next show. But it was a really nice thing to do for the argumentative Republican chick in the bar.

Thanks, Rocky!

Argo and My Eclectic Friends

I have awesome friends. Regular readers will be familiar with Ashley, my partner in crime, but I am so blessed to have a plethora (how many piñatas would you say I have?) of dear friends. They come from different walks of life, but they have one thing in common — they all put up with me.

My teenage friend Madeline came to visit me in Boston this past weekend. She’s the daughter of lovely Hillary, and is a girl wonder. She’s visiting me from Dartmouth, where she’s currently studying French, humanities, and economics. I told you she was a girl wonder.

With the lovely Madeline

I’ve known Madeline since she was twelve, as my friend’s daughter and one of my kids’ favorite babysitters. I’ve loved watching her grow up, and now I consider her a friend of mine in her own right.

Meanwhile, I have this other good friend Justin. He’s a decade-plus older than me, male, and Mormon. I know, by all accounts, it doesn’t make sense, but for some reason we click as friends and work really well together as colleagues. He and I are both in Boston for Romney right now — he crunches numbers and I write about them. Basically.

I’ve talked to Madeline and Justin about each other, but they’ve never met, because why would they have? They live in different parts of the country and have nothing in common but me. Which brings us to this past weekend in Boston.

Justin and I took Madeline to dinner at The Melting Pot, because we both remember what it was like to be a poor college student and how NICE it was to be taken out for non-dorm food. She was instructed to pay it forward someday. Thankfully it was a much better experience than my 29th birthday party, and no knuckle hair was singed by the flambé.

Leif tries to steal my friends. *tries*

We also saw Argo, which I’ll talk about in a minute, but I have to comment on my sweet friends first. Justin walked us back to my apartment, because it was late and dark, and he’s a gentleman. Madeline and I said goodbye, and as soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “Oh my gosh, I LOVE Justin! I totally get it now — he’s awesome!”

Meanwhile, Justin texted me, “Oh my gosh, Madeline is amazing! So bright and beautiful and always beaming … I totally get it now!”

My response to both — “I know, right??”

I may have an eclectic mix of friends, but they make me happy, and I’m so glad when they get to mix and mingle and end up liking each other.

So now back to this movie. If you get a chance, y’all should go see Argo. It’s the story of the Iranian hostage crisis in 1979, and if you’re informed about politics in the Middle East, just put your hands over your ears and close your eyes for the first five minutes and rest assure that the narrator gives the Hollywood-ized version of events leading up to the capture of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and dozens of Americans who were held hostage for over a year.

But whatever. If we boycotted every movie that glossed over complicated political situations (especially when it might be Jimmy Carter’s fault), we’d have nothing to watch.

During the riot in which the Iranians took over the embassy, six Americans escaped and hid out with the Canadians for a while. This super smart CIA rescuer guy, Tony Mendez (Ben Affleck) came up with this insane plot to rescue them and get them back to America — by pretending to be a Canadian film crew scouting locations for a new movie called Argo.

I’m sure lots of liberty was taken in the retelling, but it was a good nail-biting adventure, and the end will make you feel all gooey and sappy for America.

Oysters

Everyone knows that oysters are poison to children. The only thing that comes out of the sea that’s not poisonous to children is breaded and deep-fried and served with a healthy dose of catsup. Even then, not every kid will eat fish sticks. (mine won’t)

In case you doubt me on this, I refer you to Honest Toddler, who had this to say about how one should serve seafood:

Almond-Crusted Halibut and Green Beans
Step 1: Give the green beans to a homeless individual.
Step 2: Take the almonds off of the halibut.
Step 3: Put the halibut on a clean surface.
Step 4: Ask yourself what halibut is.
Step 5: Google “halibut” on your home computer.
Step 6: Hold back your tears when you find out.
Step 7: Gently place halibut in the outside trash next to the carrots.
Step 8: Order tacos.

Anyway, I’ve never tried oysters. Because I was a kid, then I was a vegetarian for years (I know, I can’t explain it either), and then because they freaked me out because they look like giant boogers on half shells.

Seriously. Who decided to crack open the rocky looking things and eat the slimy stuff in the middle?

Ashley loves oysters, and said I had to try them. She said something about them tasting like the sea. I love the ocean. I love salt. I love fish. Seems like a perfect fit.

Justin loves oysters too. “They’re sooooo good!”

I’m living in Boston right now, which I associate with oysters, because clam chowder, and clams and oysters are like totally the same thing because they’re bivalves.

Huh. I did learn something in high school biology.

So last night Justin convinced me to eat oysters.

They were … slimy.

And salty.

They tasted like ocean slime.

I had one and didn’t hate it. Had another and didn’t love it. Had a final one and then ordered champagne and a steak.

Next time I’m ordering shrimp cocktail.