I never had to knock on wood . . . but I know someone who has . . . which makes me wonder if I could . . .

First of all, could someone please tell the AARP that I am only 45 years old? RETIRING? Who's retiring? I'm trying to get a career started! Yet these *#&@ cards keep coming, about one a month. Are they sending Russ cards? No. Is he older than I am? BY A MILE
(and a half . . .) So what, Universe, are you trying to say?
Just come out and say it --

I will admit that Russ and I are celebrating our 27th wedding anniversary this week. I suppose that's an accomplishment that might seem like it could qualify me for AARP membership. But it's not as bad as it sounds. We got started pretty young:












































Okay, not THAT young, but still pretty young:



And usually I don't feel SO old. But I have a good friend who is in her 30's. Her name is Flannery, and she is incredibly cool (I know -- you could tell by the NAME. You should see the haircut and the jewelry.) She comes over to the studio to stitch sometimes. Sure her kids are in elementary school. But it seems like mine were just last week -- so I don't think about the age difference. Sure she's a much hipper dresser than I am, but I've always marched to my own uncool fashion drum -- so I don't think about the age difference. Sure the things she's working on usually seem somehow fresher or edgier than the things I'm working on, but they're just fundamentally different -- so I don't think about the age difference.

And then the other day I met her husband. I was so glad to finally meet him! They share our September 10 anniversary, so the four of us are going out to celebrate together this year. He seemed very, very nice. But his pants. There it was.
Sure they were just jeans. Russ wears jeans. But they were somehow YOUNG PERSON JEANS. His jeans came from a store that Russ has probably never been in. He for sure doesn't shop there. They don't sell jeans to Russ's kind at that store. And there's certainly no AARP discount offered there. I'm just saying . . .

It's okay. I'll keep my old Russ. For one thing, he looks just darling in cowboy boots. Adorable. And he has a lot of really cool ones.



Okay, not that cool, but pretty cool.

And he's an awesome and selfless provider, because he has allowed me to spend the past 20 years just doodling around in a studio making stuff and (very occasionally) selling it. Best of all, he even sells it for me. Whenever I leave my booth at a show, that's when there's a sale. Draw your own conclusions. It's a true story.






But anyone who knows much of my work may be suspicious of our relationship because of a certain businessman-type-character
who either refuses to,
or is unable to,
communicate with his wife.



Actually that's only LOOSELY based on the truth. You know I'm a bit of an embellisher. Truth is, he mostly listens to me, and I'm only mostly worth listening to, most of the time. One of the girls gave me some advice years ago that has served me well:

"Keep saying it, Mom. He will hear you."







He does have a dog. I think you're already aware of how I feel about that. But it makes him really, really happy. So it's okay. And it gives me a little leverage on certain things. (I admit I've pointed it out a time or two. . .)











For instance:
He takes me to New Mexico pretty much whenever I want to go. And he lets me eat all the mexican food I can hold. Pretty much every Friday night.


So I'm going to say I feel quite confident -- no, make that extremely confident -- that it's going to last. I don't know if they said it wouldn't, or if they said it would, but no matter:
It will.



I know for sure because look what Russ brought home on Friday. And I'm not even THAT irritated by it, sitting there in the driveway looking -- well -- like a pickup. Because Russ and his cowboy boots look pretty good in it. And imagine how right the three of them will look --
(Russ, his cowboy boots, AND Cooper.)

I hope they'll save me a seat.*

[*Please note that promises have been made regarding who sits up front and who sits in a kennel in the back. We'll see.]

I'm not going to knock on wood -- I'm going to knock ON THE HOOD --
proof I love him. Everything else is proof he loves me. Lucky.



Happy Anniversary.