The Beginning

    It's now been a full year since I've been married. Today, in fact, marks the first day of our second year together, and I am no longer a "new wife".  Last night, on our anniversary, I spent a lot of time thinking about all of the changes that we've made, both individually and as a couple, and I realized that I'm proud of who WE are. It's so difficult to merge two lives together and try to find a way to co-exist (as pointed out so poetically by my husband in his entry this weekend), but we've managed to come out in the end stronger than when we started 365 days ago. For this, I am grateful. I never understood what people meant when they said that they love each other more with each passing year... it always sounded so very cliche' to me. But I realize that I love my husband differently today than I did when I married him. Loving him "more" is difficult to fathom, but I truly do love him more deeply, fully, and without exception, all of which I didn't understand as I stood before a hundred guests under that hot August sun.

    Despite our many flaws (yes, yes, I'm admitting that I have them, too), we've learned to come together as a couple and to work through them with a small amount of patience and a healthy dose of laughter. If I didn't have my husband there to harrass my every move, I would take myself too seriously, probably ending up a neurotic mess of a woman. And if my husband didn't have me there to nag his very existence, he would feel just a little bit empty inside. So, as I look back on this last year of our lives together, I want to end this blog with hope as we look toward the future. It's the end of one year and the beginning of a lifetime, the beginning of our family, and the time to expect great things. Thank you for sharing this time with us, laughing with us, and overall, for choosing my side (I can already see his eyes rolling at that one). Just remember, this is not the end. Afterall, we have a family that we're planning to start, so this is just the beginning.... Stay tuned.

Pat's Turn

     Today's blog is being guest written by the husband in all those horrible stories you have been reading for the last 365 days.  It was suggested to us that if Shivonne was going to write for a year I should have an opportunity to give my thoughts on our 1 year anniversary.  Finally, my chance to settle some scores and let everyone know how the first year was from a man's perspective. 

     The answer is...pretty good actually, for me at least.  I was suprised how easy things went and how smooth the adjustment period was.  I had a good time, ate some good food, had some laughs...and other things, but I had to promise to keep this G rated.  I have really enjoyed telling people who ask questions of me that "I'm married now and no longer authorized to make those kind of decisions.  I'll have to send that to the boss."  Older ladies seem to get a real kick out of it and I, honestly, never cared much for my ability to do that for myself anyway.  I also enjoy how easily irritated she is.   It's probably a character flaw on my part but it's so much fun. 

     My wife, on the other hand, seems to think she moved in with an ogre.  I am honestly perplexed by this.  Let me give a little background here to clarify why I think I'm fairly easy to live with.  My father is Italian and was raised by an Italian woman from the old school.  What this means is that he came up in a home where he, and all the other Italian males, did absolutely nothing.  Laundry, cleaning, organizing...not a chance.  My father can keep a straight face while asking my wife to make him a bowl of cereal.  He is on a first name basis with every waitress in the tri-county area, his fear of cooking (even toast) is that great.  This was my example.  Shivonne believes, in her heart of hearts, that she lives with this beast. 

     I have my own room (which I keep clean...sorta), do my own laundry, feed myself most of the time, and clean up after myself (sorta).  Sure I leave a dish or two sometimes, sure I don't always STERILIZE the stove after I cook something but give me a break.  I shower in the basement with the spiders and vicious cats and use the tiny half bath downstairs so as not to dirty her bathroom (which her dad and I spent 5 weeks remodeling and I have showered in the new tub exactly twice).  I'm the one who gets up early and stays up late to let the dogs out.  I do all the yard work, gardening, mowing, cutting firewood... The list goes on and on but I believe I have made my point. 

     I have really enjoyed the first year of marriage but I'm thinking of ending it.  Not because I'm not in love but because I would love to read her next blog about her first year with almost any other guy.  I think listening to her whine about someone who, for instance, used her bathroom (because he is afraid of spiders) and expected her to do the laundry (because that's womens work).  If the lord is just he would have terrible aim and a penchant for skidmarks.  That would be hilarious....

P.S.  Let me tell you about how she just barged in here to tell me twelve things.  For the entire last year her blogging time was sacred.  If I attempted to speak to her about anything, no matter how urgent, she would literally shout that she was blogging and order me from the room.  How is that at all fair?  It's fair because marriage is about compromise...on the part of the husband. 

Anniversary Dilemma

    All women want their man to remember two dates: the woman's birthday and their anniversary. It's sad to say, but my husband would forget both without Facebook reminding him. Naturally, like the typical woman, I've been thinking about our first anniversary since, oh, the day after our wedding. What to get him for a gift (traditional 1st year paper present or something unexpected?), where to go for our special weekend (stay local and cozy or go away and try something new?), what will be meaningful, special, and thoroughly organized while still expressing a splash of spontaneity... you know, the usual. As the date has been drawing near, I've tested these ideas on my husband to see if his reaction warrants moving ahead and making reservations. However, he seems FAR less interested in this planning process than I would have expected, even for a guy. I've received noncommittal shrugs, "Ummms", and, my personal favorite, "Wait, we're getting each other gifts?"

    Well, three days before the celebration of one-year-since-we-made-the-biggest-committment-of-our-lives and he has yet to get me a gift can only mean one thing.... that I'm getting something wrapped in a garbage bag and purchased from the Dollar Tree, with a box of cheap chocolates, and perhaps a box of wine (if he's really splurging). Just the thought makes every romantic bone in my body ache arthritically. Now, I don't want to give the impression that I'm a high-maintenance princess that requires diamonds, a trip to Belize, and sky-writing proclaiming his love for me! Really, it doesn't have to be elaborate at all! In fact, it could be as simple as a well-planned gesture, homemade meal or gift, or even a letter telling me how much I mean to him (sprayed ever-so-lightly with cologne and rose petals in the envelope....). I mean, all I really want is something that requires a little thought, something that shows he listens to my needs and desires throughout the year, something that screams excitment, romance, and creativity all rolled into one. Is that really asking too much?

Namaste

    Finally, a day that was fairly stress free! Only one session today, leaving me to accomplish all sorts of paperwork that had accumulated on my desk over the course of the last week. Enjoying my clear desk and calm day, I decided that yoga would be the icing on the cake. And it was. My Sun Salutations rocked and I even managed to master Warrior 3 (well, until I got a charlie horse in my foot, but this is my story and I'll tell it however I want to). Perfectly relaxed, I merged onto the expressway, only huffing slightly when I hit construction (seriously, at 8:30pm?). I made it to the back roads on my way home, and it wasn't until I had to slam on my brakes and swerve to miss the SECOND herd of deer that I realized my stress-free day was feeling a little stressful!

    My heartrate finally returned to normal as I pulled into the driveway. I was excited to see my babies and decided to let them enjoy a quick Puppy Playtime before bed. All was going as planned.... and then the neighbor dog arrived, his male dominance challenging Milo's "male dominance" (although I'm still convinced my dog is batting for the other team, but that's a story for another time). As the fighting began, my calmness not only flew out the window, but it broke the glass into a million tiny shards which I proceded to step on with bare feet. My attempt to divide and conquer fell short as I slipped and spilled through the wet grass in the dark evening. Everytime I grabbed for a dog, it was as if they had rolled in oil (perhaps the combination of rain and dog slobber?), making it impossible to hold on. I chased the fighters and the cheerleaders (yes, the other dogs just ran around, barking, waving their tails like pom poms, and getting in the way) for a good 15 minutes before beating whichever dog I could get my hands on, screaming at the top of my lungs the entire time (my yoga instructor would be so proud). I dragged Milo (and the cheerleaders) back home from the neighbor's yard, cleaned everyone off, and attended to my scratches and severely bruised palm. Thirty minutes later, my heart is still pounding out of my chest and my throat is raw. Can anyone say Namaste?

Boys Say The Darndest Things

    My husband spends time with a cute little tyke named Jordan. Jordan is 7-years-old and often (daily) says things incorrectly, or with just the right amount of seriousness that makes him easy to laugh at (daily). Today, Jordan joined us around our breakfast table and proceded to tell us a story about how he received a "female" on his computer the other day. Curious, I asked him, "A female what?" He looked at me blankly and said, "Just a female." It took me a few seconds as my brain quickly went through every possible meaning of "female" to a 7-year-old boy before I questioned him, "Do you mean an email?" He looked at me as if that was exactly what he had said the first time. I explained to him the vast differences between females and emails before he continued to launch further into his story. "Yeah, I got an email from my friend. But it had a picture of a female." Nervously, my husband and I looked at each other before pushing further. "Jordan, what was this female doing in the picture?" He looked at us like we were morons. "Nothin. She was a girl scout. She was playin' the piano!" (Oh, ok.... that should've been obvious....)

    Jordan then showed me the present that he brought me from his vacation to the East coast. I held it up to unveil a gigantic, touristy t-shirt which could easily fit my husband and his Italian belly. "Jordan gave me some salt-water taffy," my hubby said, trying to stifle a giggle as he looked at me and my new shirt. It's true... I envied his gift. But I thanked Jordan so much for the present, and then he kicked me in the butt with his next comment. "Yer welcome. I got you the extra large one, so it's just yer size." (My husband was shaking with laughter at this point.) For the record, I could shrink this thing 5 times and STILL have to use it as a night shirt! But he was so sweet to think of me on his vacation that I will happily sleep in my new nightgown this very evening. My husband, however, finds it commical to remention Jordan's opinion of my body, especially since yesterday I wore jeans that made me look "a little thick in the front and the back" according to my husband (good to know I get to look hefty arriving AND leaving). Coming from a 7-year-old little boy? Cute and worthy of a hug. Coming from my 33-year-old husband? Totally un-cute and worthy of a stabbing. Don't blame me, he made his bed!

Laughter: The Best Medicine

    Everyone has weeks in their lives where they literally feel that things could not possibly get worse than they are at that exact moment. And what usually happens? That's right. Things get worse. Sometimes they get MUCH worse. This has been the case with my week. Financially, emotionally, personally, and physically it's just all been a bust. At night I'm constantly waking or, worse yet, having nightmares about events that are causing me so much stress.... and to top things off, my stomach is refusing to cooperate with this anxiety I'm experiencing (if you know what I mean!). Yet, as I've realized over this past year, nothing pulls a couple together like an emotional crisis. So, despite the minor rift between my husband and I over the last few weeks, he has been 100% supportive of me in my time of need (which has not gone unnoticed and will not go unreturned). My guy has always had a way of making me feel refreshingly light-hearted when the world attacks me, which happened this very week.

    Unfortunatley, there was a falling out at my work where I was accused of being over-confident and under-confident at the same time. Additionally, I was told that one of my superiors simply finds my facial expressions frustrating.... yes, that's right. My company hates my face. So, while I was venting (freaking out) to my husband, trying to figure out how to come across as more confident and less confident at the same time, all the while making absolutely no facial expressions, he found yet another way to make me giggle and ignore the fact that everyone outside of our humble home is, with few exceptions, crazy. His simple solution was for me to get botox. This will obviously solve the problem of  my face, preventing me from moving my my muscles and offending those around me that are upset with everything above my neck.... and if that fails, he is willing to put aside money to invest in a semi-decent Darth Vader mask. By the end of the conversation, my heart felt lighter from laughter than it had in days. With the prayers of my family and friends, combined with the laughter my husband was able to provide me, I thing that I will finally sleep well tonight.

Man Smells

    I'm not sure what it is, but there always seems to be an odd smell that perpetually radiates from a man. The smell typically disappears after they clean up, but before they do, it can feel similar to snuggling up to a dead carcas. Women appear to take on whatever smell they put on themselves with lotions, body washes, perfumes, and deodorants. Yet men just have this odor that can be described as nothing other than Man Smell. It's a bit like a wet dog that was eating sauerkraut and then sprayed by a skunk. This aroma seems to intensify when a man is in an enclosed area (such as a car, bathroom (good God, the bathroom!), cubicle, etc.) or when the man is sleeping (I will never understand why a man's bedroom smells like death in the morning, requiring at least 2-3 hours of airing out time, even in the dead of winter).

    To expound on this point, my husband slept with me in my air-conditioned abode last night. It was perfectly understandable, considering the heat of the other rooms.... however, I woke up multiple times in the night and felt a wall of stench hit me directly in the face. It had nothing to do with gas (although that's a whole other problem) but everything to do with Man Smell. It was like a proverbial dutch oven that I couldn't escape. I commented on this "fragrance" when he awoke, but he couldn't smell a thing. Maybe it's like when babies have a dirty diaper and everyone in the room is grimacing while the baby giggles and plays with his toes, happy as a clam.

    My husband (perhaps trying to make up to me for stinking up my room) offered to run out to the store and purchase us some breakfast this morning. So he took my car and, roughly an hour after he returned, I got into the same vehicle to go to church. When I opened the door and got in, I realized that Man Smell had continued (nay, intensified!) from the previous night. I immediately called him on the phone and asked him exactly how many times he had passed gas during his breakfast run... he responded by laughing and saying that he hadn't. That's insane! How can men smell so rank for absolutely no reason? And it's not just my husband either (I can recall many a mornings waking my brother up for school and nearly gagging upon entering his bedroom). But women have to put up with an awful lot from these cavemen we share our homes with, walking around the house each day looking for something the cat dragged in, only to find their husband, brother, father, or son just sitting there, stinking up the joint. Tonight I'm choosing to go to bed prepared. I have a fresh canister of Vix vapor rub to smear under my nose to ward off those unpleasant Man Smells that are sure to wrinkle the sheets.

It's A Hairy Situation

    Is it possible for a woman's chin hairs to triple in number in less than a year? I know that stress can cause gray hair (which, by the way, I'm learning firsthand), so is it the same with whiskers? In the almost-year that I've been married, I've noticed that my few "pluckeroos" have rapidly multiplied.... pretty soon me and my beard are going to have to have a sit down with our beautifcian in order to hash some things out. I'm terrified I'm going to turn into one of those crazy women that can't seem to keep up on their shaving, leaving the nasty, grayish remains of a 5 o'clock shadow across their chin.

    Body hair really is quite unpredictable, though. The hair on top of one's head gets thinner whereas the hair on the rest of the body gets thicker with age. How absurd is that life change! Congratulations, not only do you get a fatty intertube around the waist, pull your back out by switching a load of laundry, and pee 3-5 times a night, but you also get to go bald AND turn into a wooly mammoth, all at the same time. I swear, the other day I plucked an ARM hair that was at least an inch and a half long! (It was probably a rogue chin hair that lost it's way.) The hair was so long that I actually contemplated taking a picture of it before yanking it from it's homey folicle on my forearm. Plus, it's not just women! Men in their 30s have started growing enough shag carpeting on their backs to cover the floor of a child's bedroom. And don't even get me started on my husband's eyebrows.... if I'm not careful, those wirey caterpillars will attack my face and poke me in the eye when I go in for a kiss goodnight. It's pretty much a given that on his 35th birthday he'll be growing his own set of ear muffs as well.

    Perhaps it's not so bad. Afterall, wrinkles are a sign of wisdom and they count the moments of laughter in one's lifetime. Maybe the same can be said of body hair. Wait. No... no, it can't. The thicker the beard, the crazier you are. Period. As long as tweezers and razors can be purchased for a buck at the dollar store, there's just no excuse, ladies. Take care of it. And if we have to do it, men, so do you. Groom those facial orfices every now and again! No one wants to carry on a conversation with you when your nose hairs start to look like a mustache. Blame genetics, original sin, the fall of mankind, whatever.... God made Nair for a reason, so we can only blame ourselves for not using it. And honey? You better sleep lightly.... there's an eyebrow trimming in your immediate future.

More Than Roommates

    My husband and I had been spatting on and off for 4 or 5 days... not the type of battles that lead to all-out wars, but the silent ones that are fueled by food on the floor and shoes left in front of the door. Our usual playful banter was replaced with a thick tension that boiled over like lava from a volcano when provoked, burning one another with unfriendly looks and frustrated remarks. It was this week that I feared our situation was starting to feel more like roommates than husband and wife. From our separate beds (Insomniac vs. Snorer) and hobbies (Ms. Indoors vs. Mr. Outdoors), to our ever-changing work schedules and lack of effort to communicate in ways other than text or email was all building, enhanced by the heat of the week and lack of appropriate cuddle time required by those married for under 1 year. Even our silly nicknames and usual insulting comments were put on the shelf for the time being.

    Finally, I spoke up and told my husband that I'm irritated with him, but I don't like the way I feel. I want to be more than his roommate, merely splitting the bills and dividing up the labor. I NEEDED quality time with my man! So what did my husband do in the last two days? He sweetly offered to watch a movie with me, lie in MY bed (aka the only air-conditioned room we have) and watch a reality t.v. show (this was a big deal for him), and he gave me a much-needed game night (6 rounds of cards and 4 Yahtzee games.... and he would've kept going had I not assured him that really was more than enough games for one evening). Now, I must mention that he's added his witty digs every chance he gets, referring to me as his NON-roommate, mocking my feelings on the issue entirely.... but hey, I know he heard me. And tonight I knew that we were back to normal when he began our usual comedy routine during dinner, which consists of him berating me in public, me berating him back, and the lovely waitress at the Chinese restaurant assuring my husband that no, there are not any ancient Chinese remedies to treat an annoying wife. Mmmm.... It feels like home again.

Uncreative Expression

    We did it! The apartment is rented and the couple we chose will sign the lease and make the first payment tomorrow. Sure, there was the speech impediment, the limp, and the flaky skin disease (far be it for me to judge a list of legitimate health concerns), but I'm pretty sure they have all their teeth, they smelled clean, and they appear to be very sweet and excited about the rental space. I must admit, I am rather glad to have this task behind us.... it's fairly cumbersome trying to juggle all of those emails, keeping everyone's information straight and setting up appointments that people will inevitably no-show. And when the prospective tenants did arrive for their look at the apartment, it was taxing trying to sell them on the bright fuscia, old-school baby blue, and canary yellow rooms ("creative expression" should be limited to those tentants who aren't blind.... literally, our last renter only had one working eye).

    My husband continually referred to the bathroom as Big Bird's dressing room when viewers cringed and shielded their eyes from the radiant color that was used to "brighten the place up a bit". After staring at any one of the colors for too long, you could see how the rest of the rooms didn't look too bad, afterall. I was still able to put a positive spin on the place as having "great bones" and "unique touches" while pointing out it's usable space. My husband? Not so much. One couple walked through and wasn't seeming very excited about the unit and having to repaint. My husband responded with "Yeah, I wouldn't blame you if you don't want the place...."  This was after he went into lengthy stories that seemed to have no bearing on the renter, apartment, or task at hand. After that, he was instructed to keep his mouth shut unless asked a specific question, and even then, he was to give only short, direct answers.

    Furthermore, it has to be said that people who refuse to clean out ovens, allowing mold to grow on top of old grease (which I didn't even know was possible), should be forced to sit in a bathtub of the greasy mold, allowing it to cake their skin like it did my hands as I was elbow deep in their old gunk this weekend. I rolled over in the middle of the night and woke up, still smelling the citrusy aroma of Goo Gone clinging to me like a damp sweat... But no matter. It's over, we're landlords again. As a nice gesture, I'll even bring the new tenants a housewarming gift... two pairs of ultra-dark sunglasses for each of them to wear in the "special" colored rooms.

For Rent By Owners

    My husband and I own a house in a small town with an apartment above the garage out back, both of which we rent out. Our apartment tenants had to move out suddenly and we were left scrambling to get it re-occupied at the last minute. So, last night I posted the rental online (complete with pictures, like a good landlady) around 10:00pm.... and in 24 hours I have had nearly 55 emails inquiring about the post! Now, why these 55 emailers felt it was necessary to explain their entire life stories to me was beyond reason.... Honey, telling me that you're on disability and going through a messy divorce with your 5 cats isn't exactly a selling point. Another fellow explained that he has terrible credit, but he's just looking for a chance to prove himself.... this is not the Oprah show. We don't do handouts, sir, please move on. Then there's the man that spelled just about every word wrong in his message. Call me passive aggressive, but I couldn't help emailing him back, saying that the apratment was still availlable and culd be redy bye Argust 1st.

    My husband and I decided to stagger some times in the next few days to show the place off to those wishing to see it (and there are many). We even had one woman offer to "make it worth our while" to move her application to the top of our list.... she's either loaded (I'm ok with a bribe) or twisted (please be loaded, please be loaded), but we will find out this weekend! I'm starting to think we may be asking too little for the place.... perhaps we should make an apple pie (who cares about the old realtor trick.... I just like pie), host an open house, and then I'll pull out a gavel and start the bidding at asking price, going up by $50 increments until all but one lucky renter folds (and if they have most of their teeth, smell decent, and their credit check proves worthy, we'll take them!) It may seem odd to have a teeth and odor clause, but we've learned our lesson the hard way. Come August 1st, we WILL have our place rented.... let's just hope our nutcase-repellant is working.

Terrible, No Good, Rotten Human Being

   My husband is a terrible, no good, rotten, human being. Techinically, I could end the entry there and call it a day. However, I feel that the women of the world have a right to know what kind of miscreant walks among them. I was just sitting down to watch television after a long day at work AND after cooking two meals (one for today and one for tomorrow.... turkey burgers with blue cheese and crab meat quiche, just in case anyone is interested) when my husband calls me on the phone from the backyard. Of course, this is his usual ritual. If he knows that I am home, he calls every 20 minutes and says (I quote), "Whatcha doin?" Generally, I respond that it's the same thing I was doing the last time he called, but it's without fail that he will call as soon as it's most inconvenient or undesirable (I'm tempted to block his number...no, I'm not joking).

    So, putting my annoyance aside that he called (again) for no particular reason, he proceded to insult me (UNPROVOKED), sending this nearly-30 woman into a tizzy. My husband (the man I chose....chose....for better or for worse) told me that he has a picture of me that comes up when I call his phone. The picture is from a few years back....my hair was long, I was about 20 pounds lighter, and I looked my mid-20s age instead of teetering into the next decade of life. This man that I "love" had the nerve to say, "I like to remember what you looked like when you were pretty." (!!!!)

    After I fed his supper to the dogs, I decided to inform the world that my husband is indeed a terrible, no good, rotten human being.

Lamb Flops

    Despite the horrendous heatwave of the summer, tonight I braved the kitchen and cooked up a stupendous dinner that even Shari Lewis would be tempted by. Lamb chops marinated in greek herbs and oils and then grilled in its own juices, fresh oregano, and garlic until lightly charred on the outside. The lamb was accompanied by sauteed green beans and followed by a refreshing strawberry/banana/chocolate malt for dessert. I set out the grape leaves and hummus to make mini lamb rolls.... absolutely divine (if I do say so myself). However, my husband took that beautifully marinated meat, neglected the hummus and grape leaves, choosing instead to douse his lamb chop in A-1 sauce. All of the mediterranen flavors that took hours to infuse into that juicy little sheep flew right out the window when he poured that Texan sauce all over his meal. I mean, it's not like we spent the day herding the cattle onto the ranch, slaughtering us up a big ole' bull, and then grilling it over an open fire. There was hummus for crying out loud. He took my gorgeous lamb chop and turned it into a lamb flop! As he would tell it, "You eat it your way, I'll eat it mine." I should've just made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because the art of intricate flavors is completely lost on that caveman of mine.

"Will Cuddle For Food"

    I don't know if it was PMS, this insufferable heat, or just plain being cranky, but last night, no matter what he did, my husband drove me crazy! First off, he LIKES to get under my skin, so much of his antics were intentional I'm sure. After being in 95 degree heat the entire day, I found a modicum of solace in our one air-conditioned room (where it was probably only 10 degrees cooler at best)....that is until my husband and dogs entered the room and proceded to lay all over me, covering my body like a furry blanket. My guy ALSO found it hysterical that I nearly took his head off each time he asked to "cuddle".... as if! It's 95 flippin' degrees and he wants me to let a large, sweaty man smother me? I continued to tell him exactly what I thought of his idea, until the urge hit me that I seriously HAD to have pizza.... AND chocolate.... immediately! So I quickly ended my nastiness and turned on my whiney sweetness, slathering on my request for pizza like a thick coat of syrup. (Oh come on, he wanted it, too.) We argued about who would go downstairs (to what was beginning to feel like the center of Hell itself) to get the checkbook. In the end, I won.... I had to agree to a morning smothering, but at least I got pizza and a mini chocolate lava crunch cake.

Smart Vs. Stupid

    No, I'm not talking about the difference between our IQs, but I AM talking about mine and my husband's difference in opinion between phones. Having lost a gazillion calls on my cell today, I decided to give my wireless provider a ring to see what the trouble may be. Sure enough, a tower is out.... AND a new phone upgrade is available to me this month! These words cause the average electronics spaz to quiver with excitement, salivating all over the shiny new toys that could be theirs with a simple click of a button. But to me, it's yet another horrendously difficult decision I have to make regarding something I understand NOTHING about.
    My husband is a smart phoner. I, on the other hand, have chosen to bury my head in the sand and pretend that the world ISN'T being taken over by these obsessive little computer devices. So I spent an hour plugging in the different phones that looked pretty to me (yes, because this is how I choose my cell phone), comparing and contrasting the various capabilities of the darn contraptions.... touchscreen... touchscreen slider... 3G, 4G, mobile hotspot, skype mobile, GLOBAL TETHERING!!!! Oh my gosh, does the phone even make phone calls????? 'Cause that's not mentioned anywhere! The only exciting thing I saw was a candybar feature.... not sure what it is, but if someone throws in a Snickers, I'd buy any phone it's added to at this point just to get the decision over with!
    As I sit here with my stupid phone lying next to me on the desk, my husband's comments of coming into the 21st century ringing in my ear, and my frustration with paying for features I don't even understand building within me... I think I need some more advice. So if you have any input, please feel free to settle this silly debate in our house between Smart vs. Stupid phones. (All comments or emails are encouraged.... however, you will be promptly deleted from my social networking world if you use any sort of complex computer language that makes you sound intelligent and me sound as stupid as my Stupid phone.)

Sgt. Costa

    I couldn't take it anymore, I had to cut my hair. Now, for me, this is a run of the mill activity. I used to get my hair cut whenever the whim hit me (and it hit me a lot.... generally after a bad test grade, argument, or if I got up on the wrong side of the bed). Hair cuts are a girl's go-to when she feels down. Nothing says, "You look gorgeous!" like a new do when you're depressed or having a fat day. Don't get me wrong, chocolate works wonders, but getting my hair done doesn't leave me feeling guilty, nauseous, or self-loathing. Although I adore chopping, coloring, and styling my hair in new and fun ways, my hubby is less than thrilled when he sees my day planner marked with a trip to the salon. Like most men, he prefers long hair. He also prefers straight hair (I should've warned him when he met me that my hair was not naturally flat.... in fact, in it's natural state, I bear a strong resemblance to a teased-out chia pet), but needless to say, I refuse to keep my hair in a state of annoyance just to keep my picky husband happy.
    During the week leading up to the big day, my man made the usual comments of not wanting me to look "butch" or like I'm joining the marines, nor does he want to hear the word "sassy" come from my lips to describe my upcoming chop. Alas, hair cut day arrived and I gave my stylist the go-ahead to remove the unnecessary 4 inches that were creeping down my back in frizzy spirals. She snipped and cut, gelled and dried, straightened and styled. I left feeling sleek and light-headed (literally, my head felt lighter). I arrived home and my anxious husband summoned me to the kitchen so he could yell at me for being a huge disappointment in the hair realm. I strutted into the room with all the confidence of a rock-star, wrapped my arms around him, and planted a big kiss right on his lips. Sergeant Costa reporting for duty! A coy smiled crept across my guy's face as he showed me (in no certain words) that he did, indeed, like my cut.

Kinda Clean

    Before I begin this post, it's important to understand that my husband is very intelligent. (Got it?) That being said, he's a complete moron. I'm standing at the sink this morning, washing dishes, and I see his protein shake bottle sitting on the counter. It looks a little cloudy, so I ask him if it's clean or dirty. He says, "It's kinda clean." Hmmm. So what he's REALLY trying to say is that he rinsed it out but didn't actually wash it. I chose to call him out on this. "You just rinsed it out didn't you." (My mind started to wander to all the times he's "done the dishes" for me and how many dishes have been put back into the cupboards that were "kinda clean".) Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, my husband smiled shyly and said, "Well, I was gonna use it again...." Ok, here's the thing, DEAR, we use ALL of our dishes again! That's why we don't throw them away after we've dirtied them. We WASH them (not kinda, but all the way) so that we don't have to buy new dishes every day. After I explained that to him, I added "You're gonna use it again.... that's the stupidest thing I've heard." His response? "Oh honey, give me a couple minutes and I bet I can come up with something stupider." And THAT'S my morning in a nutshell.

Flying Pigs

    The most miraculous thing happened! My husband, seeing that I was struggling to catch up on the cleaning after our long weekend out of town, offered to help me clean. (That's awesome in and of itselt, but that's not even the most amazing part!) I thanked him for his offer but didn't take him up on it because I know he has to do "manly stuff" in the yard. But he brought it up AGAIN and then said (and I quote), "Why don't you make me a list of things to do around the house? I think I work better from a list."
    And it was at that moment that the sky opened up and a herd of pigs with wings began flying this way and that way; ice began forming on the surface of the sun, and I could have sworn that I saw the tiniest of hundred dollar bills beginning to bud on the tree outside of our front door! After my ears stopped ringing and I wiped the tears of joy from my eyes, I sat down to make up a list.... and ya know what? I couldn't think of a thing. Ha! It was as if I had writer's block.... husband-helpers anxiety.... something! After an hour I was able to come up with a scarce to-do list that will have to hold him over until I can think of more tasks that need to be done (or until my REAL husband returns), whichever comes first. All I can say is that my husband has made my week and I love this alternate reality that I'm currently finding myself in.

Nanny In Shining Armor

    My husband and I just returned from four action-packed days in Michigan. I spent the better part of our stay playing M.O.H. (maid of honor, for those slow on the abbreviations) for my friend's wedding and then attended my brother's bridal shower (well, his fiance's shower.... even though I'm pretty sure he was just as excited by some of the gifts as she was!). During these four days, I highly anticipated a fight of some sort. Afterall, we do enjoy our alone time and there was none of that to be had for either of us (and one of us can handle that better than the other... you know who you are). But instead of a fight, I had the wonderful priveledge of observing my husband play Daddy Day Care to one of the bridesmaid's children all weekend long.
    Baby Luna loved her Uncle Pat. (And Uncle Pat, it has to be said, loved baby Luna.) During the rehearsal, he was the king of the swingset, manning all the little rascals that were in attendance. At the wedding and reception, in between his runs as a parking attendant (in which he was hit on by an elderly lady... well, sort of, because she told him he was only "kind of handsome" and now my husband has a complex) he spent time bouncing the baby around the site to keep her happy and to give her mama a much-needed break. Even the next morning when we went to the post-wedding party, after several days of non-stop action and little sleep, he managed to find the energy to push the little ones back and forth in an oversized gift box that had been emptied of it's presents and discarded. The entire weekend, he was sweet, romantic, helpful to everyone he met, and he didn't even complain once. My husband is truly my Prince Charming; my Nanny in shining armor.

My Toad In Shining Armor

    After being gone to work for almost 14 hours today, I got home and realized that I really haven't seen my husband for more than 5 minutes. So when I sat down to write tonight, I summoned him for some much needed inspiration for the blog. As we sat thinking, he blurts out, "You could write about my toad!" I sighed and responded, "Honey, no one wants to read about your toad... toads aren't funny, and it really has nothing to do with our first year of marriage." He, however, insisted that his toad story is witty and that everyone loves a good animal story (even though toads are closer to the Ick kingdom than the Animal kingdom in my opinion). But I, falling short on brain power AND creativity, have decided to appease him. Thus, here is the story of Pat's toad.
    Once upon a time, in a castle (garage) far, far away (well, at least a good 50 yards from the house), lived a chubby green toad. Despite his fear of the vicious, hairy, beasts that roam the land (the dogs, not my husband), the toad found courage to one day make his presence known to Prince Reads-A-Lot, who commonly occupied the castle. After many a fortnight (didn't think I'd ever get a chance to use THAT word in a blog) watching the Prince faithfully recline in his lawnchair throne, book always in hand, under the buzzing glow of the moon (energy-saving, bug-attracting, garage light), the toad knew that he was to befriend Prince Reads-A-Lot. So night after night, he inched closer to the royal lawnchair, hopping to and fro, careful not to disturb the enthroned reader, until a mutual comfort formed between the two companions. The Prince, seeing that the toad looked hungry, was eager to put him to work. The toad, seeing the Prince being assaulted by large, winged creatures, knew that he was the man (toad) for the job.
    The friendship between the Prince and his toad grew as the Prince sat, night after night, reading and swatting.... the toad flicking his long, quick tongue to spare the Prince from being attacked. As time passed, even the beasts of the land grew to respect the toad and his loyal work for the kingdom. Unfortunately, Princess Sneezes-A-Lot, being highly allergic to all things big and small, reprimanded the Prince for his close acquaintaince with the toad. Afterall, who ever heard of friend that gives you warts? The Prince reminded his beautiful Princess (oh yes, I went there.... it's my blog, darn it, and I'll make me beautiful if I want!) that his friend, though lowly and basically disgusting, was serving her highness's allergy need by eating the creatures that leave Princess Sneezes-A-Lot red and itchy. (This is where my husband's story ends....)
     (This is where MY story begins....) The Princess, overcome with gratitude toward the toad, rushes to the lawnchair, bends down, and places a kiss on the top of his head. Then, the toad turns into Channing Tatum and the two of them ride off in a Chariot Grand Prix, ditching the Prince and his stupid story.

    The End

Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of Fireworks

    I love fireworks. There are such such wonderful memories of lying on the grass and watching the display unveil above me... the booming sound, the shimmering sparkles, people ooo-ing and ahh-ing. However, none of this is a good representation of this particular Independence Day. Sure, there were booming sounds and shimmering sparkles.... but they were followed by people shrieking and covering their heads as out of control fireworks threatened to make this their last July 4th.
    Backing up....
    My hubby and I decided to spend some of  the holiday weekend at our farmer's camp with his wife and several of their friends. Last year, we enjoyed a lovely round of fireworks on the final evening of the weekend, set off by our gracious farmer host. Since it was such a success in the past, I made the incorrect assumption that this years' safety was a given. I should have seen it coming. Our farmer. My husband. Walking across the river to a small island to set off the bombs (I mean fireworks). In the dark. With the apparent inability to understand the written directions on the box. So when the first round of works shot off in random directions, some skimming across the water like firey skpping stones, we should have called it a night. Our determined gentlemen (knuckleheads) however, felt pretty certain that if they built up some stones around the works, it would keep them in the correct position. Well, that was a flop (literally). As a random ray of sparks rained down on us onlookers through the tree branches, the dogs whining and cowering for cover, we could barely see which direction the next set of shots was heading... until a startled yelp arose from our farmer. We knew instantly. The poor guy took a cracker right to the shin. But still, our men trudged forward with the show, giving us a grand finale of little noise makers that jumped about 10 inches off the ground before landing in the water with a sizzle.
    Despite our racing hearts and the less-than-spectacular ending, we offered up a raucus round of applause. Afterall, the 4th of July is about freedom.... and after a close-up with death, I never appreciated it more.

The Mighty Fisherman

    Apparently cutting down trees isn't manly enough for my husband. Now he's taking to fishing. Well, let me rephrase that... he's TRYING to take to fishing. It has yet to be seen whether or not this will actually be a success (flashbacks to a couple of summers ago when he had the great idea that he was going to be a bow-hunter... and then quit when he proceded to lose all the arrows during practice in the yard (not to mention that he scared off a deer during a little gas-passing-incident)). Although I can say one thing, my guy has been awfully diligent with his new hobby. He gets up at daybreak and loads all of his fishing gear into the truck like a little boy scout, and then he stays down at the creek (excuse me, crick) until he catches something. Today, he even caught a turtle! At least the turtle was bigger than the 6-inch fish he bragged about 2 weekends ago. Apparently all the husbands at the crick have been complaining about the lack of fish this season, although I believe this new activity is just an escape from their wives complaining about how their fish-scented men are grossing up the house. Where once my kitchen was a place of female tranquility, I now have containers of worms in my refridgerator next to the eggs. And don't get me started on the fishing line (complete with hook) that I almost impaled my bare foot with on the front porch yesterday! I guess it could be worse... but if I ever come home to find a fish head on my kitchen counter, someone else will be getting the axe, as well.

My Mommy Made Me Do It

    When I decided to go into social work all those years ago, I knew, even then, that it was going to be a difficult journey. There are days when I come home and all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs in frustration, anger, or just pure helplessness. Other days, I want to cry or just stare blankly at a wall (I'm not even kidding). But no matter what the emotion, I always feel like I need to vent. Unfortunately, my loved ones seem to be on the receiving end of this. (I'd like to take a moment to thank my husband, family, and friends... I'm sure it's always a pleasure to hear about horrific child abuse and listen to me go off on tirades about "The System" (Curses! Don't GET me started!)). My man understands my need to unload my guts on him and gives me that daily allotment of time willingly (or so I thought).
    I arrived home around 8:30 this evening and, after cooking dinner, cleaning up the kitchen, and doing some paperwork in my office, my husband called upstairs and asked me if I'd like to talk about my day... he was all ears, just for me! So, feeling like I have the most considerate husband in the world, I came down and chatted about my most recent work frustrations (cutting the stories short... why make him suffer through the details when he was being so sweet?). As I was telling him how nice it was to have a husband that truly recognizes what his wife needs, he tells me, "Oh, well, it's ok. My mom told me I should spend more time with you." Sigh. Well, on the bright side, maybe our future children will get their obedient nature from their father.

Ribs. It's What's For Dinner.

    Cooking for my husband (as previously mentioned) can be tricky. I've learned to either ask ahead for specific instructions, or to make something and simply refuse to tell him what it is (or what's in it) until he tastes it first. This brings me to today's dilemma. I (like a normal person) have a love for barbeque spare ribs. My husband (like a dummy) "doesn't really care for them". That being said, I noticed while going through coupons this week that ribs were going to be one of the only proteins on sale at our local grocer. I mentioned this out loud, and to my shock, my husband said "Oh, I like ribs, that sounds good". Huh? Since when? So I responded, "Huh? Since when?" He explained that he doesn't feel like them all the time, but he does, in fact, like spare ribs. "But I thought you didn't like barbeque sauce..." He responded, "I like barbeque sauce!" (was that defiance I heard???) So I bought the meat and set it out for dinner.
    Eight hours in a crock pot later, the ribs (rubbed with chipotle seasoning, garlic, and pepper) smelled delicious and were literally falling apart. Still leerly of my husband's earlier bbq claim, I mixed up two separate sides of honey mustard and barbeque for dipping... just in case. He sits down and looks at the sauces skeptically. He points at the honey mustard and asks, "Is THAT the barbeque sauce?" Um, no, does it look like it? I'm already getting irritated, knowing where this is going. So I tried to head him off by taking a bite and saying, "Wow, isn't this good?" (A little reverse psychology never hurt anyone.) He takes a few bites and made some noncommittal comments. Finally, at the end of the meal, he says, "Ya know, I'm just not a big fan of ribs."

UGGHH!!!

Evil Ink Cartridges

    Yesterday morning, Molly, (better known as Pansy Dog) came into the computer room where I was sitting to check my email before leaving for work. As usual, she sat by my chair, put her head in my lap, and looked up at me with big, puppy eyes, waiting for her morning affection. I gave her a little lovin', which quickly turned into play time. I cupped her face and moved her head back and forth as she tried to nibble my hands. During her excitement, Molly's tail knocked my black ink cartridge (still in it's box, waiting to go into the printer) off the desk. She turned around with a start and upon seeing the foreign object lying on the floor behind her (proving that my dog truly is OCD... she can't handle being subjected to out-of-place objects in her world), she proceded to bark ferociously at the cartridge. I calmly saved the ink package and put it back on the desk. She eyed it suspiciously but eventually moved on.... or so I thought.
    This afternoon I arrived home from work and found myself at my computer desk again. Molly followed me in, anxious to hunker down for an afternoon nap at my feet. But then she caught a glimpse of the dreaded ink cartridge. She cautiously neared the printer, eyes intense and tail alert. When her nose was about 6 inches from the cartridge box, she began her low, gutteral growl. (Seriousy?) It wasn't until I picked up the box and spent time petting and hugging the ink cartridge that Molly finally realized that the ink is friend and not foe. (But I wouldn't be surprised one bit to find her guarding the door of the computer room tonight, just in case the ink were to try to escape....)

Match Made In Heaven

    I'm constantly getting on my husband for being dirty and smelly. Granted, he works outside a lot and it's nearly impossible for him to look like a J.Crew model all the time (nearly?). And even though he does wear his "work uniform" (AKA same gross clothes from his closet that are his favorites, which he wears everyday) and I should expect them to be stinky, today I realized that we are just a few squirts of scented lotion away from being one in the same. As I sat in my hot car this afternoon (sweating / glistening like a pig), I looked in the rearview mirror and reality tore through me. In the light of day (sadly far different from the artifical and, might I add, more flattering light of my bathroom), I realized that my upper lip hair and chin hairs were out of control, along with my smudged lipstick line! To top it off, my carefully-concealed adult acne (thank you very much, summer humidity) was beginning to show through my precisely applied foundation and cover up from just hours before. AND the curly up-do that I left the house with? Yeah, totally starting to frizz and flatten in all the wrong places (thank you AGAIN, summer humidity)! Sitting in my sweat (and smelling significantly less fresh than at 8am), I thought back to my nasty husband and realized that, yes, he is pretty gross.... but he manages to love me even when he sees my dripping face, puffy hair, and pimply forehead. So I guess I can forgive him for those crazy back hairs he refuses to attend to, as I hold my breath, pucker up, and let our hairy upper lips meet in a kiss that is a match made in heaven.

Quality Time

    Last night, my hubby and I spent some quality time together. Naturally, that meant that we bickered for about 3 hours. But that's ok because it's our way of showing that we love each other to death (meaning that one of us will end up biting it before the argument is up). So we nit-picked about being in the kitchen at the same time (it's a huge area, but we always end up in the same little corner of it, practically on top of one another's counter space), how long it takes us (him) to get ready for the movie, and the fact that the DVD player never works because (although we have a trillion available outlets) he always manages to unplug the player to plug something else into that exact spot (which means that when I look behind the TV and see 18 cords going in every direction, I just give up and walk away). Thankfully, he made an excellent choice with the movie selection, and I tried to make it through with only having him stop it a few times (even though sometimes I do it one extra time, just because I know it annoys him...). And afterwards, we kissed, said goodnight, and headed to our separate bedrooms. It really was a great night.

The Scarlet Suitcase

    Why is it that my husband can spot a camouflaged deer standing 500 yards away, but he can't manage to see his suitcase that is STILL sitting in the living room where he left it exactly one week ago? When we returned from Michigan last Sunday, I immediately unpacked my luggage, putting all of the contents back in their rightful places, whereas my husband dropped his suitcase and garment bag by the front door and left it there. I mean, I know he HAS to see it. He's gotten into the case many times to retrieve items throughout this past week....plus, I have shifted the suitcase several times so that it blocks his path. But will he put it away? No, the man just steps over it! In fact, I went away for the weekend and left 3 simple instructions for him, one of which was to clean up his travel remains. Unsurprisingly enough, when I returned home, I saw that they were exactly where I had left them. Does he think that the bellhop fairy is going to escort his bags to his room? Or perhaps he thinks that if he leaves his belongings there long enough, I will (although wild with rage) put his things away for him?
    Visions of returning from our honeymoon are zipping through my mind like flashbacks from a bad dream. He left his suitcase AND carry on sitting out (STILL PACKED) for an entire month before I angrily heaved them up the stairs and tossed them into the closet. It's honestly to the point where I'm willing to pay flight attendants to intentionally lose his luggage, just so we can avoid this issue altogether. It would be worth it just to be able to lay my head down at night and know that there isn't a suitcase growing mold in the living room. When he actually gets around to moving it, the floor underneath is probably going to be a different color. Bad eyes or not, this time this fairy won't be suckered into cleaning up for him. The final step is me moving his bags into the middle of the yard. Maybe when the tractor shreds his undies he'll realize that the front door is not his closet!

Downward Facing Dog Drool

    After a thoroughly stressful day at work, I had the best of intentions of hitting up my yoga class (for the first time in nearly 3 weeks) for a little unwinding and refocusing. Sadly enough, I (yet again) was about 15 minutes late and decided that I would just head home and do my own yoga class there. It was a great work out and it did manage to relieve some of the stress that I'd been holding in my shoulders all week. I was so relaxed that I actually fell asleep during relaxation pose, soft music playing, lavender-scented rice bag over my eyes.... it wasn't until I felt a wet tongue on my mouth (no, it wasn't my husband) that I woke up and realized I had taken a bit of a cat nap (dog nap, as it turns out). I pulled off my eye mask in time to see Molly, my 80 lb lap dog, standing over top of me. Her ears were flopped forward and the baggy skin on her face all smooshed toward her snout as gravity played it's role while she looked down on me with a smile.
    Just as I was about to greet her with loving, baby-talking words, a giant stream of drool drained out of the right side of her mouth and landed directly in my left eye (my left eye, my left ear, my cheek, and my hair, to be precise). I tried to sit up and wipe the smeary fluid from my eye, but Molly was just so happy that I was getting up (obviously to play with her.... what else could I possibly be doing), that she pummeled into my lap and proceded to lick my face up one side and down the other. Whoever came up with the term Downward Facing Dog obviously did not have a dog.... otherwise they would have realized that dogs and yoga do NOT mix.

My Gold Star Boy

    In a way, I almost feel badly for my husband. You see, socially, my guy is not always a gold-star recipient. In fact, he would be happy living alone ontop of a mountain somewhere.... smelling like sweat, covered in dirt, and having a wolf as a pet. Since we've been together, however, he has made quite the effort at improving his social skills. He attends family functions, his ability to make conversation with people he's just met has increased, and he sometimes even smiles in public (gasp). Plus, in his defense, he has grown leaps and bounds in the "emotional female" department.
    For example, two years ago my dad had a heart attack. I was a wreck when I heard the news and didn't know what to do with myself. My guy panicked and gave me an awkward hug and then asked me to make him a sandwich (his reasoning was that it would be a distraction.... ladies, I wouldn't joke about this). Since being married, there have been moments when I've gotten rather blue, and his solution has been less food-related and more of an invitation for intimacy (I think just because food and sex cheer him up, he must feel that this works for everyone?). So, after spending hours with me at the funeral home over the weekend, making conversation and fidgeting very little (he was a good boy), he has run out of ideas for what to do with my morose affect. His goofiness brings a smile to my face, but when my smile fades, he tries something else. He keeps offering to play board games with me (now I KNOW he's desperate) and tonight, he even asked me to go fishing with him (had it not been so chilly and late, I may have even taken him up on it). Even though he can't figure out how to raise my spirits, I applaud and appreciate his efforts.... (even if he DID try to resort back to his old methods this evening)..... I'll still give him a gold star.

Grandpa And The Rockstar

    It's been a emotional and heart-wrenching few days. My grandpa passed away early Tuesday morning after looking as though he would recover from the brief illness that snuck up on him. After hearing the news, my husband and I traveled back home to be with my family, spending most of our time talking with relatives I haven't seen in years, force-feeding myself cold cuts and coffee, and remembering my grandpa's life (the good, the bad, and the goofy). No one can adequately express the way your body can shut off and become numb for days on end. I ate when others ate because the clock said to. I talked to strangers at the viewing and acted interested in what they had to say, but I couldn't understand why we were talking about the weather in the first place. In between waves of choking sobs, all I really could feel was tired and empty.
    It's a good thing then, that I have a husband that understands the need for humor (timed appropriately, of course) during situations like these. I found it LESS than humurous when he woke me up early Tuesday morning, wearing nothing more than a t-shirt (literally... nothing else), to tell me that my grandpa had passed. Nor did his incessant need to chew on and spit out sunflower seeds for the entire 6 hour drive to my folk's house fill me with laughter. However, it was during the luncheon that followed the service and burial that I needed a hearty chuckle.... which I received when my husband spotted my elderly great-aunt (donning large blonde hair and a cape-like shawl covered in rhinestones) and said, "Who does she think she is? Jem's grandmother?" (If you're not a child from the '80's, just give up now.) I laughed out loud until tears (happy ones this time) ran down my cheeks. I felt amazing relief as I doubled over with the giggles in the middle of an otherwise somber event. And knowing my grandpa, he probably used some heavenly access to google Jem and the Holograms and I'm guessing he belly-laughed as well.

You Married My Shirts

    I don't know what it is about the mornings, but I generally end up running late, no matter how hard I try or how early I wake up (my husband is apparently rubbing off on me). I had decided on a shirt to wear for work, only to realize that it had gotten rather rumpled (I guess that's what happens when you pull something out of the hamper.... hey, it had only been worn for a couple or hours.... and I gave it a good febreezing, so stop casting stones). Using any reason I can to avoid the crazy cats in the basement (and running late as it was), I called down to my husband and (in my most sugary sweet voice) asked if he would run my shirt down to the dryer to fluff it up.
    "What?! You've got to be kidding me!" was his response.
    "Why would I kid about fluffing," I asked.
    "You know, if I asked you to do this for me, you would whine the entire time..." he said.
    "I'm totally ok with you whining while you fluff my shirt. Besides, what other man would complain that his girl doesn't have a shirt to put on for the next 10 minutes?"
    "But that's why I MARRIED you!"
    "When you married me, you married my shirts. Get a fluffin'."
    And guess who had a wrinkle-free shirt for work today? That's right. Score 1 for the ladies.

The Season Of Yellow

   Yellow is my favorite color. It's happy, sunny, and no one can be sad while standing in a yellow room (seriously, it's just not allowed). But all week long I've noticed this film of yellow dust covering everything in the house. I found it in each room, layered on fabric, blinds, and every surface imaginable. After dusting failed miserably, leaving yellow smear in it's wake, I began washing each item instead.... only to find this nasty yellow substance back again the very next day! Finally, I asked my husband what in the world this powdery grime was. He informed me that it's some sort of pollen from the pine trees, which has been stirred up recently with the wind and tractors on our property. (This would explain the sneezing, at least.)
    So not only does my house look like we have mustard growing on it, but there are tiny yellow gnats coming in through the screen of my window at night, obviously attracted to the light (for all I know, they could be pollen-covered fleas). They land in my water (I literally had about 10 in my glass last night) and they end their miserable little lives on the nightstand in front of my alarm clock. It looks like a graveyard for all things small and yellow next to my bed. What's even worse is that these little buggers are biting my face while I sleep and going into my ears, causing me to wake up smacking myself and with buzzing inside my head (that's enough to get someone committed). Thankfully, my husband has seen the bite marks (and heard me whine sufficiently) and he has agreed to put the air conditioner in my room so that I can leave my windows closed and have at least one room that is yellow-free. Yellow is NOT my favorite color.

Return Of The Internal Chickens

    I've been riding a natural high of excitement for the last 36 hours! (Not my usual post-doctor's-appointment response...) I say forget dentists, PCPs, and gynies. The world needs more endocrinologists! I've only had two visits with the Hungarian miracle-worker and already I'm in love. For once, a doctor agreed to not give up on my body's craziness and actually TRY TO FIX it! Not only did this wonderful woman help locate a cyst growing on my thyroid, making it difficult to turn my head or swallow at times, but she is fixing my internal chickens (ovaries... figure it out)! After reviewing my chart, she decided to put me on a little miracle drug that will make my chicks lay eggs AND help prevent miscarriages. It will reduce the production of cysts and may even help reduce unwanted body hair (and since I'm now lovingly referred to as Chewbacca, this is a huge payoff). It's side effect? WEIGHT LOSS!!! I bet if I take this medicine long enough, I'll be able to burb blank checks and hive my way to a cure for cancer! I can't think of a better medicine in the world. So me, my hubby, and my internal chickens are gonna go celebrate (for the next 24-48 hours).

PS... Please Do Not Disturb

Farmer Jon To The Rescue!

    There are two things to NOT say when your wife tells you she found a snake in the kitchen:
1) "Oh, it's just a baby snake!" and
2) "Well, we've never had a snake in the house before...." (seriously, because THAT matters NOW?)

    The correct response is:
1) "Oh my gosh! Quick, get the For Sale sign!" or
2) "Honey, this must have been so hard for you.... I think you deserve a new pair of shoes."

    For the record, the snake was fast, it appeared out of nowhere, and I'm not convinced it's mother won't come looking for it.... (if the mother isn't already in here hiding somewhere....). I was proud of myself, however, because once I saw that the "baby" snake (or lengthly-challenged reptile.... gotta be PC even in the animal kingdom) could move pretty speedily across our kitchen floor, in the heat of the moment, I thought to grab our big popcorn bowl and put it on top of him/her/it so the snake couldn't escape into the rest of the house.
    So then, as I sat there staring at the bowl to make sure it didn't move, I realized I had to do something else (anything really). As luck would have it, our friendly neighborhood farmer turned up to make his nightly visit to his tractor sitting in our field. I ran out to grab him (since my husband, who was on the phone, was less than panicky... which annoyed me greatly, as it wasn't HE who was staring at our blue popcorn bowl housing a snake!). Our farmer friend, although slightly more skiddish than I expected, removed the unwanted slitherer and returned my bowl.... which will probably be securely positioned next to my bed in case I awaken to find a snake in my room next. But if I do find a snake again, I'll be sure to call on my farmer!

Memorial Weekend Memories

    With it being a long weekend for Memorial Day, I was looking for something fun to do. Alas, I came up emtpy handed. My husband, however, would not let my need for socialization be crushed. I was amazed at his diligence to plan out at least one fun activity for us to do each day during our time off from work. On Friday, he noted my need for being around others and we spent the evening with friends and playing with cute little boys (ah, my "mommy need" required some attention). Then, on Saturday, he and I went to a wine tasting where we encountered the single craziest woman we've ever encountered (and that's saying something, considering we've met a LOT of unstable people during our line of work!). She provided us with comic relief for the afternoon as she lost her train of thought with every sentence, was convinced my husband was a cop, and told us (repeatedly) about her divorce. Following our visit with the Nutty McNutterson, we went to a movie with his brother and sister-in-law and then went to our neighbor's house for a bon fire with friends. Sunday was a day of rest and relaxation after church, but we DID end up purchasing a swimming pool! The couple gave us an incredible deal and threw in everything needed for our 4-foot tall oasis. If only we could set it up....
    However, my favorite Memorial Day weekend memory is easy to pinpoint. My guy had the greatest idea of all for this day. His idea was to borrow kayaks from our friends and boat our way down the Connoquenessing. It was a beautiful day, sunny as can be, great for being in the water.... just ask my husband. Afterall, he flipped his kayak and drenched himself before we'd made it around the first bend of our 8-mile trek. Why did he spill, you may ask? He was trying to catch up to his quickly moving, far superior wife. He got paddling so fast he threw himself off balance trying to be as cool as me! My only regret of the day was paddling in front of him and missing the actual tipping. Although, I did rather enjoy watching him try to get back into the kayak, filling it with water and falling back out (it's a good thing I kept the supplies in MY boat!). In his defense, it was his first time kayaking, and he managed to keep himself afloat from that point on. Not that I stopped teasing him for 8 miles...

Chewbacca

    Tonight I was called "Chewbacca" by a 2-year-old. My husband has found great joy in this. Earlier today, he had made a comment stating that I had a hairy back. Now, whereas I know this is untrue and that he was just tyring to tease me, being called Chewy tonight by a toddler has made me reconsider laser surgery. (Ok, so perhaps this child IS obsessed with Star Wars, according to his mother, and the name Shivonne is rather difficult to say... AND he did call Pat a Storm Trooper.... so I guess I can't be THAT offended.) Needless to say, my hubby has relished in calling me Chewbacca all night, and I don't forsee this ending in the near future. I'm just glad this didn't happen before our wedding 8 months ago. "I, Storm Trooper, take thee, Chewbacca, to be my lawfully wedded Star Wars character...." Even though the kid was highly offensive, he was so cute that I couldn't be angry. There's something about they way he lisped my new nickname that made it rather endearing. Unfortunately, my husband lacks the same childish quality when he mimics the boy. (Not to say that he isn't childish, but there's something a bit off when a large man with a deep voice and gottee tries to make a funny, opposed to a mere baby.) Im just sorry I couln't be Princess Leah. Afterall, those side buns are pretty amazing and I'd much rather be known for her cute ensemble than a dark, hairy rug. But, as we know, children say it like it is. I guess it's time for a good waxing!

Sucking Up

    After 8 months into this marriage thing, my husband loses his wedding ring. I hate to say "I told you so" (who am I kidding, no I don't), but how many times does a woman have to tell her man to stop throwing his ring up in the air, spinning it on the table, or twirling it on his finger? Naturally, the best place to lose a heavy, tungstun wedding band is at dusk... right before a thunderstorm... in a 40-acre yard. My husband neglected to tell me that he lost the ring until the next day (because having a coronary is only bad right before bed apparently?). He and his mother spent several days raking the yard, walking barefoot to feel the metal with their toes, and even resorted to borrowing a metal detector (which he ended up breaking...oops), only to find that metal detectors detect everything BUT tungston!
    Several heavy rainstorms later, I'm pretty sure there's not a chance in this world that his ring hasn't soaked right down to the center of the earth. I'm incredibly angry.... However, secretly I'm a little bit tickled, and this is why. Since this ring "disappeared" (he even tried to blame it on the dog. I mean, come on!), my hubby has volunteered to make me breakfast, offered to bring me dinner at work, and is trying to find plans for us to do during the long weekend coming up. Some call this sucking up. Wives call it an payment.... because even when her man hasn't done anything requiring a good suck up, we all know that it's just a matter of time before his bill is due.

Something Smells Fishy....

    It's not like I was TRYING to give my husband food poisoning. It's this darn sinus infection /  allergy combination! After a long, hard day of working in the yard, I figured that my wonderful guy deserved to sit down to a delicious meal. When I opened the freezer to find something to make for him, I noticed an odd, fishy smell. Normally, this is the type of thing that would clue me in to something being spoiled. But since my nose is all kinds of crazy right now, I figured everything was fine... in fact, it gave me the brilliant idea to cook up some perch (purchased for $1.64 at our local grocer... ah, this should've been the second clue...).
    The fish was slightly sticky and a little grayish in parts (clue number 3, anyone?), but it's not like I'm a professional perch-examiner! It's nothing a little creole seasoning can't fix, right? Wrong.... oh so wrong. I put the plate of fish and a beautiful salad in front of my husband... naturally, I ate hours ago, so I wouldn't be supping on the discolored, smelly, sticky, creole concoction with him (once again, I would like to reiterate that I did not TRY to give my husband food poisoning). He took a bite and made a face. Ugh, again? Why can't he just be happy with something that's a little different without analyzing it to death!
    "What's that weird taste?" he asked me. I responded only slightly huffy. "It's creole seasoning... it gives the fish a new spice to switch things up a little. It's good that way." Several bites later, the nasty look has yet to leave my hubby's puckered face. "Honey, I really don't think I like this seasoning. Will you taste it?" If it will get him to knock off his whining and eat his dinner, I'll put the fish on my head and do a dance!
    It only took one small bite before clues 1, 2, and 3, hit me over the head like a sledge hammer. (The nasty taste of rotten fish also helped.) My first instinct was to spit the food back onto his plate... unfortunately, I have not yet learned how to control my impulses. As my partially chewed fish parts layed atop the rest of his dinner, he looked at me with an accusing face. Like I said... I did not TRY to poison my husband! (Despite my threats in previous blogs....)

Goodbye, My Sweet

    This diet has been one of the easiest diets I have ever tried to follow. My husband and I have noticed an overwhelming feeling of "healthiness" as we've eaten mostly vegetables, fruits, and proteins these last few weeks. The scale is tipping in our favor, slowly but surely... but even more impressive is the change in our sleeping (more regular), energy level (more consistent), and bowels (were you expecting something descriptive here?). In order to reward ourselves for our hard work and effort, we decided to have a "cheat" evening to help jump start our metabolism, throwing off our system by straying from our new routine.... keep it on it's toes! My Cheat involved cheesy, bacon, ranch pizza, followed by a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge sauce. Surely, that will give my body a jump!
    And it did.... an hour after the ice cream, everything that was once inside of my body jumped to the outside of my body. In between the painful tummy cramps, moaning, sweating, dry heaves, and the runs (ah, HERE'S the gross description you all wanted), I decided that perhaps I have a bit of a sensitivity to dairy (noting that the first 4 letters of "dairy" are also in the word "diarrhea"... how had I not made the connection before!). It was in those painful moments as I gripped the edge of the toilet seat that I swore off ice cream.... forever. It's bittersweet, really. Ice cream has been my pick-me-up after a bad day, faithful friend after a break-up, hidden vice (hidden so no one else will find it and eat it!), and favorite overall treat since I was a little tike. But today, today I realized that some relationships are not meant to last. And we all know that if a relationship yields pain, it has to go. So, I bid my sweet ice cream a fond farewell as I move on to my rebound-food.... the fruit smoothie.

Mammogram, Say What?

    After a nyquil-induced coma, I woke up this morning, raring to go get the lump in my neck sucked out. I arrived at the hospital just in time to get a nose bleed. I'm not sure what it is about my upper lip... can it NOT sense that something is dripping down it BEFORE my the blood reaches my shirt? (No. It cannot.) While I'm holding my head back in the waiting room bathroom with paper towel shoved up my left nostril, attempting to wash the blood off my chest, my name gets called to go back to the exam room. Now drenched, stained, and holding my nose, the nurse asks me, "So, Ms. Costa, are you ready for your mammogram?"
    Um, excuse me? (I thought.) "Um, excuse me?" (I said.)
    "You're here for your mammogram, is that correct?", says the nurse.
    "No... I have a thyroid biopsy I'm getting done," I replied.
    "Well, it says here you're getting a mammogram.... so....."
    "I'm pretty sure I would know if I was getting a mammorgram. I mean, it's not even like it's the right part of the body, here."
    "You're sure you're not getting a mammogram?"
    I scanned the crowd for Ashton Kutcher's face, but I realized I wasn't getting punked. "I'm getting a biopsy. On my thyroid. No boobs. I swear."
    The nurse looked at me and then realized she had the wrong person's file. Ah (lightbulb). So I'm led to the exam bed, thoroughly sanitzed from my chest to my ears, and then the nurse doused me in iodine, completely saturating my skin, hair, and even into my ears! (Easy, lady, I'm just as scared of drowning as I am of needles.) The doctor then tilted my head back till I felt like I was choking, covered my face with a blanket, and began pushing on my throat, sufficiently blocking my air supply. As if I wasn't freaked out enough, the one eye that managed to stay uncovered through this smothering event looks up in time to see the world's largest needle coming at me.
    "I feel like I'm gonna throw up!", I blurted. "Just don't swallow, please. We need you to be still," said the doctor. So as I layed there, blood-stained, idiodine-drenched, suffocating, and being stabbed, I realized that there was nowhere for my gag reflux-induced saliva to go but out.... so I drooled all over my face. Defacating in my pants was really the only thing that saved this event from covering pretty much all of my nightmares that I can remember from adolescence.
    When it was all over, the nurse taped up my neck, making sure to attach every loose piece of hair into the sticky mess, which was really quite sweet of her, considering I was going straight to work and already looked like I had escaped from a mental hospital... let's rip my hair out a bit too, just for kicks. I thanked the staff and was on my way. As I passed the registration desk, the receptionist asked me how everything went. "The mammogram was a success!" I said, as I smiled and walked out the door.

Bring On The Novocain!

    I have found the bright spot of having a terrible sinus infection-- it's my husband doing the dishes (well, two bright spots.... if you count the inability to taste anything, therefore seeing no point to eating much, inadvertantly losing weight (score)). But I HATE dishes. I always have, and I always will. Ever since I've been sick, he has kept up on the dirty AND clean ones in the dishwasher like a champ! Not to mention the cups of tea he's preparing me daily, and also offering to make me food at any given time. He will make a wonderful mother someday.
    In addition to his awesomeness with this sinus infection, he is also willing to accompany me to the hospital tomorrow, where I will be receiving a much-anticipated biopsy of some lump inside my neck ("sexy" doesn't begin to describe the internal workings of my body). I, being utterly terrified of needles (particularly ones that are long and will be going into my throat-al region), have been having minor panic attacks just THINKING about this procedure. So, today I called the doctor's office for a step-by-step tutorial of how this procedure will work... realizing that I'm making a much bigger deal of this than it needs to be. And I must say, after the phone call, I don't feel the slightest bit better.
    "Prepare yourself for a shot of novocain in your neck," the nurse said. (Oh, ok. I'll get right on that. By the way, doesn't novocain burn like a blow torch?) "Then, the doctor will insert a long needle into your neck in order to suck out part of the nodule." (How long are we talking, here? Inches? Feet?! I need to know the circumference of this needle, for the love of God!!!) "We won't remove the entire lump, just enough to biopsy it." (Naturally. It only makes sense to have to do this a second time in order to remove the other half of the "lump". Good call, Doc.) "And the neat part is (I'm sorry, did you say "neat"?) that you can watch all of this on a video camera next to your examination bed." (Truly, truly? Bring on the laughing gas or restraining straps, sister, 'cause there's only two ways this thing is going down....) "After the procedure, you'll feel like you've been punched in the throat and will have a bit of a hole with a bruise in your neck, but all in all, you'll be ready to go to work that day!" (Seriously? Lady, will you come home with me and read me a bedtime story? Because you have an incredibly soothing way with words.) And what part of that makes me ready for work? Could it be the hole in my neck? Or possibly the feeling of being punched? At least my loving hubby will be with me.... I'd much rather be restrained by someone I love than a complete stranger.

The Greatest Of Weekends

    It was a great weekend. One of those weekends where it rains incessantly, leaving you no choice but to hole up in bed with your hubby, watching movies, giggling, and enjoying one another's company. Really, this type of weekend is a rare occurrence. Usually our days off are filled with working in the yard (him), cleaning the house (me), laundry, and fixing the trillions of things that always seem to be breaking. But not this weekend. So the house isn't spotless... the grass needs to be mowed... and we didn't fix a thing. When push comes to shove, I'd much rather lie on wrinkled and rumpled sheets with my husband than perfectly creased and folded ones alone.
    Yes, it was a great weekend. Well, up until the time that husband passed on a sinus infection to me. Don't get me wrong, I don't fault him. We both work with snot-nosed, little rugrats day in and day out. We can't help being carriers of illness and infection. (It DOES make me kinda wish I'd cleaned those sheets though....) But at least my guy has been sweet, making me soup, bringing me tea, and telling me that he's going to start his own blog to tell the world that he's a wonderful husband... but then again, you all already know that by now, don't you?

I'm Only Mean When You're Dumb

    I love to have a clean kitchen. The counters free of clutter, the cupboards nicely organized and contact papered, the stove and cannisters wiped and streak-free.... everything in it's rightful place. That's why I can tell when someone (ahem) has been in my cupboards, created a mess, and then tried to cover it up.
   
Begin Scene.

    It was 8:30 this morning when I decided to do a quick kitchen clean up before leaving for work. As I was emptying the dishwasher, I noticed that my large cooking pot was on top of my pyrex, instead of in it's place underneath the smaller pots two cupboards over. Hmmm. (This was AFTER I found soggy lettuce attached to the CLEAN spoons in the dishwasher.) Obviously, a boy has been here. I dutifully removed the large pot, ready to place it with the others, when I discovered a mound of toast crumbs all over my bowls and serving dishes!
    Conveniently, my husband walked in at that moment and spotted me squatting down by the pyrex. I looked him square in the eye and asked the question. "Did you try to put the toaster in the cupboard?" He was caught. So he began to spew out excuses in rapid succession. "I was trying to clean the kitchen! And we haven't been eating bread, so I tried to get the toaster off the counter! And..."
    "And then you realized there's a REASON the toaster stays on the counter.... BECAUSE OF THE CRUMBS!!! And THEN you covered the crumbs up WITH A POT instead of cleaning up the mess??? Are you out of your mind?!"
    "Why are you being so mean?"
    "I'm only mean when you're dumb!"
    And so started my day.

End Scene.

Flying Pineapple

   There are times in everyone's lives when they regret moments that they acted out in anger, said words that were hurtful, or behaved impulsively. Today, I regretted throwing a pineapple at my husband. Well, half of a pineapple to be exact.
    The morning started out normal enough. And then I stepped out of bed. From that point on, it was disaster at every turn. From finding termites in the house, to discovering unapproved purchases on my bank statement, to not having enough money to pay this month's bills, missing my friends, (missing chocolate), and feeling like a big, fat, failure in general.... yeah, it wasn't a great morning! To make matters worse, (because I hadn't shed enough tears by 11am as it was?) my mother informed me that my grandpa was in intensive care with a head injury after a fall. As my anxiety rose to shaky levels, panic taking over my entire being, I had no idea how I was going to take care of all of these dilemmas that seemed to be vying for my undivided attention (all before I had to leave for work). My brain came up with a solution. Eat.
    Somehow, in my crazed state, I was able to remember my diet and I began slicing fruit (quite the feat when one's hands are shaking like an addict going through withdrawals). In an attempt to put the milk jug away, I realized that the pineapple we were keeping in the fridge had slid over to where the milk had been. And this is where things got a little hazy (perhaps pleading temporary insanity will help my case?). I gently (or not so gently) shoved the pineapply back over and went to put the milk in it's place... but the pineapple beat me to the punch and slid back over. With a huff, I attempted the same task. In defiance, that God-forsaken pineapple moved AGAIN. Before my mind had a chance to register what was taking place, I was reaching for the pokey fruit and hurling it across the room (problem solved). Sadly, that's exactly where my unsuspecting husband was seated.
    Now, I've never thrown a pineapple at someone before, but I'm pretty sure it would hurt. In fact, I've never thrown fruit of any kind at another person (that I can recall), but if I were to do it, I would think an apple or mango would be my choice (just for ease-of-hurl to damage-upon-impact ratio). Not a pineapple. But that's neither here nor there. I quickly apologized to my husband, who was doing everything he could to give me love and affection during my mental breakdown. He didn't deserve to be hit with fruit... at least not today. But I'm pretty sure that it's safe to say that, although he loves me and understands my morning crisis, he's NEVER going to let me live down the day that I clocked him with a pineapple.

The Kitchen Killer

    For several weeks now, I've been getting terrified by the sight of my husband. I know, I know... I make it sound as if my guy looks like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. But that's not it at all. I've literally been getting startled out of my mind when he appears somewhere unexpected in the house or if he says something when I thought he was taking a nap. Over the last month, I've probably had near-wet-pants at least a dozen times due to my husband's "sneak attacks". For instance, last week my t.v. was on and I was lying in bed. I thought my hubby was outside, so imagine my shock when he suddenly appears in the doorway, ready to shoot the breeze. I practically had a stroke! And then, I thought he had gone into the kitchen and was on my way there to see him, when he suddenly came up behind me from the guest bedroom. Once again, I yelled out and my breath caught in my throat. (I think he may be doing this on purpose to keep me on my toes... he's up to something, I can feel it!)
    Today was no exception. I was in the kitchen cooking dinner, when he rode up on his quad next to the kitchen window (notice that I did NOT freak out at this point). We carried on a lovely conversation through the open window as he sat on his 4-wheeler. The conversation ended and he went away (or so I thought) and I went back to cooking. So you can see why I would scream when I turn back to the window and see that he had apparently gotten off the quad and was standing with his face up against the screen.... with his nearly black hair, dark eyes, and scruffy gottee, he's the poster child for serial killers that come for their victims through kitchen windows. I screamed. He shook his head in disbelief that I was YET AGAIN frightened by him. He keeps telling me that one day I'm going to have to accept the fact that he does, in fact, live with me and that we will continue to cross paths on occasion. I think I'll keep the paring knife with me, just in case....

Beach Balls And Pumpkins

    Our Diet Wars at work was going so well.... this morning, my husband woke up and weighed himself, finding that he had lost 6 pounds. I then weighed myself and discovered that I had lost 4! I was so excited because this is only Day 5 and I'm loving to see the scale changing in my favor for once. So, I continued to eat well all day long and have actually been enjoying my vegetables (it's pure craziness, really!). However, I arrived home and felt suddenly exhausted beyond belief. I cooked dinner (venison taco meat with onion and diced tomatoes, wrapped in romain leaves) and then went upstairs to change into my pjs. My husband, noting my tiredness and slightly crabby (crappy) demeanor, decided that it would be best if I just laid down and he left me alone (good call).
    But this was before he told me that my butt looked like a beach ball and my stomach looked like a pumpkin. I'm not even joking. When my face began to crumble, he said, "No, your butt isn't big like a beach ball, your underwear just makes it look that way!" I'm pretty sure I didn't wear padded panties today (or ever) so not sure how my undies created this "beach ball" effect. Then he told me that my belly looked like a pumpkin, ya know, because I'm "bloated and all". When I responded with, "Gee, thanks," he said, "Well not your belly, just your body... like all over is bloated." Allow me to help you reach your foot to your mouth, dear. Glad to know my -4 pounds is giving me a lighter, yet puffier look. I think it's time I take my Shamoo nametag and retire for the rest of the night. Alone!

Cooking Lessons And The Rag

    Let the record show that, although my husband wrongfully accused me of PMS a few weeks back, he would be correct to accuse me of such things tonight (correct, but not wise). So, knowing full well that my I'm probably going to die of an iron deficiency by the end of the night, I'm not quite sure why my husband RELISHED in trying my patience. Now, I knew I was being a nag. I knew I was being short-fused. But then again, so did he. And yet he continued to do things like... exist. Let me back up to the beginning.
    I cooked a beautiful salmon to put over top spinach leaves with pecans, grapes, and raspberry vinegarette. It smelled and looked so beautiful, that even my hateful girl parts couldn't ruin the dinner. But my husband could. "Why didn't you put teryaki sauce on it?" (Him.) "Because teryaki sauce isn't part of our diet." (Me.) "But it looks weird." (Him.) My mouth responded with, "Too bad. It's a diet, suck it up." My mind responded with, "I'm going to carve out your heart and grill it up in teryaki sauce if you don't shut your pie hole!" See how much I showed restraint, even with PMS?
    After dinner, my guy decided to make a meatloaf (yes, more meatloaf) so we would have it for lunch tomorrow. I had the recipe written down for him, but he wanted me to stay in the kitchen while he followed it, just to make sure he did it right. As I listened to him criticize my direction-writing abilities, I pictured all the ways that I could poison the meatloaf and make it look like an accident. As I was daydreaming about assassinating my husband, he takes out the measuring spoons, uses them, and then PUTS THEM BACK IN THE DRAWER. He realized his mistake instantly and looked up in time to see my eyes bulge, face redden, and Satan's wrath come pouring out of my snarling mouth. "You NEVER put dirty measuring spoons back in the drawer!!!!!" I yelled as I yanked them out, noting the spices littering the contact paper in my utensil drawer. "Bubba, I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention?" It's not bad enough that I'm bloated, pimply, and leaking like a bad faucet... but now there's pepper in the drawer! (And yes, I DO realize I'm being irrational (slightly).... but don't tell my husband.)