I present to you...

...my husband.

Let's start back a bit. When O and I first met, he was running the business his dad had taken over ~30 years prior. It was a manufacturing and distributing company of industrial abrasives (you aren't the only one thinking "huh?"). It became clear over the first 2-3 years of our relationship that Omar was going to be around a lot longer than that business. The looming question, however, was what was Omar going to do when bandsaw blades and grinding wheels just didn't pay the bills.

This was a source of some real stress. Omar had never had a boss other than his dad (unless you count his days as a waiter at the Lincoln Dells), he had started his MBA but didn't really see a future in joining some other business or being a consultant.

Of course, anyone reading this blog knows how that story turned out. But let us recall some of the steps....

He went to brewing school. He changed the law of Brooklyn Center which explicitly banned breweries when we first toyed with the idea. Then there was the self-demo of the building which included a little carbon monoxide poisoning and a punctured water line (whose turn-off valve was buried 6 feet under the landscaping in front of the building). There was the actual brewery (you know all the big metal tanks, kettles, fementers) bought second hand from the Dominican Republic, a portion of which turned out the be the equivalent of a very heavy paperweights. These also arrived the same week as another "arrival," Calvin and Spencer. And who can forget the bartender who, after proclaiming his favorite beer was Bud Light, spit the beer out when Omar first hit the streets to sell his wares.

There were industry folks who told him he would just go the way of the many failed breweries that had proceeded him. There were people who told him the only way to succeed was to be a distributor, not a producer. And of course, there was that spitting guy.

So why am I telling you all of this?

Because yesterday, Omar was named a regional finalist in the Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year Award! He and I will attend a black tie gala in June to hear the announcement of who is the winner for the Midwest. Spit on that!

I am so proud of my hubby. Way to go babe! You have worked so hard and deserve this so much. I love you.

Jibberish

You would think that by the age of 37, I would have the ability to let the little things slide. In general, this is actually something I take a little pride in.

But poking holes in self-perception is one of the reasons children were invented.

Spencer loves to speak in jibberish. Who cares, right? Big whoop. So he jabbers on, with no meaning, no purpose. No sweat.

I. Can't. Stand. It.

It drives me completely insane. I have actually told him to "speak in English!" and then have this crushing sense of being the evil mother that belittled his creative spirit at a very young age, forever scaring him and limiting his potential to ever become the next Picasso.

Jibberish shows creativity. It shows imagination. It shows he isn't stuck in this A-type, purpose driven, goal-oriented cage I keep striving for.

It shows he really knows how to push my buttons...

Privates

After a fun filled afternoon of bathing suit shopping with Mary and Rox (yes, I said FUN. Great little shop that brings you suits according to size and body type), I headed off to Spring Break with my new suit.

It wasn't at all what I expected to buy. And the gal pals actually had to talk me into buying it because it was a black one piece. It seemed kinda boring after all the other ones I had looked at, but they just kept saying "You look so HOT in that" that I had to buy it.

The key component to the look of this suit is the deep cut V neck. It's not J-Lo-green-dress kind of deep cut, but you are getting into the neighborhood.

The first day I wore it, Spencer looks at my cleavage and says "Mom, you aren't covering your private parts."

Nice, huh?

It only got better when Cal said "Yes she is. She only has to cover the really fatty parts."

What?!?!

My teeth are my Super Power.

I have perfect teeth.

I have never had braces and they are all perfectly straight. I have never had a filling. I never floss, I brush once a day and ~10 years ago the dental hygienist I saw (after ~3 years of not seeing a dentist) told me I need not even return for 2 more years because she couldn't believe how good my teeth looked.

So, today was the day for my now-annual teeth cleaning. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they say to go every 6 months, but that is just what the Medical Establishment says to get all my hard earned money (earned from the Medical Establishment...).

They said I need 3 fillings.

WHAT!!?!?!? I don't DO fillings. Did you miss the fact that my teeth are perfect?? What are you doing bringing your dental Kryptonite into my lovely day off? And the dentist just said it all with such casual, matter-of-factness. "It will take an hour. Just set up the appointment on your way out...."

I am speechless. What the hell happened? Why would my teeth betray me after 37 years of perfectly established benign neglect? Does this mean I'm getting old? You might as well start crafting the dentures now...