I was a bossy little kid but a smart one from all the books she read me. She was not what we now call an “attachment parent,” but who was in the 80s?  We figured out how to play on our own while the “Young and the Restless” was on, or we just tuned in along with her to see what Victor was up to next. That said, there wasn’t another mother in my whole grade who would make giant, dinner-plate sized sugar cookies (Santa heads and bells, if I recall correctly) for each of the kids in my class for the Christmas party. And then afterwards she had to go to work for the evening, in her orthopedic shoes, and help people pick out cheap cosmetics, toiletries, toys, and the like at a pre-Walmart type drug store. When she got home at 9:15 or so, she’d often make microwaved nachos or a frozen pizza, or at the very least chop up a frozen Milky Way to share.

Once junior high and high school rolled around, she was working full time during the day. My dad started making our lunches, but some days my mom would wake up early, go to the grocery store, and make us some sort of extra awesome packed lunch (my favorites were when she made tuna noodle or seven-layer salads), complete with little notes or smiley faces written on the napkin. There were other days where we’d wake up and the entire house would be immaculate — she’d cleaned it overnight instead of sleeping.

When I was not picked by a group of catty little old VFW ladies to go to Girls State, my mom excused me from school the rest of the day and bought me a really cute stuffed animal rabbit, now affectionately referred to as Consolation Bunny. I don’t know what everyone got out of Girls State, but I still have that Bunny, and the reassuring knowledge that even when I don’t win, my mom will still think I’m worthy.

By the time I left for college, I, like George Bailey, was ready to kick the dust of my crummy little town off my feet and see the world. My dad got a bit choked up when it was time for my parents to leave me at school the first time, but not my mom. “It’s time,” she told people, and it certainly was.

My first summer after college brought my first taste of heartbreak, as well as a miserable job as a phone customer service representative for a credit card company. One day when I was crying on the phone to my mom during my break, she said she’d bring me McDonald’s during her lunch break. I survived the day, and the summer, but it was hard.

We talked a lot on the phone during law school, so much so that my mom thought that by the time I graduated, she was at least half a lawyer. Just this past year, she really did have to play the part of a lawyer, when I bullied her into contesting a ridiculous traffic ticket that she didn’t deserve. She won, and I couldn’t have been prouder.  Frankly, I’d like to hire her to make some exhibits for me for an upcoming trial, because she really knocked it out of the park in the exhibit-making department.

Once in awhile we still get into fights, but when we’re getting along, we get along famously. She makes for a good vacation buddy, despite swimming dangerously far out to sea or cajoling me to drive across mountains. She recognized the dangers of road rage way before that became a thing (always warning us that the idiot driver we wanted to flip off probably had a gun) and has elegant handwriting, even when the situation doesn’t call for it. She has champagne tastes and caviar dreams, and doesn’t hesitate to wear diamonds to the grocery store. Her music taste is questionable but usually harmless. She doesn’t feel old enough to be a grandmother yet, and therefore doesn’t bother me about not making her one. Her lucky numbers are 7 and 3, and she likes the color yellow, especially in roses, although pansies are her favorite outdoor flower. The strep virus is her kryptonite. People think her nails are fake because they are so perfectly shaped, which she does herself. In fact, she has no interest in day spas but can always be counted on to know the latest creepy story in the news. She is unsurprised by cheating politicians or homophobes who turn out to be gay. She makes really good gravy, and also, lately, cocktails.

I could go on, but I should probably get to the point, which is this–I love my mom for paying attention when I needed it and for ignoring me when I really didn’t, which gave me self-confidence and self-reliance that has come in handy many times. I love her for making big deals out of birthdays and holidays. I love her for being unique and fun and funny. I love her for being my mom, a difficult, mostly unacknowledged task. . . until today, since apparently the blog has become my parents’ main source of internet time wasting.  Jeez, Parents, just like the Fight Club, the first rule of the blog is, You Do Not Talk About The Blog. You can leave comments on the blog and link to it on your blogs, but you can’t talk about the blog in real life.  After all these years, I still have so much to teach them about the ways of the world.

But anyway, Happy Mother’s Day to my incomparable mom!  You obviously are a pretty terrific mom, given how well I turned out and all.  :)

it goes something like that.  You just stop whatever the heck you are saying midstream and make people wait a realllllllllly long time to hear the rest of the sentence.  Like, so long that the listener thinks the speaker might be having a stroke or perhaps forgot was he was saying.  Listeners are frequently tempted to interject with an “and???” or a “mm hmm?” or even a “spit it out, man!”  This was especially frustrating during pre-game and half time pep talks, when my dad was my basketball coach.

Speaking of my dad’s pre-game speeches, one time he honest-to-God (PUN!) read from the Bible.  I am not making this up.  Dad, do you remember when you imposed religion on public school students?  You could probably be fired for that, except in our town they would more likely give you a raise.

Anyway, I thought of the Ewald Pause twice today, once when Jeff left a voicemail in which I thought he’d hung up the phone for a few seconds before I realized he was Ewald Pausing it up, and then again when I was crafting a “folksy” opening statement for something at work.  That Ewald Pause is really going to come in handy there.  The jurors are going to be hanging on my every word (because I’m going to leave them hanging.  For an inordinately long time).  Thanks, Dad (seriously)!

Jeff: “You can’t just say that without coming to the table with a humorous example.  If I bought you a car, I’d make the license plate say ‘MOIST.’”

Ashley: “PANTIES.”

Jeff: “PANTIES doesn’t bother me.  Only you hate that word.  CLUMPY. CLOT.”

Ashley: “Those don’t bother me.  I’m even ok with MOIST.  Ok, I’m buying you DIVA CUP.”

Jeff: “I’m buying you three license plates.  MOIST CLUMPY HAIR.”

New topic.

Jeff: “I bet Andrew Bird has to drink a lot of water to whistle that well.  He has to stay moist.  He probably drinks, like, 8 glasses a day.”

Ashley: “That’s what you’re supposed to drink.”

Jeff:  ”What?  That’s way too much water.”

I managed to catch up with a few people who were actually decent human beings back in the day, and thankfully they all still were.  I also managed to have a very awkward conversation with a guy I used to have a crush on, though the reason(s) for said crush escape me now.  Looking back, every conversation I ever had with the kid would fall into the category of Elevator Small Talk.  Tonight I went over and said hello, we exchanged pleasantries about where we were living, etc.  He said he’d heard I was married (inner monologue: “Ooh, why does he know that? Was he keeping tabs on me?  Wait a second, did he just bring that up because he was worried I would try to awkwardly hit on him, and he wanted to remind me I had a husband at home?  Oh God, how do I get out of this conversation as quickly as possible?”).  I said we’d have to keep in touch on Facebook (we aren’t friends on Facebook, and I don’t plan on asking) and that it’d be fun to follow what I was sure would be his really fascinating and exciting career from my lowly perch in Minnesota.  Lame to throw in a self-deprecating putdown like that, I know, but I was nervous and babbling.  Then instead of saying, “Oh no, I’m excited to see what you are up to in 10 years” or “Hey, Minnesota is great; I miss it” or even just “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, “Nah. . . well, I’m sure you’ll still be in Minnesota.  Um.”  Crickets.

Awkward crush convo aside, my best law school friend and I agreed afterward that the night made us feel better about ourselves.  We have jobs, we look basically the same as we did five years ago, and we’re good enough, smart enough, and doggonit, people like us. Well, most people anyway.

The best meal I’ve ever made.  Grandma Ellie’s secret barbequed ribs recipe with my addition of creamy goat cheese polenta and steamed/salted broccoli.

This photo represents a disturbing realization: I have inherited a trait that a few of the crazier members of my mom’s extended family have exhibited, which is taking home food that doesn’t really lend itself to taking home.  Here, it was this beautiful basil out of a yummy gin/orange/basil/lemonade drink so that I could make another one at home.  The thing is, fresh basil is pricey, and this was really good-looking basil.  I couldn’t let that go to waste, especially when I realized I had the makings of a great home cocktail.
Here is the finished product.

No food in this photo, but that’s because it is on its way.  This is at a dive bar known for its garlic burgers just outside my hometown.  We surprised my dad for his birthday.  He was glad to see us, but I think he was happier to see the cake we brought him, which was from the bakery that made our wedding cakes.  Yum, and dangerous that we can get it whenever we want!

Here’s a series from a rare day that I woke up early and was glad that I had.  I really liked the way the morning light hit our picture through the blinds.

I was also a fan of the natural light hitting our sleeping lamp.

Definitely one of my favorite photos ever.  In this day of Photoshopping and Instagram filtering, would you believe that this photo is completely unprocessed?  I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t taken it myself.  What a morning!

Here’s Jeff explaining the finer points of his grandmother’s Easter Bread, which she baked and shipped to us from Ohio.  (*Note to Grandmas Vonnie and Ellie: you two really need to step it up.  Cookies are nice, but Vicky is sending us entire cakes.)  There was a lot of confusion on my part as to what Easter Bread is, the proper way to eat it, and whether there was or was not a tiny plastic or ceramic baby Jesus hidden inside.  In case you are also confused, it is bread with a sugary, colored sprinked top shaped like a cake, but you slice it like bread and toast it, then eat it with butter.  And no baby Jesus inside.  That’s Latin, apparently, not Italian.

Our oh so not traditional Easter dinner involved making paper thin lasagna noodles from scratch, a bolognese sauce that took 2 days to make, a lot of parmesan, and glory of glories, bechamel sauce.  Here it is in the raw.

And here it is with the primary taste tester AND egg hunter, Jeff.  Sadly, Jeff was not as thrilled with the lasagna as I was.  It definitely didn’t have that ubertomato/gooey cheese thing that we’re used to, but when you thought of it as more of a super fancy and meaty casserole and not traditional lasagna, it was amazing.  The homemade noodles were outstanding — I can never go back to dried store bought ones — although I felt the beef that we’d purchased was not up to snuff with the first-rate Morse Angus beef that we’ve grown accustomed to since returning to the Midwest.  I guess we’re officially beef snobs and proud of it!  (*Note to Ellie: can we buy some ground beef?  This grocery stuff is nasty and ruining my dinners.)

Last but not least, I’m pretty much a weather-spotter now.  Check out this massive wall cloud from this past Sunday.  I was convinced there was a tornado in there, but Jeff wouldn’t even get out of bed to take a look.  He was in bed at 6:30 p.m., by the way, after an arduous day of serving as a fake witness in a mock trial I had to do for work.  He played the role of George Smith, a 60-something year old man.  I figured Jeff would really ham it up, but as it happened, he had terrible stage fright and was studying his lines at 3 a.m. the night before.  He did fine, but we both agreed that it is for the best if he retire from mock witnessing.  In happier news, my trial partner and I scored a surprising and massive victory, and my closing argument was widely considered* to be instrumental in the win.  Feel free to call me Jack McCoy from now on.  Or Annie Leibovitz.  Or Julia Childs.  Up to you.  Just don’t call me a very good wife, because this apartment is a mess, we haven’t bought real groceries since Easter, I haven’t worked out in two months, and my pedicure will likely grow out before I get around to taking the polish off.  Well, I guess I can’t win ‘em all.

*by me

And then when you’re done with that, you can revel in this awesomeness (warning: some photos not safe for work), which inspired emotions ranging from disbelief, shock, awe, disgust, bewilderment, and especially amusement.  I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time.  Don’t miss part 2.

When I told Jeff what I had for lunch today (a cheese personal pan, obvi, with extra dipping sauce), he swore at me.  Not because he thought it was disgusting but because he was so jealous.  This is one of the things that I love about us.  We enjoy a fancy meal once in awhile, but we enjoy All American fast food even more.  Yes, we went to McDonald’s in Dublin.  Twice.  Well, actually, I’m not very proud of that, because I normally oppose eating McDonald’s in foreign countries unless one is really, really desperate, but it was so convenient, and it was just a snack, and we were trying to save money, and, well, it had really large TVs that played cool music videos, and it felt like a very exotic McDonald’s.

Anyway, I am already feeling a lot of anxiety about having to give up fast food and candy if we have kids.  I’ll have to sneak it on the side, along with diet pop.  Like the way people “go out to get something out of the garage” to have a cigarette, except I’ll be wolfing down cheeseburgers, fries, and Skittles.  Well, actually, the Skittles I could easily hide in my pocket and fake cough/feed myself a Skittle.  Phew!  Glad I at least can keep my candy.  Now I just need an opaque water bottle to hide the pop, and my addictions will be almost manageable.

Howdy, y’all! SO, I was rereading the blog, and I can’t believe I haven’t introduced the blogosphere to my awesome aunt and uncle, Kris and John. This picture is kinda old, but I couldn’t get one of them this Christmas, as they were in Guatemala collecting earthworms for their state fair entry for 2012. We are all keeping our fingers crossed for them that this is their year! More on that later, but first, by way of introduction:

–Kris has been a huge University of South Dakota fan since her freshman year, when she was kicked off the mascot squad at SDSU for forgetting her jackrabbit head at an away game. The horror! Humiliated, she switched sides, not knowing that fate was intervening on her behalf. . . cheering for USD was how she met my uncle! They were both at the national band championship and bumped into each other while reading their performance programs. It was love at first sight. How romantic! Aside from being a big USD booster and earthworm collector, Kris’ other hobbies include speaking at conferences about and in Primitive Quendian (she is a nationally-renowned expert in the subject! We are so proud!) and housetraining her flock of ferrets.

–John is my mom’s youngest sibling. He’d be the first to admit that as the baby of the family, he was given a lot of leeway growing up. While my mom and her sisters were slaving away on the farm, John was often in town at the practice rink, working on his figure skating routines. Although his Olympic dreams were dashed after a tragic thumb wrestling injury, he didn’t let that stand in the way of his flute playing, which of course led him to Kris and the national band competition. When not awakening Kris and children each morning with his stunning rendition of Bach’s “Partita,” he can frequently be found memorizing last week’s “Dancing With the Stars” routines, which he performs to great acclaim at assisted living centers across Eastern South Dakota with his traveling dance squad. Of course, neither Kris nor John let any of their professional or personal obligations stand in the way of a USD game. They are season ticket holders and haven’t missed a Coyote basketball or football game since the birth of their last child.

Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be hearing a lot more about this dynamic duo in the years ahead, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass them too much by writing any more today. Suffice it to say, they are a sweet, sweet couple.

Jeff, on the other hand, cannot pass up any song that has an a cappella break in it.  His favorite example is not a terribly good one, as the break happens at the end of the song (right around the 3:11 mark).  However, he just loves his Zooey so darn much, it’s the only one he can think of right now. Blech.  As you might imagine, I am not a Zooey fan.  She’s just too precious for me, and also, we saw her at a music festival once, and she completely phoned it in.

How about you?  Any musical quirks that you love?  Or other good examples of the ones mentioned here?

But then, I can’t blame them.  Who wants to end a busy work day by going out and doing more of the same?  I’ve spent most of my Sunday deeply stressed (and frankly, highly irritated) about a brief I’m researching and writing for a pro bono client.  I’d rather have spent my volunteer time doing something I don’t do day and night in and day and night out – maybe painting a house or tutoring kids or making meals for the elderly, for starters.  But I guess that isn’t very altruistic of me, is it?  Those things would be fun for me, so maybe they wouldn’t mean as much on the karma scale?  Anyway, I am under a huge amount of pressure to get this brief right, because whether I can win or not will make a huge difference in 5 people’s lives.  Every minute I spend on this work is a minute that I’m not billing, which is the curse of law firm lawyers, so I’m stressed about that too. But mostly I’m stressed about the prospect of losing and then being another link in the chain of failure for this family.

Anyway, I have now firmly moved from procrastinating from doing work into complaining territory, so I will cut myself off.  But before I do, I’ll say this – have you hugged your lawyer today?  If not, maybe you should.  Or at least not tell so many lawyer jokes.