It’s on days like today, when the sun decides the world is not worthy of its rays leaving us destitute with the bitter cold, I overdose on green things. Whether it be a plastic black cup with a lone brisk stalk holding up an over sized non-seasonal daisy or a chunky vegetable I presume to loathe, I need something in the bleak of winter to get me through the chest-aching 25-and-below degree days January always punishes us with.

Usually I spend the beginning part of every year (like this part, right now) coming down with a bad case of cabin fever. And I get it bad. I’m stir crazy, severely vitamin D deficient and a complete nut case — just ask my husband. He came home last week from a business trip to an entirely rearranged house and a room full of sealed boxes ready to be sent off to storage. His things, yes, they are gone. Thrown away. It’s what I do. It’s how I cope. Come save us all. Because if I don’t throw away the excessive amount of (what I’m now told were) receipts and random scribbled notes from the desk void of its owner, then I would have to step outside and do normal things, like get the mail or take out the trash. And let me sum up quickly what would happen to me if I actually did those things: I would die. My inner core would succumb to the air so dry, so cold it forces what feels like a thousand knives into my chest making it ache like I’m having a heart attack until, well, I actually do have a heart attack. So the complaints I get about this clean desk being, umm clean, is really my way of showing him I have serious self-preservation skills, meaning I’m still around to cook. But I hate to air out our little quarrels my surmounting life problems (did I mention teething? We’re doing that over here too…), so back to what I was saying previously:

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We went to the dentist last week. We’re still getting over it. Yes, I am one more in the mass number of people who hate/loathe/are tempted to put off (read: skip) their routine cleanings. I’m still all nerves about the ordeal and I’ve had almost a week to recover. On top of the typical scraping and scratching and poking and vicious vibrations, the cracked lips, the jaw tension and tension induced migraine that all comes with the procedure of professional mouth cleaning, they also gave me the added bonus of a nasty cold and sore throat I was sure would turn into strep if I made one mistake (read: did not follow their instructions to floss 5,000 times a day and after each meal, including snacks, like gum.) You would think that a regular, normal, compassionate human being would not want a profession of making someone elses morning so cruelly dreadful. I mean, it’s kind of a risky profession when almost every human being would rather the alternative of letting their teeth fall out instead of having to worry about the blood bath their mouth is about to undergo.

Anyway, after they did whatever horrible thing they do inside mouth caverns, they told me in big, large, medical jargon that my mouth was a diseased black hole. I should note that I did not, and do not have any cavities. I’m just saying, 24 years without cavities deserves some recognition, like a party, or my picture on their wall of no-cavity-mouth fame, right? But no. I was accused of not wearing my retainer, which in my defense I never pretended like I wore it, and invasive pictures of my gums were then flashed before my eyes and I was told shame on you Meg. Shame. And I walked out feeling terrible about my life’s non-flossing ways and how I was told if I even wanted a remote chance of keeping the remaining teeth I had (read: that would be all of them) then I needed to be an avid, aggressive flosser and to never eat a single thing again to protect the careful scrape job just preformed on my pie hole. Oh yes, and I needed some fancy, vibrating tooth brush because my arms (which are super strong and built from lugging my 24-pound toddler baby around) were just too weak to use a manual, normal, grounded person’s toothbrush.

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We’re chiming in from the beach this week, but before you start perusing our few vacation pictures and getting jealous over what seems like the picture perfect family vacation, let me just tell you this: we booked a week long vacation in a beautiful two bedroom beach house with a huge granite-clad kitchen, hard wood floors that were pristinely clean and baby gak-free (ohmygawd yes!), was surprisingly and wonderfully wicker-free, and came complete with an adorable front yard hammock swing for two during the week that was 1. muy caliente, similar to what I imagine a cayenne pepper dry rub on your tongue would feel like, except not just contained to the mouthal region. 2. Raining, raining, and raining as predicted for the only week we’d be hoping to catch some rays instead of thunderstorms and a few random doses of lighting and down pours keeping us permanently sealed up inside. 3. Came directly after the week that everything went wrong, including our AC crumbling into shambles 18-hours prior to leaving, and 4. A dramatic teething epicenter after my 7-month old decided to unexpectedly without warning suddenly grow and pop out his first two itty bitty teef which carried along the associated grumpiness that accompanies such endeavors. I mean, really. I hate to sound like the world’s biggest complainer here, but is it just me or does anyone else feel like their life seems to turn completely upside down as if you, your world and all its contents were baton twirled in a rain stick at the most inopportune moments.

I promise, though, not to complain, or even mention the staggering list of negatives. Regardless of everything, we are having ourselves one of the best, relaxing, fun vacations we could have. The sun has popped out on a few occasions letting us take baby to the beach where he’s experienced everything from naps in salty ocean breezes, to face planting in hot sand with a full tasting menu of all its glorious grit, to the feeling of cool ocean waves lapping at toes and baby rolls. A sand castle was even attempted, though quickly ditched as the heat wave we tried so desperately to escape never let us out of its grasp and ran us right back inside. We’ve even managed to have a few beautiful sunsets as I seem to be the typical woman and drag my husband across islands to see which spot gives me, err, us the best viewing advantage of this daily occurrence. He never gets annoyed — I’m so lucky.

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How lame would you think I am if I admitted being super secretly obsessed with shaved vegetables. For years. Years. Two years ago my infatuation with swirly, curly ribbon peelings from a few carrots led me fervently hunting for a carrot salad comprised of twirls. None suited me, so I moved on. To important things. Fast forward to the next year, last year, my husband went diet gun-ho on me and for two months straight I shaved razor thin strips of zucchini as a pasta-esque-ish-like-trickery served up underneath a ladle full of fresh tomato sauce or simply tossed in some olive oil, salt and pepper. Then, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.

Maybe I have a tiny human brain or my subconscious is refusing to cram in any more cooking information despite my conscious’ desire to learn more, do more, and remember all. It’s not the first time my brain has gone faulty. Failing to use the necessary brain functions needed to create, form and remember memories, facts, information, routine pedicures. You know. Essential stuff. But things were lost (weight) and things were gained (pregnancy brain) and old discoveries have become new discoveries and discovering new things, even though they were old things, can really make my day — like finding a random 20 in between my couch cushions after deciding they should be cleaned…4 1/2 years after buying them.

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Last Tuesday was our four year anniversary. I know. I’m twenty-three with four years of marriage under my belt and a still alive, somewhat small-ish two month old. We celebrated (the anniversary, not the still alive baby, though both deserve a party) by going on our second date after the whole baby thing happened. Thankfully your prayers worked. We did not once discuss our little valentine (unless you count the time when I realized there was dried spit up on my shirt, sigh). Our prix-fixe menu was superb with lobster risotto, tender short ribs (apparently I am a sucker for a good short rib since I’ve ordered it the last four times we’ve gone out) and a champagne caramelized mango tatin, if you’re me, or a hazelnut chocolate bread pudding and caramelized banana parfait if you’re him. Yes, our anniversary date was a success and the deep red roses are still perfuming the house (even though the florist was a day late, “too many orders”. Excuse my eye roll).

But before he knew the florist would fail him, my husband thought he would “have some fun”. After far too many hints (in  my opinion) and a desperate plea to go to the store for a “few items” (read: at least bring home a picked over bouquet of daisies) he came home with the ugliest, half dead, burnt orange and brown Idontknowhwhaththeheckyouaresupposetobe flowers and a package of baby’s breath (which in four years of marriage he has made one thing clear: his hatred for the tiny white buds) and a card (sorry, honey. I thought you were actually serious about this…) making me think he tried his hardest to find the most decent, award winning flowers and a funny/cute card (copy this card I got him 2 years ago) to make me laugh. I will not lie. I was extremely disappointed*. I wanted to shove the flowers in the trash can behind him, but refrained and left them on the table to finish their long, slow, miserable wilting death. I channeled my anger into reading my CI magazine that appeared last week instead.

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