A good bra, like a good man, must lift and support

I’ve had a revelation recently. Something minor turned out to be major and it has changed my life.

I got a new bra.

I know, especially to you men who may read this, that it doesn’t seem like a big deal. But image if you’ve been wearing the wrong size underwear for years, mercilessly crushing the ole twig and berries and restricting their ability to jiggle freely and one day you decide to go one size up. Relief, right?

Well it’s the same thing with a good bra. For years I’ve been buying on the cheap side because of my single-mother mentality of cutting corners. All I cared about is if it had underwire and if it was what I thought was my cup size. Often time it was a crap shoot because I never took the time to try it on before leaving the store. So when I got home and found it too tight, it would go to the land of misfit bras, which was usually at the bottom of my underwear drawer.

I know all the women reading this are going, “Oh my God! How could you not care about what kind of bra you wear?” Simply put, I rarely had the time or patience to endlessly try on bras. Whenever I went clothes shopping in my younger years I was always with two small boys who couldn’t be dragged into the dressing room. So I chose to waive my right to try on five different kinds of bras because you can only tolerate the rambunctious of two little boys but for so long before you start popping a blood vessel from the screaming.

Until two weeks ago, I was a Walmart shopper for my bras. When the underwire began to poke through the fabric I would venture forth to the underwear section at my local Wallymart and pick my normal brand for the full-figured gal.

Then I had a mystical experience at Lane Bryant.

It was obscene to me to pay more than $15 for a bra (I told you I was cheap!) but I now see the error of my ways. The sales ladies at Lane Bryant were having a slow day so I got the full-court press from them. They measured me for the size I should be wearing, and then assaulted me with every bra and panty combo they had.

Oh the wonder of it all! My eyes glazed over as I gazed at the vibrant colors and frilly lace. I reached out like a curious child to touch the delicate embroidery on the cup and massage the padding. I giggled over the easy access panties that come off with two tugs of the silky ribbons at the hip and oogled the sheer nighties with thongs. I stepped into the dressing room for the try-on and marveled at myself in the mirror as I slipped on bra after bra. My twin gals were now upright and proud as they sat nestled in the comfort of those comfortable cups, not sagging to the floor like two socks with rocks in them. I glowed…dare I say, I even pranced like a pony at my reflection. Is this what it’s like on the other side of the pricey lingerie fence?

Needless to say I was flush from all the excitement, so flush I flushed my wallet of the money it cost to buy three big girl bras and matching panties.

Not soon after my lingerie success I had one of those girlie conversations with a friend of mine in Maryland over the difficulty of finding a good bra. We compared cup sizes, talked about the devistating effects of gravity since high school and the best places to buy boulder-holders for busty gals. In short, it was a conversation I’ve never really had before, outside of my mother that is and she doesn’t count. Imagine, me, a woman who showered with 67 other women for three months in boot camp, too shy to have one of “those” conversations with another female. Setting aside the fact that my friend from Maryland and I are so in-tune with each other that to discuss these kinds of things with her is no big deal, I was surprised at the ease of my abilty to share these intimate details about my body. When did I become so…girlie?

I use to think it poor taste for women to discuss every heat flash of menopause, every cramp from a uterus during menses, and would cringe inwardly and whisper, “TMI” under my breath. Is it my march to the 40-year door that has stripped me of my inibitions? Perhaps it was my first tattoo (pictured left), which I got this summer, that has loosened me up a bit.

What a strange and orphic sex I belong to, a gender club in which the members are paradoxal in nature who commiserate over such woes as the best store to purchase delicate unmentionables. Until now, I didn’t consider myself an active member, just an outsider looking in.

A day in Wickham Park

As I journey deeper into Photoshop I discover more and more cool stuff:

Interior of the pagoda house at Wickham Park

Another view of the interior of the pagoda house

A stone dragon standing watch

Pond in the Oriental Garden at Wickham Park

I’m a really baaad blogger

Okay, I’m admitting that I’m a really bad blogger.  I came on strong at the beginning, promising a whole lot of stuff and then fell way short.  My intentions were pure; I even added posting to the blog on my iPhone calendar for every Monday.  But whenever the reminder came up, I kinda, sorta ignored it.  One week turned into two and damn!  The summer ended!  So this is me on one knee (my good knee.  If I get down on both knees, I’d have to fight like hell to get back to a standing position) asking for…um…not your forgiveness, exactly.  More like…your understanding?  Tolerance?  Ah, the hell with it, mea culpa, okay?

I’ll be 40 in about three weeks.  And at first I was gonna do the Jack Benny thing and stop counting at 39.  But my 39th year on this planet has been plagued with misery so I say damn 39, bring on 40 and from there I’ll stop counting.  This summer especially has made me want to run to the 40-year hills and scream from the mountaintop “free at last!”  I’ve been exposed to selfishness and emotionally-crippled humans who can’t seem to pull themselves out of the quagmire of their inadequacies and flow on a sea of self-denial.  I’ve been dragged into a hell where Rush Limbaugh plays 24-7 and Sarah Palin’s book outsells Stephen King by 5-to-1.  But on the other end of that spectrum, I’ve received kindness and warmth from people who are in good places emotionally and mentally, who listened to my woes and reached out to me from an altruistic place deep within their solar plexus.  And when I think of these people collectively, how they circled the wagons around me, my heart murmurs a really deep sigh.  For every asshole there’s an angel waiting to heal and it makes me want to get down on my good knee and say, “Thank you, God for creating that asshole/angel balance.”

If you haven’t noticed, there’s a name change at the top.  So the soon-to-be-ex-husband can now be officially called the ex-husband (the ex, for short).  I have to say two things on that subject: 1) I never thought I’d have the “distinction” of calling anyone my ex-husband, and 2) next time, if there is a next time, I marry for money…lots of it.  The judge who resided over my divorce, who looked to be about 100, kept chatting me up and smiling at me during the court proceedings so he might be a prospect.

(channeling Eddie Izzard) So…um…yeah, yeah…my full-time employer made me redundant recently.  I’m using the British term redundant because it sounds much nicer than laid off.  Yes, I’m a victim of the economic downturn but I’m not a complete victim because I still teach part-time.  I could take you through the range of emotions that awashed over me when I got the axe, but you’re intelligent people so you can pretty much guess how I felt.  I have to admit, though, that I like sleeping late and rolling out of bed when I feel like it; doing errands during a weekday instead of a weekend.  However, I’ve become dangerously attached to this home rhythm I’ve developed, being able to stay on top of my sons and finding good tv programming that will carry me through the day.

The first week I was home, I rarely got out of bed except to wash my ass, put the dogs out and cart my older son to campus.  No…wait…I take that back, I did take a sojourn out of my rabbit hole for a Nathan’s experience of hot dogs and chilly cheese fries that gave me wicked gas for the evening.  The second week I found the right channels to watch and discovered the meager pittance I’ll receive in unemployment bennies.  This week…well…I said enough!  Damn it, this is the perfect time to sink into a bath of creativity!  I’ve got a pitch letter to rewrite, a manuscript to peddle, photos to take and ideas to put on paper.  Photoshop CS4 is waiting for me to unlock its secrets and my camera is ready-Freddy for action.  I have recipes to try and a new stove that’s begging to lose its virginity.  This is the time I should be regrouping, regenerating, rediscovering…all those damnable “re” words that signify a movement towards change and growth.  In short, it’s time to get on the good foot and do the bad thing.  Brothahs and sistahs, nobody can do the bad thing like I can.

Yesterday I went exploring with my camera and came across this outdoor chapel in the Rhododendron Garden at Wickham Park in Manchester.  No, I’m not Catholic…hell, I’m a stranger to my own christened religion of Episcopalian.  But when you come across something so peaceful and soothing, you cannot help but bow down to its’ magnificence regardless of religion.  I kneeled on the steel altar and said a small prayer to the Virgin Mary.

I was a bit rusty on the prayer thing so I had to wing it, but I’m pretty sure she got my message.  In thinking back, I should’ve asked her for clarity of mind, but the Virgin Mother is a busy woman, what with all those mysterious sightings on grilled cheese sandwiches and whatnot that always seems to happen somewhere in Florida.  Besides, there are some things I just have to do for myself.

Summer delights

Summer always brings out the best in me, and when I say the best in me, I mean my desire to make delicious summer desserts using the freshest of fruit.  Even though, sadly enough, I’m allergic to quite a number of fruits out there, it doesn’t stop me from finding special recipes to cook the fruit to a state that makes it easier for me to eat them.

I should be more specific about the allergy claimer.  I’m not allergic to the fruit itself, just the patch, bush or tree it was growing in.  For example, I’m allergic to the skin of an apple because of the pollen it was exposed to during its growth.  Once I peel off the skin or bake that fruit, whatever I’m allergic to gets cooked away.

Okay, so I’m a huge fan of SmittenKitchen, a blog I stumbled across and subscribe to.  The recipes are cool, but the photography is even cooler.  The visual certainly adds something magical when you’re trying to show people how to put together a myriad of ingredients to produce such-and-such food.

So last week Smitten Kitchen sent me a recipe for a dessert called Blueberry Boy Bait.  Being I work for a state agency that advocates for the rights of women and young girls, I was initially offended by the title of this delicious-looking dessert…well, no, not really, I’m lying.  I thought the name was cute and whatever I can do to attract a man to sample my treats (yes, take that for what you will), I’m all for it.  Last Thursday I slid on over to my favorite supermarket (do you have a favorite supermarket?) and wouldn’t you know it?  Blueberries are on sale! 

In my first batch, I used 2% milk and the dessert came out nice and firm.  The only way to describe the taste is to compare it to cornbread but without the cornmeal and a tad sweeter.  The recipe doesn’t call for a whole bunch of blueberries so your taste buds are not assaulted with the tartness the fruit.  Just a warning though: I used buttermilk for the second batch (which I brought to work for our bi-weekly staff meeting), it came out loosey-goosey and a bit too crumbly for my taste, plus it doesn’t hold very well in storage.

You can find this recipe on Smitten Kitchen’s Web site (and check out the photos while you’re at it) or you can e-mail me for the recipe.  It’s real simple to make, a lot simpler than my other favorite dessert, Red Velvet Cake.

Old friends and new happenings

Dear Readers,

I’m gonna wax nostalgia for this post. But I promise to resume my report on the class action law suit against my uterus next week. Don’t make me forget to tell you about how I was compelled to correct with a scarlet red pen the threatening “anonymous” note I received. I couldn’t help myself really, bad grammar needs to be corrected.  Sorry for the late post.  I’m working with this new iPhoneWordPress app (iPhone lingo for application for those unfamiliar) and got a little lazy in posting.

The events of last week were a wild roller coaster ride with so many twists and turns I’m getting fitted for a neck brace from the whiplash. The ride began with a slow up climb when I was goofing off on Facebook searching for a friend, a former shipmate of mine from the Navy. Now, this friend is not just any ole’ friend. He and I didn’t visit bars together drinkin’ and fightin’ and getting matching tattoos as we laughed over who had the loudest fart. Oh no. This particular friend helped deliver my younger son.

Yes, you read right, I said HE!

A man I was never intimate with got to see my treats, my goodies, my sugar walls, my kitty cat up close and personal as I squeezed an object the size of a watermelon through the opening the size of an underdeveloped kiwi. His willingness to be my labor coach gave the slogan “Join the Navy, See the World” an entirely different meaning. I’m betting his recruiter never told him about that kind of duty. But I digress…moving on!

So back to the story. On a whim I did a search for his name in Facebook(hereafter referred to as Fb) and I got a hit. I wasn’t sure if it was him because the picture was so dark, but I know his bright smile anywhere so I took a chance and sent an invite. I was tickled when I checked Fb two days later and saw he accepted. We were like two high schoolers posting back and forth on each others’ walls reminiscing over those twelve hours when he heard me scream, yell and curse Biblical Eve for getting me into that mess. And what a mess it was; nappy hair flying in 20 different directions, a big ass needle jammed up my spine, reeking of hospital funk with a visage that would turn Medusa into stone.

As I thought back on that time, I soon began to realize how fuzzy my memory was.  I see bits and pieces, like a one-second flash of a moving picture scene.  I envy those that can recount every moment, like when they first began potting training.  Why you would want to remember that, I don’t know. 

So anyway, when my labor coach contacted me, I strained, literally, to find more memories from that time in my life.  There are some that hold strong, like when he came over a week after my son was born to see how we were and he watched me bathe a squiggly baby with the nub of an umbilical cord still attached.  Others are elusive fragments that are fading quickly as more memories take its place.  I go back farther, to my high school days, and those memories are weak, if not weaker than the ones from my Navy days.  I look through pictures, look through my high school year book to jog something, anything!  I’ve had a few successes.  I remember: oh yeah, this girl was a bitch; and that one caused me trouble; and this fool took my virginity without really taking it (long story!); she was sweet; he was too cool for school; I went to middle school with this one…so on and so forth.

So continuing on the vein of recollecting my past life, I decided to dig up some old photo albums and scanned some of the pics to post on Fb.  Those pics started a watershed of people I’ve connected with from high school to identify various people in my photos, which is a good thing.  It brings a whole bunch of people, who probably couldn’t stand each other in high school, together in cyberspace.

This past weekend I decided to get jiggy with it and clean out my car.  At this point I want to thank my soon-to-be ex-husband, for if he hadn’t taken the carpet shampooer out of spite when he moved out of the house, I would’ve never been compelled to go to Wallymart to find a new one.  It was while I was at Wallymart that I came across the most amazing discovery, as seen in the picture to the left.  I should thank Merrill, my friendly Walmarthelper, who saw me standing there wide-eyed and open-mouthed as I stared up at that beauty of a bicycle.   Do you notice something peculiar about it?  Eh?  That’s right, no hand breaks!  No gears!  It was a bike that hearkened back to my childhood days when, during the summer, I rode from sun up to sun down, riding so fast I could hear the wind whistle in my ears and then back pedal to break abruptly.  I sit up straight on this bike like a big girl, not hunched over like I’m practicing for the Tour de France.  The seat is perfect for my wide behind, no riding uncomfortably and intimately up my crotch. 

At first I was a little shaky; I’m short (5′1″) and the seat sits high so I wiggled a little at the beginning.  However, it didn’t take long for me to adjust and soon I was flying down the street to once again hear that wind whistle in my ears.  Memories of North Carolina and my grandmamma’s house popped into my head, for when I visited her house down there I would take her old-fashioned bike and ride it downtown to explore.  Then flashes of Brooklyn, NY and my trusty banana-seat bicycle with a plastic-woven handlebar basket came into my head.  I’m hoping the more I ride that bike, more memories will come.  I don’t remember much about my childhood (there’s probably a good reason for that), so maybe, just maybe I might recapture something that will make me smile.

It’s deposition time for Lisa Smith-Overton v. Her uterus

My case against uterus is progressing nicely, so says Eve Adams, my attorney. For the next three weeks or so, one of the associates at her firm, Abelle BenSira, will be taking depostions from all parties involved. It’s been a flurry of activity that has been somewhat taxing: the signing of endless documents, the swearing (I mean in court, not the cussing) and the harassment from the media. Oh yes, something like this couldn’t stay quiet for long and my phone is starting to ring with calls from this or that media outlet. I try not to sweat it too much since Eve said all calls are to go to her.

Gabriel Daniels, the attorney from Johns, Milton and Paradis representing uterus, deposed me and God, what an an obnoxious, arrogant piece-of-s**t he is! He sicked one of his little flunkies, Seth Paradis (yep, you guessed it, the son of Michael Paradis, the top dog of the law firm) on me. He grilled me like a cheese sandwich and I wanted to pop him one right quick in his mouth for his snotty attitude. Daniels sat on the side with a smug look on his face, nodding ever so often. I kept glancing at Abelle (Eve had to be in court for another case) with knowing looks and she’d just give me a wink of encouragment. Right then I knew Abelle and I were going to get along like a house on fire; she’s cool. I met Abelle right before my deposition and she seems to be on the ball and just as excited as Eve about the historic significance of the case. We talked on the ride home from the deposition (my car’s in the shop) and we found out we’re both dog lovers. I think she’s more fanatic about her dog than I am of mine, though. She’s carries a picture of her Australian Shephard around in her wallet and has some crooked walking stick she keeps in the back seat of her car for when she takes Mark (the dog) for a walk. Yeah, I think it’s kinda weird, but who am I to judge?

I had a weird conversation with cervix the other day. Cervix had been serving as go-between for me and uterus, trying desperately to keep the peace before things went sour. Cervix was like, “You know this is wrong. Uterus loves you, never meant any harm…” blah, blah, blah. I was like, “Who’s side are you on? Why don’t you just stay out of it like vagina? See, vagina is playing it smart, hasn’t said a damn word since everything went down. Take a lesson from vagina.” Well! Cervix was a little off-put by my abruptness, quickly ending our friendly little talk. I couldn’t care less if I never hear from cervix again.

I’ve been getting strange, threatening notes lately. I’m a little freaked out by them, but I have the sneaky suspicion uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries are behind the notes. I’ll dig one up and see if I can post it for next time, ya’ll can tell me what you think.

Case no. 10129486 – Lisa Smith-Overton v. Her Uterus

Dear Readers,

After much thought and extensive contemplation, I’ve decided to sue my uterus for pain and suffering, emotional distress and mental cruelty.  I really didn’t want to go this route, but the events of this week have made it impossible for me to tolerate much more of the nonsense I’ve been enduring.  I’ve retained the services of the Law Office of Adams, Malus and Malum to represent me in the case, which has been filed in Hartford District Court.  Eve Adams, one of the senior partners of the firm, has agreed to take on the case.   What a dynamo she is!  After our first consultation, I knew I would be in good hands and that we actually had a shot in winning.  Eve insisted we ask for damages in the million dollar range, but she warned me that the jury may not allow such a large award.  She’s even agreed to work on the case on a contingency fee, which really surprised me.  I can only guess that either she  feels strongly we’re going to win or that she is so passionate about the case that she’s willing to take a gamble.

Needless to say, uterus and I are not on speaking terms.  I had no choice but to inform uterus of my actions and the response…well, the colorful language that assaulted my ears is not fit for publication here.  Uterus called me up and cursed me up and down and I cursed back because I wasn’t going to take that bulls**t.  Eve advised me to not say two words to uterus from here on out.  She’s not fazed by the fact that uterus retained counsel from the firm Johns, Milton and Paradis.  She says she relishes the chance to go up against them in court. 

I’m not sure, but my abdomen, lower back and the brain might want a piece of the action.  Uterus has not been too kind to them either, and I think uterus had a falling out with lower back, which would explain the back’s eagerness.  Eve has been talking to them as well to ascertain whether they have just cause to get in on the suit.  If so, that makes it a class action suit, the first of its kind.  Eve said fallopian tubes and ovaries should be sued as well.  She said she can prove they’re directly connected to uterus and somewhat responsible for my emotional distress.  What was I going to say to her?  No, don’t sue fallopian tubes and ovaries, they had nothing to do with it?  Everybody close to me knows they’re in cahoots together.  She wanted to include vagina and I said emphatically no, vagina had nothing to do with what’s going on.  Uterus was trying to make vagina the patsy before we had the falling out; I wasn’t buying it.

Am I nervous?  A little.  I Googled Johns, Milton and Paradis to see what I’m up against and that firm has had some pretty high-profile cases.  I think the one that put them on the map was Yaway Scientific v. Golem, Inc., some big gravel and sand company.  I can’t remember the specifics of the case but it had something to do with a former employee, a scientist named Lilith and patent infringement.

Well, I’ll keep you abreast of things and I might be able to post transcripts of the trial.

So much to write about, so little time

Believe it or not, I had every intention of posting this on Monday, my scheduled time for posting.  I even had a juicy topic to pontificate on and planned visuals and everything.  It wasn’t a topic that pissed me off, however, so I wondered how much energy I could put behind it.  If you must know, I was going to skewer People Magazine on their features of actresses who confess their fatness (Valerie Bertinelli, Kirstie Alley and most recently, Melissa Joan Hart) and how they reformed their wicked eating ways.  Alley irked me the most, with her “let’s face it, I’m fat, fat, fat!” whining.  Alley, did you not realize the consequences of sitting on your ass all day and slathering pounds of butter on everything that entered your mouth?  I’m not the most savvy of individuals when it comes to nutrition, but damn, even I know butter+butter+butter=mountains of fat. 

Both her and Oprah (another “I’m fat” whiner) have the money and resources to NOT be fat.  If I had one-tenth of Oprah’s money, I’d have a cute trainer (a Djimon Hounsou-type), a cute cook (a Chiwetel Ejiofor-type, British accent and all) and a cute nutritionist (a Brad Pitt-type) to keep me on track 24-7.  Their uniform: a tight tank tee and spandex biking shorts.   But I said I wasn’t going to prattle on about this topic, didn’t I?  Okay…moving on.

Nope, for this post, I’m going to get a little touchy-feely.  Just a little.  This summer I was hired to teach my first English composition class at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, CT.  I was nervous, but I realized I had the same level of nervousness for the first class I taught (creative writing) and everything turned out fine.   Though I knew this class was coming up, I just couldn’t generate the confidence and energy I had for my first class.  Maybe because my first class was 14 weeks, giving me ample opportunity to know my students and for them to know me.  This class was only 6 weeks so how attached could I possibly get?

For their first assignment, I gave them an in-class essay.  The topic: themselves.  The purpose was to ascertain their level of writing skill so I would know how fast or slow I should go in the course, and to get an idea of the types of people I was dealing with.  I was pleased with the samples they submitted, but more importantly I got some insight into these wonderful people.  I’m happy to say I have a female marine biologist (yes! Hurray for STEM), an English lit major (yeah!), a computer science major originally from Russia, and one dear child who has failed English comp twice and just wanted to finish something so she can move forward in getting her Associate’s degree. 

By the second class, I had a better feel for them and by using my “Ask the Professor” Q&A period, they got to know me.  At the end of the class, one of my students, after reading my comments and grade on his paper, came to me and instead of arguing the grade, asked what he could’ve done better.  We sat for about 15 minutes or so going over his paper and I gave him a brief tutorial on the wonders of the semi-colon.  He shared his troubles of his current state of academic probation and how the dean of student affairs got him on track to improve his academics.  I’ll admit I was feeling a little warm and fuzzy after he and I departed in the parking lot that night.  By the time I read his second paper, I understood the drive behind his desire to do well. 

For their second paper, I asked my students to write about a topic based on their personal experience as a jumping off point for their research paper.  Again, I was given better insight into these group of people.  The student who had failed English comp twice submitted an excellent paper on billiards (she works part-time as a waitress in a billiard hall).  My female marine biologist student impressed the hell out of me with her paper on phytoplankton (which put SpongeBob Squarepants into better perspective for me).  However, my academic probation student’s paper had me in tears and not because it was badly written.  In his paper he described how he was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis and that the most he could expect to live would be up to age 37.

I guess what I’m trying to say in this post is that we all have the ability to touch a person’s life and to never underestimate the impact a simple touch may have.  By taking 15 minutes out of my life I was able to help a person who, in maybe 15 years, will no longer be on this earth.  As I move forward in teaching, no doubt I will encounter many other students whose life situations will touch me, yet this student’s life will forever stay in my mind.  Why?  Because I reached out to him without knowing his situation and was able to perhaps demonstrate the kindness we humans can possess at times without it being some sort of pity-party.  I think another reason he will stick out in my mind is because that night he reminded me why I chose teaching as a career.  So in the future, whenever my doubts, fears, phobias plague me, I will think back to the summer of 2009 when I taught my first Eng. Comp class and a warm night in June when 15 minutes of my life wasn’t wasted.

Food, glorious food

I LOVE food.  The more the merrier.  Whenever I get invited to an event, I make a bee line to the dessert table and start breathing all over the yummies as I snap away.  I do that in the hopes the hungry people might be deterred by my possible cooties and leave the stuff alone so I can have it all to myself, but the ploy never works.

Since last year, the Microenterprise Resource Group (MERG, pronounced with a soft “G”) asks me to photograph their annual celebration that profiles local micro business caterers (businesses with 10 or less employees).  I do it for free because they promise me free food and I can also build my portfolio.

I know this tasty-looking treat, from Alchemy Juice Bar Cafe, has cucumbers and hummus.  I think those are dates on the top.  Since I have every food allergy known to man, I didn’t sample.  I knew the moment I saw it, I had to snap it before people converged on it like locusts.

Yummy for the tummy

I think in my former life I was Italian.  I can’t get enough of everything Italian, especially the food.  Linguine Carbonara with pancetta is my absolutely favorite.  To date there’s only one restaurant I consistently go to for my dish: Vito’s by the Park in Hartford.  If they ever yank my dish from the menu, I guarantee a one-woman protest (with sign and bullhorn) outside of the restaurant in between samplings of their delicious foccatia bread with dipping sauce.  I think I should stop here, I’m frothing at the mouth.

Anyways, below is photo number two from my annual photography freebee for MERG’s annual event:

Bruschetta!  Yummy!  Dump some sweet tomatoes mixed with garlic, EVOO, oregano and whatever on that toasty piece of bread and I’m in heaven.  I can only take credit for the picture, though, not the appetizer itself, which was made by The Picnic Basket Catering for the event.

I’m pulling a Homer Simpson right now just thinking about it…can you hear my gurgling?