Yesterday I was at work, fingering through my latest project. I had a stack of 29 autobiographies which I was editing and alphabetizing, when my mind started to wander.

What? You didn’t know I work with writers? Well, I do. A whole second grade classroom full of them.

I was cutting out their pictures and using a glue stick to attach head-shots to a list of facts about each child. Facts detailing very personal information like their favorite color, or what they want to be when they grow up.

I couldn’t help thinking about how ten years ago I was working as an Operations Manager for a local corporation. I oversaw two departments and numerous people. I worked long hours, I was motivated, diligent, and career-driven. My job defined me. That was before I had kids.

Now I’m a teacher’s aide whose hours are 8:00-11:00 AM. I work with crayons, markers, and a lot of germs.

I took this job because it allows me to be home with my kids after school. Not to mention, my kindergartner still needs a little special attention, and the principal allows him to come to me for certain things. As a school and as an employer, they are more than accommodating.

If I had not bore children, who knows where I would’ve ended up career-wise. I know one thing for certain, we’d have a lot more money.

But, being able to stay home with my kids for nearly a decade and now work in the same building where they attend school…well, you can’t put a price on that. It’s a very fortunate situation in which to find myself.

So my briefcase doesn’t hold business cards or a Blackberry, and sometimes I can’t tell if the goo on my desk is from glue or some kid’s snot, and I’m definitely not breaking the bank, but I think I’m the richest woman in the world.

Maybe I should stop sniffing those markers.

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Two days ago, we attended our niece’s wedding in Virginia. The ceremony and reception were held at a beautiful and exclusive resort on the banks of the James River. I’m pretty sure they wanted to turn us away at the gate, because our Cadillac wasn’t fancy enough.

The bride and the guests were gorgeous, decked out in clothes so fabulous that the sunset paled in comparison. Following the ceremony, the wedding party had photographs taken while we were treated to scrumptious hors d’oeuvres in truly lovely surroundings.

After finding out I have a love for something called “mushroom cigars” and even more love for something called an “open bar”, it was time for the reception.

As we left the riverbank and stepped inside to the five-course, sit-down dinner, I grabbed my son’s hand and told my daughter to follow behind.

We entered on the far end of the hall and zig-zagged through the crowd, looking for the table number that matched our place card. I nodded politely and said, “Excuse me”, numerous times as the three of us wiggled around the room.

Little did I know that I should have been excusing my son’s behavior, not mine, because when we arrived at our table my daughter said, “Mom! Your son smacked the butt of every person we passed by!”

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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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