for 45 minutes...

The strangest thing just happened to me. I went to the ladies room at work, and when I exited my stall, a woman was already there washing her hands. I soaped up and started to wash my own hands. So far, this is all very normal.

I was about done and ready to rinse and dry, when I noticed that SHE was still washing. I felt like if I stopped washing my hands before she did, after all, she had started before me, she would judge me and think me a subpar hand washer.

So I kept going past my normal point of clean handedness and continued to wash. Then I noticed she was eying me up in the mirror. Eye contact was made. She kept on washing. I believe she was challenging me to …. yes. Yes. A Hand Wash Off.

Who was going to rinse first? Who would be the first to cave? To admit publically to inferior hand washing skills? Who was going to break?

Turns out, it was me.

Listen, I have work to do, and to be honest, I’ve had some issues with dry and chapped hands, so washing them to the point of bleeding wasn’t going to help that one damn bit. I just found it all a bit strange. Has this happened to anyone else? What’s the strangest thing you’ve encountered in a public restroom? The stories have to be staggering.

Okay! You don't have to ask me twice!!

I am officially SIX weeks away from running my first half marathon, the Cooks Forest Half.

You would think I would be nervous, or worried, or sweating it, or furiously making plans to  be sick that weekend, but I’m not. I am totally stoked. I am EXCITED. I want it to be here. As of now, I am officially registered for three half marathons; the Cooks Forest Half, the Pittsburgh Half, and, the one that makes me actually straight up squee in excitement, the Healdsburg Wine Country Half.

That’s right. A half marathon that runs through Wine Country, on Halloween weekend. That is three of my favorite things in the world, together. Right there. Not only do you get to run and drink wine at the same time, you get to do it DRESSED UP!! Which reminds me of last Halloween, and how it went horribly, terribly, freakishly wrong.

Casey and I attempted to do a Halloween run last year. We were all signed up to do the Freaky 5K in North Park, here in Pittsburgh. If you haven’t been to North Park before, it’s a huge, giant, sprawling mammoth of a park that was designed by a cruel, cruel person who didn’t want anyone to find their way around it ever.

We got up bright and early, we had a sitter come over, we got DRESSED UP. I was excited. I was SO excited. I had my heart set on running this race and Casey had agreed to run it with me, which made it even better.

Look how goddamned excited I look:

Me as a devil, if the devil wore Reebok, and Casey as Maverick from Top Gun. All dressed up and ready to GO!

It was snowing out, a fact that made me even MORE excited. I actually love running in the cold. I’m weird like that. We get to North Park. And we can’t find the starting line. It’s okay! I remain upbeat and excited and assure Casey that it’s probably right around one of these bends, and hey! Having the low fuel come on just adds to the excitement!

Five minutes later my excitement was turning into anxiety, as bend after bend did NOT lead us to the finish line, but rather to another twisty and windy road that was one way in the wrong direction. I may or not have started raising my voice at this point. Ten minutes later and a minute after the race started, any excitement I had was now white-hot anger, directed at Casey, the morons who designed North Park, and the world in general. Casey finally sees a police officer and gets out to ask him if he can help us.

Turns out, we were right over the hill from the starting line BUT. We couldn’t get there because the race had already started and the roads were closed. We could park and get out and walk, but it was about a 15 minute walk, and did I mention the race had ALREADY STARTED?

I wasn’t merely upset. Upset if for people who didn’t spend the past two weeks being very, very excited about this. I was crushingly disappointed. I, all 36 years of me, ripped the devil horns off my head, crossed my arms over my chest, put my earbuds in and proceeded to listen to loud music while glaring at Casey, since I had decided that this was all his fault.

He stopped to get gas and when he got back in the truck, I had managed to get some gentle tears rolling down my cheeks, complete with lip tremble. It was a performance worthy of a bratty 16 year old girl, which is exactly what I felt like.

It took me the better part of the drive home to get myself in check. By the time we got to the house, I had calmed down. I put things in perspective. It was just a 5K. There are 5Ks literally every weekend. Casey didn’t get lost on purpose. I still had my health and two beautiful children. I mean really, how can you be upset with THIS is what you come home to:

I don't let just ANYONE take my Dunkin Donuts.

I got over it and life moved on. Now I am training hard for my first half, and I am SO EXCITED FOR HEALDSBURG! I am already thinking of a costume. This is exciting. I am excited. Not only to run another half, but to do it in Disneyland for Classy Drunks, Wine Country, and to do it in COSTUME.

The best part of this race? I could care less if I get lost.

And just to be sure there aren’t any ‘incidents’ this year, I’m going to go ahead and put myself in charge of getting there.

Yours in asking for directions,

Bethany

It’s hard to find people who feel indifferent to Valentine’s Day. They either really love it, or they really hate it. Right now, this very second, my Facebook feed is filled with people either wishing everyone a Happy Valentine’s Day, or people posting pictures of Cupid meeting a violent end. Sigh. People. Can’t we all just get along?

I will admit that in the past I have been a Valentine’s Day grinch. A vlinch if you will. I’ve said the same things the haters say – You should celebrate your love every day, it’s rude to have a holiday that doesn’t include single people, it’s a holiday specifically created so that Hallmark has a reason to exist, etc. I’ve been there. I know.

And I agree with all of those points. But here is the thing. ALL holidays are contrived, forced events designed to make us all go out and spend money on stuff, and the more stuff the better. Cards, presents, food, booze, flowers, balloons… the sky is the limit. We are a nation of people addicted to making every day a theme, and then throwing a theme party. It’s just what we do.

If you need any proof that life is just one theme party opportunity after the next, go to any party store in the nation. Aisle after aisle of all you need for that perfect St. Patrick’s Day/Easter/4th of July/Arbor Day party. We don’t even need a actual, legit holiday to want to plan shopping trips around it. Nope. We will just grab whatever we want and make it a theme. Oscar parties, Night Before Thanksgiving, Kentucky Derby, Super Bowl, March Madness, full moon, half moon, quarter moon, harvest moon, luau, you name it. Hell, we even make a party out of standing around cooking a farm animal.

Quite frankly, we are out of control. So let’s just embrace it. Yes, Valentine’s Day is silly and overblown and we don’t really need to be reminded to celebrate our loved ones. But if you don’t like Valentine’s Day then you also think Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are stupid. And they are! Not as stupid as Grandparent’s Day, or Boss’s Day, but stupid! So what?

We thrive on celebrations. And the economy thrives on us thriving on it. I don’t want to live in a world without candy. So if today gives candy companies a boost that helps them get through the leaner times, then YAY! Yay for candy. WHY DO YOU HATE CANDY??

*deepbreath*

What I’m saying is this year, I’m all in. I am celebrating the hell out of Valentine’s Day. I love love, and today is all about love, therefore, I love this day. And I’m buying cards and presents and I’m going to out to eat (at least I better be. Casey is in charge of our romantical evening plans. This better be dinner somewhere nice and not chicken on the grill), and I’m telling my kids 75 times how much I love them and how they make every day better, and I’m going to tell Casey how much I love him, and I’m telling all of you, I love you.

Clearly I don’t mean that. I don’t even know most of you, but I got carried away. Because it’s Valentine’s Day. I hope you spend it with someone you love. I love myself, so I’m spending all day with someone I love. I’m actually taking me out to get highlights, a hair cut, and my brows waxed. I love me!

Yours in full hearts,

Bethany

This is a beautiful sight. For a post card or painting. In real life? In person? It looks cold. Very, very cold.

A big part of training for a distance race is mental. You have to mentally prepare yourself to run when exhaustion has set in, when you’re in pain, and most importantly, when you plain old just don’t want to run. Like, say, 7:30 this morning when I looked outside to see a fairly impressive coating of snow on the ground.

It wasn’t just the snow, either.  I could see large drifts of snow blowing around, a sure sign that hey, it just may be windy out there, too. Snow + wind + dear god, is it only 24? = there is no way I am climbing out of my nice, warm bed.

And then I did.

I figured it was like going off the high dive, or doing a shot that smelled questionable – you just had to hurry up and do it before you stopped to think about it. I had made plans to go with my friend Megan, so I was also sort of hoping that while I was getting ready, she would text me telling me she was bailing. I kept checking my phone:

Me – Are we still on for this morning?

Megan – YEP! I will be leaving here in 15! See you soon!! Do you have any sandwich bags?

Me – Yes, I have sandwich bags. 15 minutes, huh? WOW! You sure you’re up for this?? LOL

Megan – Yep. I’m thinking we can bust out 8 miles. You in?

Me – OH HELL YA!

But really, I wasn’t in. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet. She wasn’t backing out. I was going, whether I liked it or not. Time to layer up.

I may or may not have mentioned that I have embraced running for its health benefits, because I truly get pleasure from it AND it’s a whole new reason to go shopping. And shop I have, folks. I the short time I’ve been running, I’ve amassed enough gear to outfit at least five of me. Six if the weather’s nice.

I take this all very seriously, and I read up on things, and I follow advice, and I care about my hydration. Leading me to sometimes look like a well-meaning idiot when I head out. Which is exactly what Megan thought I looked like. See, she is one of those people who has been running her whole life, and she just pops on whatever and makes it work and she hardly ever needs water and I think she’s part camel.

She is just so effortless. Not just in her preparation, but also in her running. She can run literal circles around me. She is the type of runner who will answer her phone in the middle of an uphill run. I’m panting behind her, staggering to keep up, and she’s talking to her boyfriend, “Oh, hi baby. Just running with Bethany. How’s your day?”

So I should consider myself lucky that she even wants to run with me. I have to hold her back. But she doesn’t care. She just gently pushes me to run faster, and also drags out me out to run in the snow and risk hypothermia. Thanks, MEG!

Here is Megan, in snow and running gear that she stole from her daughter for our run.

And here's me, in $1,200 worth of performance gear. Very well hydrated.

I’m glad I ran this morning. I’m glad Megan pushed me to do it, and that I let myself be pushed. We got to almost six miles. Not the 8 she had hoped, but running in a few inches of snow is no joke.

And now I can have a few extra glasses of wine tonight. And that’s no joke, either.

Your in about to get a drinkness,

Bethany

How do you pick just one....

For the second year in a row, I was lucky enough to be asked to judge the East Coast Wine Geek’s Wine of Year contest. And this is very smart of them. If there are two things I am really good at it’s drinking and being judgey.

If you aren’t familiar with the Geeks, it’s a group of five lovely people who like to drink wine and then tape themselves. I did this with somewhat disasterous results in previous blogs, but they seem to make it work. They all have different styles and favorites, so when they come together to judge a wine, hilarity and violence often ensue (just kidding. there is rarely violence).

At the end of the year, each of them pick their favorites, they assemble their judges, and we all decend upon Kavic’s Winery in Carnegie to pick the winner.

This being my second year, I felt like the seasoned professional, regardless of the fact that I know nothing about wine other than that fact that I love to drink it. Be that as it may, I managed to be dead on with the winner last year, the spicy and sexy Spice Route Pinotage (good luck getting it in the state of Pennsylvania. You can’t. Literally. Casey bought every bottle in the entire state and had it shipped here for our anniversary).

I found out that a dear friend of mine, the fabulous Father Spoon from Should I Drink That, was also a judge. He is a craft beer expert, but he and his wife had recently purchased a box of Franzia, so he fancied himself ready to do this. We might be amateur whatever it is you call people who drink a lot of wine, but we know good. We were ready.

When you are judging a wine contest, you aren’t allowed to know what wine you are drinking. Also, they give you little shot glasses of wine. Which is horse shit. Remind me to write a strongly worded letter to the Geeks for next year. How am I supposed to drink a SHOT GLASS of wine? Do you have any idea how hard it is to grab a shot glass and NOT down it like a shot? Try sipping wine out of a shot glass. It’s hard. It’s like trying to sneeze with your eyes open. It’s UNNATURAL.

This is what we in the biz call a 'tease'.

I got through it though. Me and Father Spoon. We sip each shot glass of wine and fill out a sheet describing each wine’s color, aroma, taste, and dismount. Wait. That might be gymnastics. Either way, I judged. And even though I am not formally trained in wineology, I put a lot of thought into it.

I must have done okay, because not only did I get the first place wine right, I got the second place wine right, too. BOOOO-YA! Here is a picture of me with the winners:

It's like the drunk Olympics.

A red, Elements by Artesa, won the day. It’s part Sonoma Valley, part Napa Valley, 100% insanely good. I have already consumed a few bottles in the days since. Just to make sure I had it right. Second place was Mumm Napa, a bubbly white from Napa. California wines took the day, which was just fine with me. I love Sonoma and Napa and have I mentioned that I’m running this?

I hope the Geeks ask me back for next year. I had such a good time, as I always do, and I found a few more wines to love, which is always a good thing. If you’re looking for some new vinos to try, I suggest you check out their podcast. If you’re not looking for new wines to try, why in the hell are you reading this post? ; )

Yours in shot glasses of wine,

Bethany

Just heading to work. Like any other normal human being.

One of the downsides I forgot to mention in my rant yesterday is that I have now turned into that annoying lady on the train with 87 bags. Purse? Check. Lunch bag? Check. Laptop bag? Check. Gym bag? Check. Super giant puffy coat that comes to your knees? Check! Yep. It’s official. I now have the radius of a minivan.

I feel bad for myself on the subway platform. I can see people eyeing me up. Stepping away from me. They don’t want to sit next to me. I don’t look like I’m heading to the office. I look like I’m heading to an Arctic excursion.

This makes getting from the T stop to the office a work out in its own right. I am lugging 87 bags in a coat insulated to protect up to -115 degree temperatures while walking five city blocks wearing heels. Today I said ENOUGH. I have HAD IT. It doesn’t have to be like this. There HAS to be a solution. And just like that, it came to me. My million dollar idea.

I was going to make a briefcase that was also a gym bag. A brief bag. A gym case. It was going to be THE must have accessory for people who had to carry many bags, when really they have always wished that they could just carry one. I use my PR ninja skills to get a few celebrities photographed carrying one, and BAM, I would be cranking out the most in demand bag the world has seen since this:

Let's not act like you didn't have one.

By the time I got to the last block, sweaty and having accidentally knocked over two people and a light post, I was convinced that this was it. Casey could build his artisan concrete company, and I would grow my bag empire, eventually branching out into evening wear and a luxury pet satchel line. I was mentally writing out my resignation letter on my elevator ride to my floor.

I get to my desk, peel away bag after bag after bag after effing bag, take off my coat that I can now admit is a Bit Much for the mild winter we have been having, but I refuse to not wear it because I spent a lot of effing money on that coat and when I wear it I like to pretend I’m an Eskimo or preparing for an Everest summit, find the bag with my laptop, fire up said laptop and Google gym bag briefcase.

And don’t you freaking know it. Someone else has already taken my million dollar idea. Those JERKS! These things already exist. In all sorts of shapes, colors, sizes… apparently I am not the first person in the history of the free world to get sick of being bogged down with enough luggage to make a snap decision to just move on over to China.

My dreams were crushed. The mansion that I had been so lovingly furnishing in my mind, purchased with my bag empire proceeds, evaporated in a swirl of tears and pain. It was not to be. People, many, many, many people, had beaten me to the gym case.

If you can’t beat ‘em, buy from ‘em! I have settled on this little number.

I’m going to order it tomorrow and I will follow up with you once I give it a whirl. I know that you will be sitting on literal pins and needles waiting for my full report. I won’t let you down.

Yours in way too many freaking bags,

Bethany

This is the face of FITNESS!!

I have discovered the secret to running faster: don’t be hungover. You’re welcome. I just did 5.12 miles at 9:17 minute miles. By far the best I’ve done. And it was gorgeous day to get out of the office and enjoy the sunshine.

My lunch time runs are quickly becoming a favorite, even though they do come with a couple of down sides. To whit:

The aforementioned grody shower rooms.

I get really, really red when I run. Like, people are alarmed with how red I get. Like, if my post-run face were a crayon color, it would be House On Fire Red.

I have to walk through my office building in my running clothes. I know, I’m dressed, everything is all covered up. But I feel naked. I don’t want Todd from Finance checking out my bootie in my running capris.

I have to walk through my office after my run. Meaning I’m sweating and super red faced and huffing and puffing and then I get on the elevator with the Legal dept and have to be all like, “Oh, hi! Pay no attention to me over here. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sling sweat on you. I apologize. What? No, no. I’m not in cardiac arrest. I just get really red with I run.”

I watch enough TV to know that there is a 57% chance that someone has rigged our grody shower room with a video camera, meaning I may very well have a web channel that I don’t know about. I hope they get my good side.

But for all of the downsides there are also upsides! For example:

I don’t have to get up early to run, and I don’t have leave my family in the evening. I’m done. Done, done, done and just finishing my work day all red faced and sweaty. And not even caring. Cause I’m done. I just ran 5 miles. What did YOU do?

It is fantastic thinking time. I just clear my mind and let whatever pops up pop up. And today, this popped up:

I was a chubby little girl. My mom had a Piggy cookie jar, and the pig was holding a sign that said “Don’t Be a Pig!” I walked down to dinner one night to find that my grandfather had put said Piggy cookie jar on my dinner plate. I was eleven. That shit leaves scars.  So I begged my mom to get this for me. Imagine me. A little fat girl with glasses and a bad haircut, dancing around with a frigging ribbon (note: I looked NOTHING like the girls in the commercial. Not even close).

I wish I could go have a chat with that little girl. I wish I could say, listen. Your hair is going to grow out. You’re going to grow up and you’re going to be strong and happy and not only are you going to be in shape, but you’re going to sit at work , surrounded by pictures of your gorgeous family, at a job you love, and you’re going to be sweaty and red faced and you’re going to love it.

So yes. While lunchtime runs have their downsides for sure, it’s nice to be able to take the time to take care of yourself, and maybe silence some demons while you’re at it.

Yours in better mental health,

Bethany

I started pacing around the living room. What do I do? *sips wine* Could this be real? *sips wine* OMG am I going call him back? *sips wine* He left his number. I have my brother’s number. I can call him RIGHT NOW. *chugs rest of wine* *refills wine glass*

I decided to go up to our office and yes, call him back. My hand was shaking as I dialed the number. How do you open up this particular conversation? Oh, hay! This is Bethany. Got your message. So. What’s being going on these last 40 years? I am so not good in awkward situations. I just get all red and sweaty and DEAR GOD HE IS ANSWERING THE PHONE. “Um, Mike? Hi. It’s Bethany. I think I’m your sister.”

The rest of the conversation was something of a blur. He put me on speaker phone so I could speak with him and his wife, Katie. It was thanks to Katie’s superior Googling skills that we were even having this conversation. The story goes something like this:

Ten years ago my sister came across an internet message board for adopted people to find their birth parents and vice versa. She decided to post all of the details that we had, namely the fact they were twins, their birthday, the city of birth, and the name of the law firm that managed the adoption.

Nine years later, Katie stumbled across said post doing research to help Mike find his birth mother. My sister had left her full name on the post, making her no match against Katie’s Google skills. Using my sister’s last name as a jumping off point, she tracked me down online.

I am fairly easy to find by my full name. I do public relations for a living. My name and work blackberry number are on every press release I send out (thus Mike’s first call being to my work phone). Oh, but it doesn’t stop there! They also found my blog and my twitter, and had been watching me online for a year.  And they still wanted to talk to me! SCORE!

By the time we got off the phone, we were all Facebook friends, we had sent each other family photos, and already had the sense that this was just the beginning. I hung up with a huge smile on my face. For a second. Until it hit me. I have to tell my mom.

If I thought calling Mike was awkward, you can imagine how much I was looking forward to this chat with my mom. “Oh, remember those twins that you gave up for adoption 40 years ago and have probably wondered about them every day of your life ever since? Just hung up with one of them. He said hi.”

Between the phone call, telling my mom and the Steeler’s loss, there was a lot of emotions going on that day.

Moving on. Bond were quickly forged as Mike went on to call my sister and my mom. We spoke a few times on the phone. Every conversation was effortless. Like we had known each other our whole lives. About a month into things, Mike suggested we video chat. I don’t know what took us so long.

It’s hard to explain to people the emotions I had seeing his face for the first time. The closest I can describe it is the love I had in my heart the moment I saw my children for the first time. I just loved him, as pure and as simple as that. He was my brother, and I loved the hell out of him.

Yes. We did get It's a Boy balloons for him. We are twisted like that.

He looks so much like us. The goofy Irish smile, the blue eyes, the nose. Dear god the nose. He looked like me. He looked like Kyle.  He acts so much like us. Guess what he does for a living? If you said public relations, give yourself 5 points. Also, I don’t want to brag (okay, totally bragging) but he is also a FIVE TIME JEOPARDY CHAMPION. And an Ivy League grad. So CLEARLY he is of my gene pool.

Kyle with his newest Uncle

I adored his wife, the sweet and lovely Katie. I loved her for bringing us together, for making my brother so happy, for mothering my two adorable nieces… but mostly because the first time we video chatted she refilled her wine glass 17 times. By the time we hung up, Katie and I were both half in the bag. It’s like we were meant for each other.

We video chatted about every other week.  He video chatted with my mom, my sister, all the kids, I mean he had several opportunities to change his mind. But he did not. And last Friday they were here. Him, Katie and both girls. In my house. It was bliss.

Jones already loves him some Uncle Mike. My mom, beaming away in the background.

No tense moments. It wasn’t strange at all. It’s like Mike said a few times throughout the first night: This is so COOL! He wanted to meet as many of us as possible, so Saturday we had a party at my Granny’s (yep, old lady is still kicking it!) where he met aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. We capped it off with scotch and cigars, his favorite way to celebrate.

You may have noticed, astute readers of mine, that I have not made mention of Mike’s twin. He isn’t at the place where he is ready for all of this, and I totally and completely understand. I can’t even imagine how emotional this is for them. I can’t fathom it one bit. And that’s why I’ve invited Mike to share his story with us. So you, heck, so I, can get a fuller picture of what it’s like to find your birth family.

If I needed one word to describe me right now, it would be’ complete’. I didn’t even know I wasn’t, but now that I have Mike and his family in my life, I feel a wholeness and a happiness that I didn’t even know existed.

Me, my mom, and my brother. I never get sick of saying that. BROTHER BROTHER BROTHER

And there you have it. Last Friday was the Best Day of My Life, Not Counting the Days I Had My Children. Or LFBDMLNCDMC for short.

Yours in love and happiness,

Bethany

And God said let there be Butt and he made the Butt and the Butt was good

That, boys and girls, is the butt of one Lady Gaga. Love her or hate her, you cannot deny, the woman has a smoking backside. Her butt makes J-Lo’s butt feel bad about itself. Ladies in Brazil weep and moan over the fact that they, Masters of the Buttiverse, will never reach the cheeky heights of The Lady of Ga.

Why do I bring this up? Inspiration, my friends! This is burned into the back of my eyelids so that every time I am tempted to slow down or stop, I am reminded of my end goal: Gaga heinie.

When I’m running up hill after hill after hill and I need to dig deep to find the strength to get to the top, what do I think about? Gaga heinie.

I am 100% convinced that if I keep this up, I am going to somehow magically transform my 36 year old patotootie into that. And you will not tell me otherwise and crush my dreams. You will NOT do that to me. I WILL HAVE THAT ASS.

Of course, that’s not the only reason I run. That would be shallow.

I also run because it’s good for me, it makes me feel good, it’s a whole new reason to shop, and I can drink more wine with no weight gain.

I tried a lunch time run today from my office. It wasn’t half bad. We have shower rooms here, although I have never used them. Turns out, they are pretty freaking gross. Regardless, I got my run in. I ran 3 miles, as fast as I could. Which turns out to be a whooping 9:17 mile. This might not sound like much, but it’s a heck a lot of better than when I started running and was topping out at 14 minute miles. I will take it.

The problem with lunch time running isn’t my grody shower rooms. Rather, it’s that when I get back from running, I am very excited about it and I want to talk about it. Poor Casey suffers every time I get home from a run. “Want to hear about my run? I totally crushed it. I went up this one hill and down another and it was BRUTAL but I kept going, even though my knee was tweaking and I wanted to stop. I kept going because I want an ass like Gaga.”

His eyes just glaze over and he watches ESPN while pretending to listen to me. Sometimes I think he regrets encouraging me in this hobby. Turns out my coworkers aren’t even kind enough to pretend. They see me coming and pick up their phones to look busy. Haters.

Anyhoo! There you have it. My motivation. Glutes like Gaga. And maybe one day to break a 9 minute mile. You never know. Stranger things have happened.

Yours in being sweaty at work,

Bethany

The best thing about moments is that you never know which one is going to change your life. It can be any moment. An out of the blue email, a chance encounter at the store, a wrong turn in an unfamiliar neighborhood, or something as simple as a phone call.

And that’s how it happened to me.

Last November. Casey and I were settling in to watch the Steeler/Ravens night game. I get to annoy Casey twice as much by not only having a personal phone that I check obsessively, but also a work blackberry that is never far from my gaze. It drives him bonkers, but I do public relations for a living. You have no idea when something is going to happen.

And that’s why I wasn’t all too shocked when my work phone started ringing. I decided to let it go to voicemail, figured if it was that serious, they would leave a message. I wasn’t peeling myself away from the Steeler game unless we were risking negative national coverage. That’s why I also ignored it the second time it rang.

They left a voicemail. Crap. Now I was going to have to check it and whatever it was I was going to have to deal with it and son of a bitch I just wanted to watch the football game. UGH! FINE. I will check the message.

“Hi, Bethany. I don’t know if you are the right person or not, but my name is Mike and I’m doing a family research project. 40 years ago my identical twin brother and I were giving up for adoption…”

For the first time in my entire life, I was speechless. My hand flew up to my mouth, probably to make sure my jaw didn’t fall off. My heart was hammering in my chest. The person on the phone was still talking, but I was sucked back in time, remembering a conversation that happened over 20 years ago.

I was 15. It was around Easter time. My mom asked me if we could go for a walk. Which was strange. We didn’t hang out much. We had settled into that nice routine that parents and teenagers enjoy, mutual suspicion and fear. But I was curious, so off we went. She began to tell me the story of her life, some 20 years ago.

She was a rebellious teen in a strict Irish Catholic family. She got pregnant (rebellious of course being synonymous with either drinking and/or sex), and being only 19 and in no way prepared to live on her own much less raise a baby, she decided on adoption.  She was sent off to live on the other side of the state with a brother, and began the adoption process. She quickly found out it was twins, the adoptive family eagerly agreed to adopt both, the boys were born, and my mom moved back home to try to piece together a life.

She wanted me to know this, she said, because she was afraid that now that I was getting older I might somehow run across one of them and maybe start dating one. I’m not sure how she thought I would know, if maybe I was to ask every potential suitor for a family tree. I think it was also a cautionary tale (fat lot of good that did, since I was a mom at 20), but more than that, it was a rare glimpse into the person my mother was.

Not JUST my mom, but a woman who had experiences that I knew nothing about. Who went through more than I could imagine. It was the first time I looked at my mom as a person, and not that woman who was trying to ruin my teenage life. She grew in my eyes that day, and I didn’t have the maturity to tell her then, but I was very proud of her for what she did.

She told me that we weren’t telling my sister, Sarah. We were going to wait. Now, I had been telling my sister for the better part of her life that she was adopted. She wasn’t, but I am pretty sure that most older siblings do this to their younger siblings. It’s a rite of passage. So you can imagine her surprise when in playing in the attic, she stumbled across actual adoption papers.

“Oh my god,” she thought. “Bethany was right. I was actually adopted.” Through her tears she read the papers, only to discover that there weren’t for her, but rather for a twin boy A and boy B. Confused and relieved, she confronted my mother, who told her the story. There. We all knew. Time went on.

A lot of time went on. I thought of the boys from time to time, especially when I had my own children. I wondered how they were doing and if they had families, if they ever wondered about my mom and what happened to her. You know, Oprah stuff.

But I was completely unprepared to hear one of them, leaving a message on my work phone of all places. My brain just could not connect the dots. How in the world was this happening? I, a huge believer in the strangeness of the universe, could not figure out what in the hell was going on. Steeler game long forgotten, I turned to Casey. “Sweetie. That was my brother.”

To be continued…