Varying Philosophies on Phalange Mingling

That's us holding hands while we're getting married.
See, hand-holding is serious business.

The first time I can remember holding a boy's hand was at the Homecoming dance my junior year of high school. Sure, I'd kissed boys before him. But I don't recall ever holding another's hand until that night. His fingers felt strange laced between mine. And I was certain that things between us were really going somewhere because we had taken that step together.

Flash forward almost 20 years, and I'm married to a pair of hands now. A pair that disagrees with me on what it means to interlock fingers.

Mr. Wonderful and I got into a spirited debate recently about the significance of holding hands. To him, it's just a regular old gesture you make when you're dating—like opening a girl's car door.

To me, it's much more.

I even wrote a post around the subject after the first time Mr. W held my hand in 2007.

I always felt like hand-holding was a declaration. Much like I tried to hold in the words I love you so I wasn't the first to say them, I also held back on hand-grabbing until my Mr. made the move first. It felt coupley and I didn't want to be the first to proclaim boyfriend-girlfriend-hood by doing it.

I think it's possible to kiss someone you're dating—or even sleep with them—and not have it mean as much as when you publicly hold their hand.

Mr. W thinks I'm crazy. Just as I harassed him for running his hands all over town like ten-fingered hussies, he had a cow (hello '80s throwback) when I said I might sleep with someone before ever holding their hand.

Where do you guys stand on this topic? Which one of the Wonderfuls is the crazy person? I'll be keeping a tally of your responses...

Farmer Wonderful Strikes Again

How does the old saying go—When life gives you lemons on your honeymoon, make limoncello?

Although we came home from Italy with one less suitcase, we had 24 more lemon seeds than we did before we left. And the ever industrious Mr. Wonderful carefully planted them in a series of sprout starter boxes.

We're hoping eventually we may end up with some trees that grow cranium-sized lemons like the ones along the Amalfi coast.



Apparently a lot (or maybe all?) of citrus trees require grafting. So Mr. W purchased 100 (the smallest order he could make) stems of a hearty rootstock to serve as the grafting points for his little lemon babies. Our back patio currently looks like this:


Yes, they're in paper popcorn containers from Smart & Final. Yes, it's sort of like some strange Willy Wonka Barbie Wonderland back there.

Particularly when you see that the other side of the back steps looks like this. This is the lemon tree nursery where all the little babies are still developing. In Solo cups...like they grew at a frat party. Hopefully there's no keg beer hiding in the bottom of those things.



Mr. W is hopeful that we can grow lots of little starter trees in pots and then dig them up when we move to the vineyard one day. Who says vineyards only make wine? Maybe we'll invent some new limoncello-wine hybrid. Or maybe we'll just make really killer lemonade for our guests...