Happy Birthday, Keven

My hubby of eleven years turns 35 today. I met him when he'd only just turned 23, a mere babe.

It's working out to be a week-long birthday. He's had his new iPod Touch for a week now, slowly learning its ins and outs. This morning we went to brunch at our little downtown family diner called The Olive Tree, formerly The Three Coins. They're rather Greek. The menu features gyro omelets, and the woman behind the register mentioned her youngest daughter is named Tula. Now I want to watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Pancakes and middling Americana fare were had by all, with a very old style, small town feel. Got me reminiscing about my summers in Goshen, waiting tables between semesters.

Tomorrow, Jenn and Jas and the boys will come down for a visit and barbeque, when we'll do the cake thing. The rest of the weekend will be spent watching the Ryder Cup.

Jesper ParnevikOnly once every two years does Keven turn frothingly unAmerican, and that's during Ryder Cup week. He'd tongue bathe a Spaniard if that Spaniard could hole a decent putt. He once shouted "oh, my beautiful Swede" to Jesper Parnevik (right) when he did just that. That was back in 1997. We'd only been married two months, and I'd never even watched golf. But Nick Faldo was cute, like a British Harrison Ford, and it was a good experience (ie, Keven was happy) because the Europeans won.

I swear one of the worst days of Kev's life was the Sunday of the Miracle at Brookline. *shudder* That was a terrible afternoon in our house. But it also speaks to the relative quality of Keven's life, in that a bad day of watching golf ranks among his bleakest times. Thirty five good years, with many, many more to come. Love you!

Happiness, coming and going.
I watch you look at me,
Watch my fever growing and
I know just where I am.
Lucky Man" by The Verve

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