While I’m on vacation this week, the theme of my posts has been Momo’s Show and Tell. And yet, you’re still here. Glutton for punishment, eh?

We discussed random. We discussed my Buckeye fever. Today, we’ll talk about my attraction to wine.

See this wine bottle? It’s holding my favorite flavor. What? I can call it a flavor if I want to.

What’s so lovely about this particular Riesling is that it almost comes up to my six year old’s waist. That’s what I like to call “more bang for your buck”. It was purchased at Sam’s Club, where the butcher sommelier told me it was quite yummy.

But, even it’s bitter I’ll still drink it. I am an equal opportunity imbiber.

My father-in-law makes homemade wine that is some of the best I’ve ever tasted. And, talk about a bang. Whew! His wine will knock your socks and shoes off.

You’ll wake up the next morning and notice you’ve stuck your Chuck Taylors to the ceiling with masking tape. Then you’ll wonder how it happened, because the last thing you remember was skipping down the sidewalk catching butterflies and singing Just Between You and Me.

So the next time you raise a glass of wine to your lips, think of me. My father-in-law is here on vacation with us for the next couple of days, which means I’ll likely be walking around barefoot.

Let me know if you’re interested in adopting a butterfly.

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Since I’m in the mood to share, and because it’s just two days until kick-off, I thought I would tell you about my passion for all things Buckeye.

Buckeyes, like these.

This particular bunch hangs from a shelf near my back door. Because you never know when you’re going to be running out and feel the need to put on a necklace made from poisonous nuts.

Some of these were purchased from street vendors, some were made by my father-in-law and two of them were made by my kids when they were in preschool. Sigh…it makes me weepy just thinking about their little hands working with strings, magic markers and toxic beads.

I am an Ohioan born and bred. I have traveled far, but have always lived within a few miles of the hospital where I was born. I like it that way. (Though not so much that I couldn’t be convinced to winter in Arizona. Just sayin’.) The only college choice for me was The Ohio State University.

I love me some Ohio State football. It doesn’t get much better than waking before sunrise, tailgating with good friends and family in an electric environment, watching The Best Damn Band in the Land, then having the boys play “toss the rag doll” with the likes of Michigan. Gag. Hack. Sorry. I can’t type the word Michigan without my lunch coming up.

And yes, I’m fully aware that Ohio State is the best #1 team to always end up #2. Okay, okay. We’re not so good at winning championships. It’s a lot like going to prom and instead of dancing with the cheerleaders, our boys end up dancing with their Moms who just happen to be there chaperoning. But, at least they get to dance.

That’s right. I am not a fair-weather fan. I don’t care if they tango with their great-aunt and her oxygen tank. I’ll be there to cheer them on.

Football season is about to begin. Fear the nut, people. Fear the nut.

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I am 37 years old and have lived in 12 different houses and apartments. I have met, and moved away from, many different neighbors. And, I’ve had my fair share of bad ones.

When I was little, there was Ursula. She lived alone with her thick German accent and her very scary dogs. Dogs who may as well have been trained by Hitler himself. God forbid if they didn’t heel when she told them to.

I didn’t try to sell Ursula any Girl Scout cookies, and I didn’t even bother collecting paper route money. You just didn’t approach that house. Das war verboten!

In college, I had neighbors who made my apartment building smell like Thai food and feet. The odors that wafted under the hallway doors were bad enough that I trained myself to hold my breath from the parking lot to my unit on the second floor. The year I had to carry my bike up the steps was quite a challenge.

Shortly after that, I had my first experience with rotten neighborhood kids. Kids who threw eggs at my house and who put dog poop on my front porch. I’m not going to get into details, but just know that I got them back.

My husband and I have lived in our current home for over 10 years, and we have a great group of folks living around us. But, for the past eight months we’ve been feuding with our next door neighbor. Well, not so much feuding as not talking at all.

Before the silent treatment began, this was the same lady who would stop you on your way to the car, or in the middle of cutting grass, to give you a dissertation on her family life. These were not stories about her or her husband, but rather about her children, her grandchildren, her grandchildren’s barber, the barber’s sister, and the barber’s sister’s attorney’s son’s teacher’s uncle. Literally. She is a gossip to the nth degree…and if you’re going to gossip, could you at least make it about people I know?

So this not talking thing? It’s really not so bad.

Forget casseroles and picking up newspapers when we’re out of town. Turns out that her granddaughter wrecking into our car was the most neighborly thing anyone has ever done for us.

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Tomorrow is our 11th wedding anniversary. Despite our lousy vacation luck, we’re dropping the kids and the dog off with sitters, then we’re headed here.

Here is a forest, with a hillside lodge, lake, golf course, pool and many outdoor activities.

While determining our excursions, we certainly know we won’t be horseback riding. The first time we tried this, my husband’s horse firmly decided to NOT climb the hill back to the stables, so we instead traveled through thick brush that left us looking like Indiana Jones had used us for whipping practice.

The second time we rode horses (on our honeymoon), the guide took the two of us along a cliff in Hawaii…a cliff right next to a shooting range. I don’t know who was more spooked by the gunshots, me or the horses. Probably me.

Maybe I’ve watched too many westerns, but I was just waiting for my horse to rear up at the sound of a rifle, at which point I would go tumbling down the mountain. My husband would’ve heard a lot less nagging these last 11 years, that’s for sure.

We also won’t be climbing in a canoe. The last time the two of us went canoeing, we managed to tip ourselves, the entire contents of our very full cooler, wallets, phones, everything…in about two feet of water. Yes, you read that correctly…two feet. It barely covered our knees, and yet we were drenched from head to toe.

And golf? Well, I’m a hack at best, so that’s out.

Besides being with my husband, taking in the beautiful scenery and the poolside bar, I am most excited about the lodge’s treadmill. I’m pretty sure it won’t need to be uncluttered before I can use it.

I know I’m in the minority when I say I get excited about working out while on vacation. But, that’s just because of the aforementioned clutter, and because I often have to stop my treadmill in the middle of a run to get someone a snack, or fix a computer problem, or wipe a child’s butt. These kids? They’re so needy.

But, treadmill or not, I’m looking forward to some alone with my man. Leisurely strolls around the lake, good food, tasty wine, and of course…there will be me kicking his butt at Scrabble. Happy Anniversary, Honey! I’m totally going to triple-word-score on you.

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