While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Mr. Big Deal Package

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When I was a senior at Buffalo State College I attended a frat party at nearby SUNY Geneseo, where my best friend Ro was studying speech pathology. I was less than a year away from earning a bachelor’s degree in journalism.

In between keg stands and the Beastie Boys’ greatest hits I met a guy who started our conversation by bragging about his package. Uh. Wait. I mean his degree in packaging.

“PACKAGING?” I asked.

“Packaging engineering,” he replied.

I was incredulous. Frat boys are expert bullshitters, especially condescending drunk ones.

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A Q&A (due) date with Nicole

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Meet Nicole, whose baby girl (Lily) shares the same June 1 due date as my Henry.

Nicole is a teacher in Upstate New York. She used to work with my best friend Ro and my sister Heelya. I actually met her for the first time last July at Ro’s wedding in Buffalo. Joe and I were tearing up the dance floor when this beautiful, leggy blonde came up to us, introduced herself and said she was an avid Lance reader.

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Western NY must sip: Winery of Ellicottville

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Over the summer, one of my nearest and dearest childhood friends opened a winery in Ellicottville, N.Y.

Psssst … Joe and I got married in Ellicottville in September 2009. Sam Sheehy and his father-in-law, Dominic Spicola, opened the Winery of Ellicottville on Monroe Street in the village just one year later.

Had it been open for our wedding, you can bet our bridesmaids and groomsmen would have enjoyed wetting their whistles here.

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From Gate C34

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Five things before I get on this plane to Buffalo:

1. Remember that 10.10.10 footage I shot of my father flying his Cessna for the One Day On Earth documentary film project?

It was accepted! I received an email from the organization earlier this week asking for the raw video files on a memory card. How awesome would it be if it actually made it into the film? My dad would be a star.

2. On a related note, I’ll board my dad’s puddle jumper any day over a commercial airliner.

I don’t care what your opinion is on the matter. Airport security is a racket. A circus. I don’t believe for a second that a fraction of the “precautions” and rules instituted by the Transportation Security Administration are in place to protect us. While standing in the security line this morning, the guy behind me accidentally slapped me in the face with his belt. I’ve never been slapped in the face with a belt before. It stung. He was mortified. I told him it was only a matter of time before I took a belt to the face at the airport. In no other place do hordes of strangers stand shoulder-to-shoulder and strip at a breakneck pace.

And then, after setting my bags on the scanner belt, I was pulled aside and lectured for having packed a small SEALED bottle of juice. I admit, I was pretty sure the bottle wouldn’t get past the TSA screeners, but as a nearly-six-months-pregnant lady, I require nourishment every few hours. A small fruit smoothie is a good way to get it. Plus, it was expensive. I blame my rabble-rouser husband, who when I expressed my concern over having the juice confiscated by airport security, said:  “To hell with airport security. If they take it from you, you tell ’em, ‘I dare you to steal a bottle of juice from a pregnant woman!'”

3. Thanks to the Snowpocalypse 2011, my flight yesterday was canceled.

I’m now minus a day with my family.

4. My mom is throwing me a baby shower this weekend.

I cannot wait to see my aunts, my cousins, their babies, my friends and Uncle Homer The Pug. To welcome our female guests, my mom and I are planning to build a pregnant snow woman in the front yard.

5. If you Google “boyfriend sleeping” The Lance is the 4th hit down!

I’ve not paid for this privilege, nor have I done anything to make my site SEO-friendly. This is simply thanks to you people. The way Google works is the more hits you get, the higher you climb on the Internet search food chain. As I’ve mentioned before, I have no idea how many hits I get. I stopped tracking traffic two years ago.

The words “boyfriend” and “sleeping” are pretty common, eh?

I’m flattered and grateful for your readership.

—

PS. I took the photo inside my dad’s airplane hanger the summer of 2006.

Life is like a jar of pickles

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Tomorrow is 2011. The date sounds so futuristic to me.

Tonight Joe and I have dinner reservations at a trendy new restaurant in downtown St. Pete.

I plan on wearing a dress, red lipstick and high heels.

I’ve looked forward to this date all week.

And yes, I plan on having a sip (or two) of champagne. The baby and I could use a little fizz to ring in the New Year.

But that’s tonight.

Right now it’s 4:11 in the afternoon and I’m still digesting the sandwiches I made today for myself and my friend Wendy Joan, who pedaled her bicycle over to my place today for lunch.

Tomato, mozzarella and basil on pita with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, followed by strawberry salad, followed by chocolate truffles. Deeeeeelicious.

So, yeah, I keep thinking 2011 sounds futuristic, but right now the coming year feels comfortably quaint.

Why is that?

First: because Wendy brought me the cutest jar of homemade pickles. (That’s the jar above. Adorable, right?)

Second: because she rode her bicycle here.

Third: because she used to live in Sarasota, but recently moved to St. Pete and now we live a mere two miles apart.

Fourth: because Wendy is originally from Buffalo, which means we immediately have 500 Buffalo things to talk about, like the fact that she also worked at the McKinley Mall and that there’s a pretty good chance that during my four years at Waldenbooks our paths unknowingly crossed a dozen times.

Fifth: because Wendy is also a journalist.

When I woke up this morning I thought about how I want to feel in 2011. I thought about how nice it would be to stretch out the simple pleasures a little more. Of course I have my big goals and my big plans, but it’s the little stuff in between that keeps the big goals on track.

Little pleasures keep us well oiled. They make us better equipped for plowing through big stuff, heavy stuff.

The way I see it, if I can start off 2011 with a jar of homemade pickles, I’m doing alright.

Happy New Year, beloved Lance-a-lots. It’s gonna be a good one.

Peace. Love. And cold.

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I’m cool with the cold.

It can stay for a bit longer.

I know I moved to Florida for a break in the gray. For warmth. For sun. For sundresses. Flip flops. Enormous sunglasses.

But I miss the cold. I miss bundling. I miss warming my face over a hot cup of soup. I miss the crunch of snow. Skiing. Snowmobiling. The utilitarian function of long baths. How when you step outside on a bright white day, the air doesn’t move. Even your breathing is silent, as if your lungs are also wearing a sweater.

I realize how much I miss the cold when the square-jawed weathermen in Florida start shaking in their Izod shirts and advising people to cover their plants and dress their children in snowsuits every time the temperature drops below 50.

The cold is such a novelty in Florida, like juggling monkeys or monogrammed pillows.

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The joys of being a post office groupie

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I’m sitting on a futon in my living room.The pug is curled up beside me, snoring. He woke up about five minutes ago and burrowed out from under the covers of the bed, where Joe is currently (still) sleeping (in).

By June we’ll have a baby in this house, which means I now regard my husband’s sleeping habits with bitter sweetness.

The pug and I are on a futon because I sold our brown couch Thursday for $80 on Craigslist. (Yes, the brown couch my men are asleep on in the photo to your left.)

Over the course of nine months, I managed to save $1,092 in a mason jar to purchase a plush new sofa with an enormous seat and an equally enormous ottoman.

I told Joe it was important that I have a soft place to land as I get fatter and more pregnant. So, Merry Christmas to me.

But that’s not the point of this post.

As evidenced by the title, I’m here to espouse the pleasures of penpalship.

That’s right. PEN PALS.

Do you have one?

Chances are you had one many moons ago. It used to be that teachers encouraged the old-fashioned art of letter writing by hooking students up with pen pals in cities far from yours. Of course this was prior to email, which I’m also a fan of but for reasons completely separate from why I adore ACTUAL HANDWRITTEN MAIL.

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Pregnancy Confession No. 1

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[I can't give up coffee.]

I let myself have one cup a day.

The first three months I was so nauseous coffee smelled downright repugnant. 

Repugnant. 

I was baffled and crushed.

Now that I feel good again, dare I say normal again,
I want my favorite brew so bad.

Oh, Timmy Ho's. I cherish you.
I drag you out. I make you last for 30 minutes. Sometimes 45.

The weather has been gloriously cold, which makes you taste even better.
Like I'm drinking you in Buffalo. 

I pour you into my favorite mug and I cup you for warmth.
Sometimes I take you with me when I'm walking the pug. 

And with each baby sip, I feel more and more electric.

It's a subtle doping.
A modicum of caffeine that according to recent studies,
is OK for pregnant women.

In small doses.

So in small doses I take you in.
And if I crave you again later that day,
I make a cup of hot chocolate. 

It's a close second.
And for now, it'll do.  

---

Kimberlee & Jonathan | October 9, 2010

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Western New York | The Quintessential Fall Wedding

When my friend Kim asked me too shoot her wedding in our hometown, I was honored and thrilled. When she told me it was in October, I was even more thrilled.

The fall in Western New York is breathtaking and Kim and Jon picked a date that turned out to be the peak of fall foliage.

A trolley named The Fonz transported the wedding party from North Collins, where Kim and I grew up, to the church, where I once wrote an article about a pipe organ for our weekly newspaper, to Knox Farms, where the groomsmen dutifully posed along a fence until it broke. (See below.)

Take 1: Down goes the fence.

This one’s even better: the guy in the middle goes down and his fellow groomsmen catch him.

I loved photographing Kim in the makeup chair at John Roberts Salon. Here’s a little fun fact about Kim: in college she used to sleep with a full face of makeup in case there was a fire drill in the middle of the night. The night before her wedding she also slept in makeup.

Beautiful, makeup or no makeup.

Mirror, mirror in my hand. Who’s the fairest bride in the land?

Kim desperately wanted to take pictures with her two pooches, but in the end she decided we didn’t have enough time between primping and trolley pick-up. Instead she brought a framed photo of her fur children to the salon, where they sat in spirit and watched the bridesmaids get up-do’ed.

The wind in the willows & the dress in the tree.

By all means, kick off your heels in the leaves and stay awhile.

A little collage action.

Kim and her dad.

Each lady delicately pinned a flower to her waist.

The unveiling.

Kim has a photo of she and her dad ambling down the street in front of their house when she was a little girl. She wanted to recreate that. Here’s the shot from the front.

And from the back. Hello shadows.

Bouquets courtesy of Etsy. Wise choice!

Pretty maids in a row … boarding The Fonz.

Kim and her mom.

This shot is one of my favorites for a few reasons. We’re sitting in the church parking lot. Guests are filing into the church, including the groom and his groomsmen. Kim is hiding behind the Just Married sign in the back of the trolley so no one will see her. She’s watching all the people she’s ever known in her life walk from their cars to the church to see HER get MARRIED. It’s a surreal moment and she realizes it. I imagine the look on her face is a combination of nervousness and anticipation.

I can’t say enough good things about the bridesmaids. They were all so sweet, patient and lovable. Not to mention stunning in their purple dresses.

Back at Knox Farms. As we meandered through the property in The Fronz trolley, I spotted a few dilapidated barns that I thought would work splendidly for photos. (Juxtaposition!) But of course our farm “tour guide” wouldn’t allow us to shoot beside these crumbling structures. (Liability!) I thought they were being overly cautious until the fence fell.

At one point Jonathan busted out a pink suit coat and aviator shades. I’ve never seen a dude look so dapper in pink.

I don’t know which is more delightful: The fact that there’s a ray of light cutting through this shot. Or that Kim is posing like a model in a bridal magazine.

Wondering how to pump up a hungry crowd at the start of a wedding reception? Make your entrance under an awning of inflatable baseball bats.

The koozies were an ode to one of Jon’s favorite outdoor hobbies. (That’s my best friend Ro holding the beer. She also served as a hand model at my wedding.)

Jon and Kim engage in a twisted-arm champagne toast.

And then dance like no one is watching.

—

To J+K: Thank you for letting me capture the day. Much love and congratulations. I hope you’re having a fantastic time zip-lining through the Dominican Republic.

To those of you who don’t believe in fate: Kim told me there was a “Post-it note mishap” in the early stages of the wedding planning process that resulted in accidentally booking the church for Oct. 9 instead of Oct. 2 –– her original wedding date. It turns out the mix-up was fortuitous. The Oct. 2 weather was dreadfully cold and rainy. The Oct. 9 weather? Well, you saw the pictures.

Running, returning

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I woke up this morning at 7 a.m.

7 a.m. on a Sunday! WTF? I feel like my Nana. Actually, if I were my Nana, I’d have slept in like a bear this morning. Nana rises at 5 a.m.

Maybe it’s because I ran a practice triathlon yesterday. And by practice triathlon, I mean I swam 60 laps in the North Shore Pool, followed by a 3-mile run, followed by a 14-mile bike ride — a repeat of the last two weekends.

Maybe it’s because I went out to dinner with friends last night to a trendy Italian restaurant with an hour-long wait, which we spent wisely at the bar, drinking vodka cocktails.

Maybe it’s because I’ve got one week left until my second triathlon.

(Yes, I signed up for a second triathlon. I told you I would.)

I don’t know how familiar you are with Florida weather in August and September, but it ain’t fit to move in. The way I used to feel in a Buffalo after a long hard winter is the way I feel in Florida after a long hot summer. The Florida summers are my Buffalo winters. Any time anyone in this state dare comments on the bleakness of Buffalo, I tell them sweating for five months and shivering for five months takes the same depressing toll on the body.

I need to be outside and moving. Got too much energy to burn. If something gets in the way of that, I get pissy.

So the second tri is Oct. 3 on Siesta Key Beach. Next Sunday.

This time I roped my four-foot-11 spitfire sister, PK, into doing it. We gave ourselves two months to train — a whole 30 days longer than the last time I trained.

I figured training with PK would be a good excuse to spend more time together. Under normal circumstances she avoids my many requests to run, bike, kayak and/or do yoga together. Like many fitness fiends, I think everyone shares my love of physical exertion. I’m annoying like that.

But under “triathlon training” circumstances, PK would HAVE to be my workout buddy.

I still can’t believe she enthusiastically signed up for this thing. It cost $100 to register and PK is famously cheap.

While our training regime has been a little too lax for my liking, it has consisted of some weekend marathon swimming/running sessions.

PK has made enormous progress.

Her swimming has evolved from an awkward goggle-less doggie paddle to a full-on flutter-kicking crawl stroke, goggles and all. Yesterday she swam 50 laps this way.

A treadmill-runner, PK was unaccustomed to pounding pavement, so when we ran our first three miles outside (in the blistering heat) she walked frequently between runs. Her first three miles (back in August) took 42 minutes. Yesterday she cut that time down by almost 10 minutes.

I’m very proud of her.

Yesterday she told me she loved swimming so much she thinks she’ll stick it out after the tri is over. She’s become an underwater torpedo.

As for me? I’m ready for Tri No. 2.

Last night as I crawled into bed, my limbs and muscles exhausted, my head fuzzy from drinking, I told Joe that when I’m running, or biking or swimming, I’m 100 percent focused on getting from point A to point B, which is unusual for me. To not be distracted. To be fully honed in on something. To be fixated. Determined.

I’ve found that racing thoughts evaporate in the act of racing.

I think straighter when my heart rate is up.

—

PS. Photo by laura.foto.

PPS. Running, Returning is a song by Akron/Family. I like it for a lot of layered reasons.