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| Crazy kids. |
First off, a big ol’ smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee…and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.
I’ve got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would’ve thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)
Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.
Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I’m just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o’ looks. (And we’ve only just begun!)
Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don’t know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I’ve steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That’s also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don’t want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.
Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone’s husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.
When I was 20 years old- and it can’t even be called a rebellious piercing, since that’s embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That’d better be visible.) And it is. Unless I’m wearing my hair down. (It’s on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one’s ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin’.
And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)
At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)
So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.
Except for the tragus thing.
I am not kidding about the pain.
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