In the mail yesterday was a letter addressed to Zoe. It was from her five-year-old cousin Brett. She opened it with glee.

I read it with horror.

“Welcome to the Sticker Club! Please send a package of stickers to the two people on the list below. Cross off the first person on the list, and add your name to the bottom of the list. Send copies to six people you know, and before long you’ll have 42 packages of stickers in the mail!”

Shit. What do I do now? I despise these things, with a passion. I wan’t to add to that “who doesn’t?”, but, apparently, at least my sister (mother to Brett) doesn’t mind them all that much.

The letter didn’t mention anything about a sentence of boils and death for failing to complete the task, but in my eyes, the plague came right in the envelope. My choices, as far as I can see it, are as follows:

1. Piss my sister off by telling her I don’t “do” these things and asking her to send the curse along to someone else in my stead;
2. Ignore the request, thereby putting an end to the chain, and suffer the guilt of hearing my nephew’s heart break each and every time he discovers the mailbox is empty yet again;
3. Fulfill the request, passing along the curse to my friends and thereby bestow upon them the same predicament that has been bestowed upon me.

I’d almost prefer boils and death to any of these choices.

Of course, there is the “None of the Above” choice. I could go buy eight packages of stickers, sending one to the top name on the list and the remaining seven to my nephew, each in a separate envelope with a separate, fictitious return address. That would solve all my problems.

Nah, I’m too cheap to do that.

We went strawberry picking today. Evan and Zoe loved it. They did more eating than they did harvesting, though. We went home with six and a half pounds of strawberries and two full bellies, all for six bucks. Not a bad deal, in my book, even if it wasn’t an entirely honest one. Let’s just hope the farmer considers it part of the cost of doing business.

My father used to “harvest” watermelons when he was growing up. He and his friends would sneak on to the farmer’s field, pick several ripe melons, and toss them in the Yadkin river bordering the farm. Then they’d saunter home by the railroad track, whistling innocently all the way. By the time they got home, the watermelons would have floated down the river just the right distance for the boys to greet them in front of my father’s house. They’d scoop them out of the water and run with them up the hill to a grassy patch near the cellar door. I can still picture the place where he hid them, years later. There they would leave them, carving them one at a time when the urge for a cool, syrupy snack hit them on those hot summer days. This went on week after week, summer after summer, until they all grew up. It was a memory my father talked about, often, with a glow in his eye.

Years later, at my grandmother’s funeral, my father confessed his sins to the farmer. He figured the statute of limitations had surely expired.

The farmer laughed.

“That’s all right, son. Didn’t bother me one bit. ‘Cause after you sneaked those melons into your yard, your father would sneak out to their hiding place, count them, and come pay me for ‘em.”

Some harmless, not-so-clean fun and an honest deal. There’s certainly something to be said for that. I only hope I can toe that line between teaching a lesson and allowing some fun as elegantly as my grandfather did.

I just got a call from Dr. D. She wanted to discuss the letter. Her side: the charge is warranted, I insulted her with my letter, and I can’t opt-out of the “developmental testing.” My side: the charge is fraudulent, she insulted me with the attempt to justify the charge, and I can damn well opt-out of anything I want to.

We both agree that it’s a crying shame that a business problem has forever marred what was an excellent patient-physician relationship.

Angry. Sad. Insulted. Remorseful. Unsure. Steadfast.

It’s a shame.

32 ounces of Honey. That’s 4 cups. That’s 1 quart. That’s 64 tablespoons. That’s a whole freakin’ lot of sugar.

And don’t think I don’t realize that this series reveals more about me than it does about my dog.

Something about old dogs and new tricks, I guess.

Guess what arrived in my mailbox today!

September 19th, 1959.

If Google is my God, then eBay is my Jesus.

Several years into our relationship, but before we were married, Tim and I sat down for a serious conversation. “I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. We’re just circling in the air, waiting to land.” It was that type of conversation.

A couple of months later, in my apartment living room, Tim began running circles around me with his arms stretched out to his sides. I totally thought he’d gone off his rocker. When he started making airplane noises, I was sure: this man needed to be committed. And then he said, “Flight 76 to air traffic control: Requesting permission to land.” Requesting permission to land.

The plane got down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”

Silence.

“No.”

Silence. What had just come out of my mouth? I looked at Tim’s face. It was blank. Where had that word come from? I didn’t mean it at all.

“I mean Yes! I mean Yes! I mean Yes! I was saying, ‘No, I can’t believe this is actually happening,’ but the answer is Yes! A million times over ‘YES!’”

We were engaged. We were coming in for a landing.

The next several months were spent planning a wedding. Today, I recall those months with mixed feelings. I was marrying my love, and I was happy for that. But I gave the task of planning a wedding unwarranted focus. It was certainly not an atypical response in our culture, but it was a response that caused me a lot of stress and anxiety. Every little detail was fussed over and every little decision was blown out of proportion. The result was a very tired, worried, and anxiety-ridden bride-to-be.

It was a perfect environment for a pesky voice in the back of my head: “Where did that ‘No’ come from?” I ruminated on it often. What did it mean? Why did I say it? Should I really not marry this guy?

One night, I woke up to feel my heart pounding. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was sick to my stomach. Luckily or not, I was cognizant of my situation. I was having an anxiety attack. It was my first. (I’ve had two more, since, in my lifetime.)

The next morning, I called a therapist. I needed to talk this out.

“Does he demean you? Do you share the same values? Does he physically hurt you?” These were just some of the questions the therapist asked me trying to determine if this was a marriage destined to fail. I answered all the questions “correctly,” but I still couldn’t shake my fears.

“But I don’t have those butterflies. Sure, there are moments when I get the warm fuzzies, but it’s not like I look at him and feel those butterflies rushing through me every time.”

The therapist was incredulous. She couldn’t believe she was hearing me define the standard by which I was measuring my love for my soon-to-be husband.

“Those feelings are normal in the beginning of every relationship. But, by definition, they do not remain forever.” She went on to describe, in very clinical and exacting terms, the bio-physical components of those feelings, the psychological reasons for their existence, and the same reasons for their short-lived destiny. She even had a word for the feelings.

For some reason, this lesson in psychobiology was comforting. It put things into perspective at a time in my life when I’d let things get way out of perspective. I clung to the lesson throughout the rest of my engagement and even early into our marriage, remembering it whenever my nerves got the best of me and my destructive habit of ruminating cast its black magic on my confidences.

During those times, I would recall all the details of her lesson, save one. I simply could not remember the word she used as a moniker for those feelings. It bothered me, to an extent. As much as the lesson was a comfort, it was almost as if the lesson was incomplete, without the word to define “it.”

We got married, we got a dog, we bought a house, we started having kids. As it turns out, our marriage wasn’t a landing at all. Taking flight is more like it. I’m a million miles away from those days of anxiety and confusion. I’m not sure about a lot of things in my life, but one thing I am certain about is my husband. There are no doubts there, and it is hard to believe that I ever had them. Of course, in hindsight, I’m fairly certain there were never any doubts — just a young girl going through an unduly stressful time. But, in any case, it’s been years since I’ve needed to recall that lesson in psychobiology.

Yesterday, though, that lesson was recalled for me. Sitting there, reading a book, it jumped out of the page at me.

Periphescence.

“It denotes the first fever of the human pair bonding. It causes giddiness, elation, a tickling on the chest wall, the urge to climb a balcony on the rope of the beloved’s hair. Periphescence denotes the initial drugged and happy bedtime where you sniff your lover like a scented poppy for hours running. (It lasts…up to two years, tops.)” (Middlesex, Jeffery Eugenides)

I’m not sure if “periphescence” is even the word the therapist used so many years ago. I’ve Googled it, and none of the results point to any lessons in psychobiology. In fact, all of the Google results reference Middlesex, giving Eugenides the credit for the neologism . That’s fine by me. I, at least, finally have a word for “it.”

Funny thing is, though, I no longer need that word.

I’m going to tell you about one of the most exciting moments of my honeymoon with my husband. It took place right in the lobby of Casa de Carmona. In broad daylight. For all the world to see.

There, in that glorious setting, on a glorious afternoon, I beat my husband at chess, for the very first time.

I said it was one of the most exciting moments of my honeymoon. This is a family-friendly blog, after all.

This is just a little insightful background for what I’m now about to tell you. Three days ago — three days ago – my husband and I were having a nutritional discussion. Something about our kids’ diets consisting of goldfish crackers, cheesy-bagels and popsicles might have had something to do with the topic coming up. Of course, I said something about the four food groups.

“Ah, but there aren’t four food groups anymore,” my husband interrupted.

“Yes, there are, dear. The pyramid has changed. But the four food groups have not changed. The recommendations for how much we eat of the four food groups has changed, but what those groups are have not.” I was smug in my explanation. He just “harrumphed.”

That was three days ago.

This afternoon, when I logged into my email, I found this in my inbox from my husband:

To: Kristy
From: Tim
Subject: Pyramid
Content:http://www.mypyramid.gov/pyramid/index.html

There are apparently now 6 food groups….grains, veggies, fruits, milk, oils, and meat/beans (which includes fish - I always wondered where fish was in the food groups).

He just had to prove me wrong. Persistent Little Bastard.

Well, at least I knew all along where fish belonged. And I’m big enough not to tell the story of that IQ test we separately took once upon a time. You know the one where we revealed our scores over IM at the count of three? Yeah, that one.

I must have done something good.

The computer Gods looked down on me favorably. Looks like my files are recoverable. Gigs of data lined up to be burned to CD as we speak.

I’m not giggling. Windows still sucks.

I won’t really tell you how I feel about my computer crapping out on me. I could probably get arrested for it. Having to face the fact that I very well may lose all my files isn’t particularly warming, either. I kind of feel like that woman on the commercial right now: “I want all my photos I’ve ever taken to just disappear. Into thin air.” That part is my own damn fault.

Thank goodness for my husband’s laptop. At least I still have Internet access. Perfect for searching for deals on Macs.

Windows Sucks.

IQ Tonight reporter: So, what do you have to say on this important occasion?

Me: I’d like to thank my children, who’ve made me the person I am today.

IQ: Any comment on your stealing your sister’s two-decade long claim to this title?

Me: Well, no doubt, she’s deserved it at times in the past. But then, I think it got a little out of hand. We were just so used to her staking her claim, we just started handing it over to her. She almost felt entitled to it. This will shake things up a bit, for sure.

IQ: Can you run us through it one more time? Can you give us the whole story?

Me: Well, I was just walking down the street. I turned the corner, and, there, on the mailbox just ahead was a big yellow ribbon. I paused. I thought to myself, ‘What, did they have a hermaphrodite or something?‘

IQ: (turning to the camera) There you have it, folks. This year’s winner of the “Book-Sense-Can-Only-Take-You-So-Far” Award. (turning to me) Do you have one last comment?

Me: It wasn’t like it was around an oak tree or anything…