Ferris wheel.

As a little girl, I used to dream of having my first real kiss in a big, rainbow-colored ferris wheel at some fair... state fair, county fair, don't matter. I remember I used to think it would be so romantic, riding to the top of the wheel into the sky (preferably at night) filled with light clouds and the ability to see for miles in all directions. I didn't have anyone in particular I wanted to share my first kiss with, but he had to be someone special. My stomach used to flip when I searched for topics we could talk about just in case the kissing didn't fit into the ferris wheel experience. The nasty corn dogs? The fireworks at the end of the night that might present yet another opportunity to lock lips? My curfew? What we want to be when we grow up? Who knows, I never got a chance to make that my first kiss locale.

Where was my first time executed? (And I say executed because that's exactly what it felt like, an execution, a process, a specific chain of events). Outside the ladies room at the Shoreview Community Center. Can you say romantic?

Stamped.

The big Minnesota get together is taking place the next few weeks and I'll be darned if I don't go at least once to check out the local talent. Sit for an hour in the Midway, heck, half an hour, and you will walk out of there feeling better about yourself tenfold. It's the ultimate activity in ego-boosting. How in the world can I be occupying the same state as some of these people? I know not.

Nevertheless, the prices to get in the fair raise each year, to the point where you spend half your money just getting in the gate. That which could be spent on turkey legs, roasted corn and Sweet Martha's cookies. Someone, whose name shall not be revealed, stole a State Fair stamp a few years ago and we utilized it for all it's glory on Saturday afternoon. Like a group of undercover CIA agents we strategically stamped our hands "so the number wouldn't show, and it smudged just a bit but you could still see the MSF letters..." Off the bus we stepped, like cattle we were directed through the front gate and our stamp wasn't second guessed; saving about $60 in entrance fees that was better spent on cheese curds and vanilla malts from the dairy building.

Appreciation.

I don't have much to say besides the symmetry in this fruit is pretty fascinating to me. It's a habit I cannot break, finding symmetry in irregular places. Tiles on the floor of sports stadiums, color-coded racks at Ann Taylor loft, and yes, even fruit. I catch myself thinking, "cool, this was done well, I appreciate it, I hope the person who created it feels satisfaction with their work." In this case, thumbs up to the big man in the sky.

Oliver : down.

It might be the people food he's given, or the fact that he chews on one side of his mouth 99% of the time, but Oliver needed his teeth cleaned professionally last week. Not one, but two, but three legs were searched for a strong enough vein to withhold the anesthesia IV. Poor dog, comes home, numb in the mouth, drooling on my arm, wobbly on his legs. If I get this worked up about my dog, can you imagine when I have the four kids I've been dreaming about?

Sea Salt Eatery.

One of Michael's uncles recommended a real great place for fresh seafood in the Twin Cities, not well known to many. It's called the Sea Salt Eatery located down by the Minnehaha Falls. Apparently it's not as well kept of a secret as I thought: the line to order was out the building and a good 75 feet into the dirt wooded area surrounding the building. We ordered our beers first (as suggested) and caught up about our day's as we slowly moved closer to the chalk board menu. Fish, oysters, calamari, you name it, they served it. I've been into seafood lately, and our little outing at the SSE will be repeated hopefully a few more times before they shut down in October for the winter season.

A little too much.

You know these guys, the ones that dress up in an outfit similar if not exactly the same color as the vehicle they arrive on. For some, it can be pulled off... you know the dude I'm talking about, driving up in their shiny black Mercedes-Benz, stepping out in a Hugo Boss suit in the same color. They can pull it off, to a "T". But this subject, talking aimlessly on his cell phone next to his mediocre green Honda Element... he cannot.

Rascals.

The one CD that has remained in my car since I first put it in the player is this - the Rascal Flatts "Still Feels Good" one. I'm constantly jamming, top down, hair blowing in the wind to their love songs, their break-up songs, and their "country rocks and we're still kicking it even though we've been on tour forever and keep coming back to Minnesota" songs. Now, ask me if I'm excited to see them at the Xcel on September 19th.

Honu.

That means 'turtle' in Hawaiian. Check out this ancient-looking one who decided to call our front yard home for the weekend. He moves as he is expected to and his shell looks hard as stone. The only turtles I've seen around here are small snapping ones, so this wise old soul seems out of place. Almost as if he belongs on an island in the Galapagos: I can only assume that adorable monkeys are eating ripe papayas in the treetops along 96.

Massage.

Gretchen West, is hands down the best masseuse ever. A full-body rubdown when it's pouring outside is one of life's simple pleasures. The rain pattering on the roof, the soft music playing, the smell of vanilla massage lotion on my skin. And these Werther's Originals? The only time I like them is after West' blissful massage sessions.

What are the chances?

The pilot light on our stovetop can only be lit by a match instead of the regular way. This is the last match in my matchbook. And I desperately wanted an omelette... the wind better not blow this baby out.