My Grandma is on her third husband. I’ve always thought this made her sound like some type of floozy, which she isn’t.

My grandma was married to her first husband, my mom’s dad, for over twenty years. They divorced, not soon enough, and she was single for most of my childhood. My grandma got remarried when I was in junior high and was married to her second husband for over ten years. He died suddenly when I was in college.

(Her third, and last husband, is the man she should have married the first time. Funny Sad how that works.)

Having three husbands means you’ have too many step kids and grandkids to remember. It means you’ve lived in a bunch of different houses, in different towns. It means you’ve hosted more weddings then your average woman.

It also means you are the owner of three wedding rings.

Since my grandma has three wedding rings and three daughters, she decided to give each of her daughters one of her weddings rings. Makes sense, right? Although my mom is her oldest daughter, she was given the wedding ring from my grandma’s second marriage. (You know, the one that died.)

My mom was given her wedding ring, from my grandma, about ten years ago. As far as I know, it sat in her jewelry box. Since this ring wasn’t given to my grandma by my mother’s father (did you follow that?), it really never held any significant sentimental value to my mom. When my younger brother announced to my parents that he was going to propose to his future wife my mom decided, right then and there, that he should use my grandma’s ring. The ring was dated and wasn’t the style that my brother and his bride wanted. They, along with my mom, decided to trade the largest diamond in for a new diamond ring for my brother’s lady-friend.

By using the largest diamond from the ring, that left the smaller diamonds in the ring setting. Alone. With no one to love them. They needed a home. They yearned to be loved. And worn. They wanted to sparkle.

The little diamonds stayed, embedded in the empty wedding ring, in my mom’s jewelry box for a little longer. Eventually my mom decided she wanted to split the little diamonds up a use them to make some other jewelry pieces. She asked my baby sister what she wanted. She chose a little ring for her little diamond. I choose a pair of diamond earrings with my tiny, tiny diamonds. My mom also wanted some earrings for herself.

That Christmas I found a green velvet box under my tree. Inside the beautifully wrapped gift was my first (and last) pair of diamond earrings, courtesy of my grandma’s wedding ring. My parents had had the diamonds all reset for the girls in my family.

I don’t wear my diamond earrings that often. They are so tiny that I fear I’ll lose them. I keep them hidden in my apartment, hopeful that if someone does rob us, they’ll never find my earrings.

I’m wearing them today.

While my grandma’s wedding ring didn’t hold any sentimental value to my mom, or to me, my diamond earrings do. They are a piece of my grandma, given to me by my mom and dad.

And to me, that’s very sentimental.

(My grandma and Babboo, my niece and me, and my step grandpa. This picture was taken last week when I was in town visiting my family.)

So tell me, do you own a piece of jewelry that was passed down to you? I’d love to hear (or see) what you guys have.

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My latest New Thing is marvelous. And beautiful. And oh so cozy. Come on over and read all about what was delivered to my apartment this weekend.

And do you want to know what I’ve been doing with my time since the writers strike began? You know you do!

In my younger days I worked at a convenient store. We had matching uniforms for the different days of the week. We served 32 oz. Pepsi’s through a drive-up window. We got paid crap.

I know this sounds very glamorous and exciting.

It wasn’t.

While I met a lot of good friends (and even my ex-husband) while working there, I was also forced to work with some old ladies that drove me batty. Seriously, there is nothing worse then being stuck in a corner, making sodas all day with a mom that only got out of the house two times a week to go and work at the local convenient store.

(Okay, having your toenails pulled out might be worse. But not much worse. Trust me.)

(Just to clarify, this is not a picture of the woman in this story.)

There was this one specific lady that worked there that drove me especially batty. We worked together on Wednesday mornings. We called her B00bjob Betty. (You see, Betty had recently had a b00bjob. Oh yes, I’ve always been clever with the coming up of nicknames.) B00bjob Betty was on her second marriage and things were hott between the two of them.

You might wonder how I knew things were so hott. It’s simple.

She told us.

She told us when Mr. B00bjob bought her a battery powered play-thing for their anniversary. She made it a point to buy her replacement batteries from our store. She told us about their weekends away from The Kids. She bragged about the flowers he bought her.

Hearing about Betty’s love life got old. And it got old fast. It wasn’t just because I was stuck in the middle of my own loveless marriage. I truly felt like what went on between Betty and her man was private and sacred. And definitely not to be shared with young girls her daughter’s age.

One a Wednesday, Valentines Day to be exact, I found myself working alone in the morning with B00bjob Betty. I always hated working there on Valentines Day. I just hated the way the woman who I worked with tried to outdo each other by showing off their Valentine gifts. I knew this day was going to be like that. I knew it the second Betty walked in carrying her dozen roses and the card from her husband.

She couldn’t have just left them at home? She had to bring them into work?

Berry placed her roses on the counter, for all the world to see, and bragged up a storm about the awesome morning (if you know what I mean) she had with her husband before work.

The icing on the cake was when she threw her Valentines Day card in my face and told me how romantic it was and how I just had to read what her husband had written.

I, ever so politely, explained to her that I wasn’t comfortable reading a private message from her husband and handed the card back to her.

“But I’m giving you permission to read it. I want you to read it.”

“I know you’re okay with me reading it, but I’m not comfortable with it. I imagine your husband wrote it just for you. I’m really just not comfortable with reading it.”

“Fine then!”

And then she proceeded to huff and puff for the rest of the day and tell anyone that would listen how much of a prude I was.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was a prude. If being a prude wrong meant not reading personal love letters, then I didn’t want to be right. (Or something like that. I can’t remember how that saying goes.)

Looking back on this Valentines Day with B00bjob Betty, I find my hardcore stance on not wanting to read Betty’s note to be odd, since I can’t get enough of blog reading (and other personal letters).

But really, it was just too damn early in the morning for me to be reading about her husband’s love for her new b00bies. I would have lost my breakfast.

So tell me, in what way are you considered a prude?

**Dude, my “submit” button on my comments page is lost. It just disappeared. Have no fear, Carrisa is working on it. For now, you just can’t comment. CRAP!**

Being as I and work in downtown Seattle, The City Which is All About Coffee, my company has it’s own special Starbucks coffee machine in the kitchen. This thing will make you a cup of joe. Or a half caf cup of joe. It will even make you a huge pot of joe if say, you were having a meeting and needed a huge pot of joe.

Not only does this machine do all this, it will also, and here’s the best part, make you a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa. All you’ve got to do is push a couple of buttons and stuck your mug under the dispenser.

If there was an award given to the master of making frothy cups of steaming hot cocoa, I’d have the Gold Medal.

One of The King’s favorite things to do in the winter evenings is walk around downtown Seattle with a stop at my office to take part in the free and delicious hot cocoa while looking out the window at the view of the Puget Sound and the Space Needle. While doing this a few months ago he came to the conclusion that he would also like to enjoy a cup of hot cocoa every morning on his way to his office.

And thus he decided that that was exactly what he needed.

The next morning I got a call at my desk. It was The King. He had just left our apartment. He and Babboo would be outside my office building in a few minutes. And he would like me to meet him with a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa.

Oh, and he would need a lid. You know, so he won’t spill any on Babboo.

Knowing how much I love and appreciate my own frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa every morning, I obliged. I made up a cup. Put on my coat and scarf. Grabbed my access card. And took the elevator down to meet them.

I’m a good wife.

After a few days, I grew tired of this little routine.

Hey, I’m not that good of a wife.

The King stopped calling me and requesting a cup. I quit reminding him how good it tastes.

Yesterday morning, my desk phone rang. The King needed me to meet him in front of my office to give him some stamps for a few bills he was paying.

I decided to meet him with a frothy cup of steaming hot cocoa and the requested stamps. I down played it though. I didn’t want him getting any ideas and thinking I’d do this for him everyday.

So tell me, what little things does your significant other appreciate? More importantly, what little things do you appreciate?

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Today is Wednesday Thursday (dude, I can’t believe I as a DAY OFF!). Which means I posted over at SeattleMomBlogs. This week’s topic; is on-site daycare a thing of the 80’s? Come on over and discuss. Really, I’m curious.

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Remember how my baby sister was trying to win a free trip to South America from her company? The winner was announced yesterday, and since I promised to keep you updated, I’m here to tell you that she did not win the trip to South America. (Which is probably for the best. Being as there is an active volcano in the town they are going to right now!) Instead of winning the trip, she won $500 cash and a paid day off.

She was quite happy with her winnings.

I don’t blame her. It sounds good to me.

Let’s say, for instance, that you recently flew on a plane. And let’s just say, for instance, that you flew with your 21 month son child on your lap. And let’s say, you know, that you were lucky enough to score an empty seat for said child. And, for the sake of fun, let’s say that a complete stranger decided to take the seat next to you and your child.

And, because this is fun, let’s say that this complete stranger (who is, let’s be honest, a little different) began to assign herself the title of Your New Best Friend, even though you didn’t know the title was up for grabs. So much so that when you found out you were both on the same return flight (oh Lord!) this complete stranger quickly promised to save you and your child a seat*.

(Do people do this? I mean, I’ve heard of saving seats at the movie theater or maybe in your junior high school cafeteria, but on an airplane? Really?)

What is the appropriate etiquette for telling someone; “thanks for waiting for me and my precious child at the front of the plane, but really, I’m sure I can find my own seat. Thanks you also for the toy you bought my kid while you were on vacation. It really was thoughtful. But dude, you are a complete and utter stranger. And frankly, you’re a little odd!”

And then what do you do when the person who, thankfully, wasn’t able to find a seat near your on the plane, is there to greet you when you final exit the plane with one of those electrical cart that she reserved for you and your child? You know, so that you could “chat on the way to baggage claim”.

Seriously, what do you do in a situation like this?! Essentially you are stuck in a little room with this person for hours, in the air, so you can’t be too hostile, right?
(Thank the sweet Baby Jesus that she didn’t ask me my friend for her contact information. I’m My friend’s not good about coming up with fake e-mail addresses on the spot.)

*We flew Southwest. Which does not have assigned seats. Don’t judge me. It’s cheap.

I’m back from spending five days with my family. That is the longest amount of time I’ve spent at my folks house since I moved away almost eight years ago.

I’ve separated my trip into two categories and in picture form. You know, because the interweb demands pictures.

Things I DON’T miss about my homestate:

I don’t miss the snow.

I don’t miss the fact that you have to scrape the ice off your car windows. Dude, I hate that.

I don’t miss that the only toys at my folk’s house are crappy Happy Meal toys my mom got like ten years ago. (Note to my mom: BUY NEW TOYS!)

I don’t miss trying to do my latest New Thing on my mom’s old sewing machine. (Note to mom: get a new sewing machine.)

I don’t miss all the damn snow. I’ve mentioned that I hate snow, right? Dude, I really hate it.

Things I DO miss about my homestate:

I miss Marci. She’s been my bestest friend since about the 8th grade.

While I hate the snow, I must admit that watching my dad pull Babboo and his little cousin in the sled was adorable. Babboo loved it. He smiled the entire time. So did I (when my teeth weren’t chattering, of course.)

I miss catching Babboo and my younger brother and sister asleep on the floor at my folks house after a yummy lunch.

I miss being picked up from the airport by one of my favorite bloggers and then meeting even more bloggers for lunch!

I miss the local hamburger joint and their fry sauce. I don’t know what’s in it, but it’s white. And maybe has some lemon in it. Whatever, it’s good.

I miss watching my little guy play in the damn snow for the first time. While his mommy hates it, he loved it.

Last, but not least, I miss my family. And just sitting around the table playing cards with them.

So tell me, what did I miss while I was away? Because seriously, I didn’t even touch a computer in the five days I was away.

Yeah, I’m on vacation today, but thank goodness for pre-posting. By the time you read this post Babboo and I will flying on a plane, all by ourselves, to visit my family.

Okay so I know it’s already well into 2008.

Bear with me.

Today I’m going to borrow an idea from FluentBrittish and paste the first lines from the first post of every month in 2007; with commentary, of course.

January 2007

I’ve had the last 4 days off from work. And before that, I had another 4 day weekend. I go back to work tomorrow. I should be enjoying this time off today. But I’m not. I’m dreading tomorrow morning.

Nobody likes going back to work after having so many glorious days off for Christmas. Especially when you won’t have another holiday until May. But while I was taking it easy during my days off, The King was working full time building our new house. (The new house that will be completed in 2008.)

February

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I found my ex-husband’s profile on MySpace. That’s what MySpace is good for, right?

Wow. What a way to start the year. So I found my ex’s Myspace page. Seeing it reminded me that I was happy to no longer be married to him. I was also reminded at how hard my divorce was. Long live The King. And death to divorce.

March

I walked out of my apartment building this morning and began my 4 block walk into the office. I noticed one of the security guards from my office building walking the same route. He’s a tall, dorky kind of guy that I’ve seen around, but never talked to. I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy, I’ve just never had a reason to talk to him.

And then the security guard proceeded to raced me into work. It was odd. I still see him in my building from time to time and wonder if he remembers me.

April

It hasn’t been verified yet, but I think The King caught some sort of eye funk from the internet. I’m not naming names or anything. But you know who you are.

I don’t remember what officially was wrong with The King’s eye. But his doctor figured it out and treated him. Which was good, since I was pretty sick of having to look at this every morning:

May

The scene is a local coffee house/bakery. Saturday night out with friends. Just hanging out, eating cupcakes and talking about our weeks. My friend, who works in a dentist office, tells us that her office was broken into. They were trying to steal the nitrous oxide.

What can I say, I’m as big as a tank of nitrous oxide. And I enjoy eating cupcakes.

June

It all started over seven years ago when The King and I were first introduced. Being as we lived in different states the majority of our initial courting took place over the internet and on the phone.

The King and I still do most of our communication via e-mail. Hey, it’s what works for us. (I’m thinking that once the house is done we’ll actually get to see each other face to face.)

July

Welcome to Monday morning. (Hey, it’s still morning here on the West Coast.) And since it’s still early-ish, we’re all about the bullet points. To borrow from loveisblonde, I present you with what I’m thinking about right.this.second.

And then I went on to talk about the 4th of July pool party we were throwing and the fact that I was going to finally get to meet Rhett Miller, (lead singer of my favorite band the Old 97’s) in just a few days. (Here’s hoping I’ll actually get to see Rhett Miller perform in ‘08!)

August

I haven’t even started to type this post and already I feel like I shouldn’t. But I just got back from BlogHer where we talked about staying true to ourselves. And dude, this is true life.

This month we found out that Babboo’s school was getting a new management company. We later learned that tuition would go up almost 22%! At this rate we’ll never be able to afford having another kid. (We are also hoping to get him into a cheaper school, closer to the new house. Which will be done in ‘08.)

September

I know what you’re thinking, “What is Isabel doing posting today? Isn’t she on vacation this entire week!?” You’re right, I am on vacation this week. But just because I’m away from a computer for over a week spending time with my little family, it doesn’t give me the right to ignore you, my faithful readers.

Again, I love pre-posting. The first week of September my little family and I were on vacation in Washington DC and New York City. While we were away I decided to do a week full of “how-to” posts. I am still very proud of the way they turned out. The first one was a “how-to” post I did on how to give yourself a french manicure. (I’m curious if anyone actually tried this at home?)

October

Friday night, before heading out to have dinner with friends, Babboo and I stopped over at our new house to check on the latest going-ons. Behold, we have a concrete driveway!

The driveway over at the new house was poured. I’m always excited about any type of progress over there. (We stopped by to check the new house out yesterday after church. The King poured the concrete for our counter tops and I got to see how they looked. They look awesome, BTW.)

Graduation day is typically the last time you ever set foot in your high school. You walk out the front door with your yearbook, your backpack and the contents of your locker with the hopes of never returning.

I was getting ready to visit my high school the next week and so my days spent at SHS were on my mind. I admit I didn’t hate high school. And that’s okay.

You know how we talked about my oncoming gray hair in my last post? I mentioned my dad’s gray hair. What I didn’t mention is that my dad started going gray at seventeen. Dude, seventeen is way too early to be finding gray hairs.

My dad is one of my favorite guys, so anytime I get to talk about him I’m happy. He’s a good dad and a awesome Santa, thanks to his gray hair.

There you have it….a very brief look back at 2007 here at hola,isabel. I’ve learned that I usually start the month with the most boring posts ever.

Maybe in 2008 I should try for a little more of the dramatics.

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In case you forgot, today is Wednesday. Which means I posted over at SeattleMomBlogs. So go and read all about what happened when I went out to work with my female coworkers.