Sisters

Deborah and May picked up some lovely Indian dresses at the flea market in Shipshewana, and, well, how often do I have the chance to work with two beautiful models?

Thirteen

Our thirteenth anniversary was on Monday. (We actually have two anniversaries: May 27th, when we got legally married here in the States, and June 7th, when we had the wedding down in Ecuador — but the first also corresponds to Deborah's birthday, so we tend to celebrate the second date as our anniversary.)

So, how do you celebrate thirteen years? By going out and doing all the unlucky things you can think of!

We opened umbrellas indoors.

We didn't actually break this mirror; it came broken with the house. Does that imbue bad luck onto the old owners, or us? Either way, the seven years have worn off by now....

We spilled some salt...

LOTS of salt...

....and threw some over our shoulders.

We stepped on cracks (sorry, Mom!)

We picked up coins — thirteen cents! — that were tail-side-up (Have you heard of this? This is a new one on me.)

Walked under ladders...

...and laughed at the gods. Or something above us, anyway.

We had an orange cat cross our path...

...but that probably wasn't unlucky enough, so we drove around in the Zipper, looking for black cats, but didn't find any. So we settled for a shot at 13th street.

So, we had plenty of fun, and no resultant bad luck.*

Thirteen years? Luck has nothing to do with it!

---

*Admittedly, we did have one spot of bad luck that evening: unbeknownst to us, Fiona and Aiden were playing with the branch trimmers: Aiden holding twigs, and Fiona working the clippers. Aiden lost a bit of his thumb and got a trip to the emergency room out of the deal. Luckily, Paul was here and could watch the other kids while we took him, and his thumb is healing up nicely. Besides, this all happened before we started doing unlucky things.

I walked right into that one...

This afternoon, I was trying to install a compass on my motorcycle, and having a hard time of it. After disassembling the bracket to turn it over, I discovered that they had designed the bracket so that it only fit one way. "There's no useful way to mount this compass," I grumbled to Deborah. "Must be a Tates," she said, without looking up from the computer. I hadn't heard of this brand or type of compass before, so I asked what she meant. "Oh, you know," she said, "he who has a Tates is lost."

Heart Beat

Deborah had another birthday (yes, yes, I know, I'm more than a month behind here...) and here shows off two of her presents:

1. A light-up heart-shaped graphic-equalizer T-shirt (consider the hyphenation!) from May, and;

2. Said shirt interacting with a CD of Muse, from me.

That's all. Just too cool not to share. :-)

Twilight

Our house has been taken over by vampires.

It was my fault, really, but Deborah was the first to go. Her ravenous appetite is a spectacle to behold. She... must... read... more! Fortunately, our vampires (and werewolves, and...) are strictly of the fictional variety that live in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series, and aren't any more detrimental to our health than the witches and wizards of J.K. Rowling's creation that so occupied us not too long ago. I'd heard some buzz about the books over the last few years, but when people whose literary taste I respected (Yes, Bethany, I'm blaming you) started to gush over them, I figured it was time to investigate. While I was standing around in Wal-Mart, waiting for Deborah to show up at the appointed place, I picked up a copy and started reading it. Engaging enough. So I borrowed a copy from a friend and brought it home.

I didn't get to read it.

Not right away, at least. By the time I bought the second book, and dangled it in front of her as bait, Deborah had read the first book three times. By the time I had moseyed my way through the first book (which I enjoyed) Deborah was desperately searching for a store, library, friend — anyone — who could get her the third. My friend came through again, and she's now read the entire four-book series several times, and is off reading Stephenie Meyer's website as I write this.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this tale, but it is cautionary... these books are addictive. Bring them home at the peril of your sanity, nutrition, and housekeeping.

Now, where was I? Ah, here we are, in book 3...

Snow Angels

The Belly

Deborah has been saying for some time now that she wanted to get some pictures taken of her with her pregnant belly, partly for the beauty of it, partly to celebrate the last (?) time she'd be pregnant. With less than a week to go, we figured it was time. Since it was cold and rainy outside, and Deborah wanted to pose in her impressive shawl collection, I set up a photo studio in the living room. (Living Room Studios. Wouldn't that make a nice name for something?)

I took well over a hundred shots... but these are our favorites.

Isn't she beautiful?

Are Pickles and Ice Cream Next?

We're halfway to the due date now, and one thing I'm consistently hearing out of Deborah is that she's hungry, and almost as often, that she needs something to eat right away. This particular combination put in an appearance a few days ago: homemade apple sauce with cinnamon imperials melted into it.

Odd. But really quite good, actually.

300 and 11

300? 11? What's that about?

I'll give you a hint: one is the number of posts I've made on this blog, and the other is the number of years we've been married. I'll let you decide which is which... although if you're complaining about my latest lapse in posting, or think Deborah and I are truly ancient, you might pick the wrong answer. :-)

We enjoyed the Art Fair for most of the day, and once the kids were in bed, and Paul installed in the living room with a book, Deborah and I returned to the Village to go try out Cerulean, which purports to be a "restaurant and sushi lounge." (I didn't see that there was any separation between the two, but that's what's on the sign.) The national-identity-conflicted menu also included tapas, but that didn't make it to the sign. Everything we got was delicious — Maki rolls for me, spicy vegetable rolls for Deborah (sushi and sashimi are no-nos while pregnant) and an umami-packed tapa of grilled asparagus with proscuitto and manchego. (Deborah says I ordered it for the manchego. I admit, I do miss it.)

The secret to a long and happy marriage? Keep flirting.

After the last pomegranate lemonade, they shood us out of the restaurant, and we took the cart out to the park for a nice romantic moonlit stroll along the beach (no, really!) and some tracing back and forth to see if we could figure out the exact place I had proposed.

I think I'm up for another 11 years. And I think Deborah is, too.

If She Washes Your Bike, Marry Her

Wash my bike? Pshaw. I have a team of cute girls in pink swimsuits to do that for me!

The average age of these hotties is 18.

There's a saying among motorcyclists: "If she washes your bike, marry her." Deborah trains Fiona in the proper technique...

Strawberries!

MMMMMmmmmm, strawberries.

Deborah took the kids strawberry picking yesterday, along with some friends of ours. There are several pick-your-own patches around here, and they largely work on the honor system — pick it yourself, weigh it yourself, figure $1.35 per pound, leave the money in the milk jug. (The milk jug makes getting change a little difficult.)

With the kids around, Deborah didn't get quite as much as the rest (wonder why?) but it was plenty, about five pounds' worth. I'm told they assume you'll be eating as you pick, too!

Aiden, looking cute in the wagon.

Fiona took Aiden for rides...

...and helped pick, too. And then she very carefully put them in her pockets, and carried them over to the bucket! Deborah had to tell her to just carry them in her hands, instead.

Once everyone was home, washed, and put to bed (as appropriate) we called up Paul to come help us make jam.

Take the stems off...

Moosh it up... cook it up...

Ta-dah! Strawberry Jam!

How does your garden grow? (part 2)

Since Paul helped us with our garden, we went and helped him with his. The two Pauls wanted to grow vegetables instead of flowers, though, so there was a lot more ground to prepare. Fortunately, our neighbors loaned us a tiller, and that made the work a little easier... or, at least, different. I was pretty sore from lifting that tiller in and out of the trunk!

Paul Hostetter and Deborah work at tilling the soil.

Andy and Paul Hostetter clear out the remaining grass.

Paul plants tomatoes.

We did one afternoon all together, including the kids. They got into it, too, with Fiona digging up the yard...

...and dumping it on Aiden. Aiden normally has sparse blonde hair, not brown.

Deborah had pretty dirty feet afterwards, too — I guess that's why you don't see too many farmers in sandals.

10 Years

On Wednesday and Thursday, Deborah and I went and celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. We went up to the Farmstead Inn in Shipshewana. (Just the two of us. Paul very kindly stayed home with the kids.)

Nearly everything had an Amish- or farm-based theme, including our hotel. The "barn" here houses the pool and exercise room.

Wanna race?

Shipshewana is primarily known for being Amish. According to the brochures, the population is 516, and they handle over a million visitors a year. They seem to put up with tourists (like us) rather well.

So what did we do? Well, we...

Bought Deborah an anniversary dress...

It seems odd to have found an Indian dress in the middle of an Amish flea market, but no one else seemed to notice any irony about that.

Looked at Amish arts and crafts...

For the prices, you wouldn't dare sleep on it...

Sat around in hot tubs until we looked like prunes...

This is what my hands will look like for our 50th wedding anniversary.

...and sampled the local cuisine.

Yum. Amish peanut butter (in this town, it was just called "peanut butter") is a mix of peanut butter, marshmallow fluff, Karo syrup, maple syrup, and a few other things. That's what our waitress told us, anyway.

My dentist asked me if this meant that "number 3" was on it's way. I told her Deborah wanted twins. :-) (No, that's not an announcement.) We did a few other things as well, but those are musings and photos for a different post on a different day. For anow, it's just weird to think that I've now been married for nearly a third of my life. It's easier to imagine it in two- or three-year chunks, and then put them all together.

Ten years. Ten!

Pondering the Quilt

Deborah has been working on this quilt for ages. Well, four or five years, anyway — with some significant breaks to rear a few children. (Apparently, sitting to nurse a baby, and then sitting some more to do some quilting didn't have that much appeal.) We've been listening to audiobooks in the evenings together while she sews.

She's almost done.