"PS I Luv U"

   I'm leaving to go out of town for the weekend and all I've heard from my husband for the last two weeks is a countdown for when I'm leaving. T minus 5 days, T minus 4 days, etc. etc. etc. He says he has big plans to have a blowout party with all of our imaginary friends (his dad and brother) in order to celebrate his masculinity for 2 days. (Frankly, I have a feeling he's gonna be lost without me, calling every few hours (aka meal times) to ask what temperature to set the oven to and how to know when the fish looks "done".)
    So today I had an all-day training, followed by dinner with my work partner, yoga, and tanning, pushing my arrival home back to 9pm. My hubby, who has been anxiously counting down my departure, found himself getting panicky that he wasn't going to get to "spend any time with me" (his words) before I leave. I secretly think he misses me already, but he hasn't been able to find the words to tell me that he has no idea how to survive while I'm away. Afterall, who is going to do the dishes if I'm not here? And as much as the man complains that I talk too much, he's going to literally lose his mind when someone's not there to prattle on and on for that half hour every night.... and I even think, although he would never admit this, that he is going to miss my nagging. Our daily banter is routine, and the boy can't live without things staying the same. Therefore, I've decided to program into my phone text messages that will go off on the hour. These messages will read something like this:  "Put the bread back, it's not on ur diet", "Get those socks off the table", U BETTER sweep that mud up u just tracked in", and "Did u wipe the dogs off the RIGHT way?" But I'll save one for the last day too: "PS I luv u". (Feel free to "awww".)

Meatloaf... Not The Band

   The other day I had the inkling to make a meatloaf. Why, I have no idea, because meatloaf is one of my LEAST favorite foods. There's something about meat that comes in loaf form that turns my stomach. So when my husband asked me to make a meatloaf the same day, I knew that it was my destiny (I'm pretty sure that is the saddest sentence ever blogged). I had never made this meal, so I called my mother-in-law to get her recipe. I followed the instructions to the letter.... but my meat turned out greenish and looser than his mother's (sounds vaguely like a description I gave to my doctor the other day....). Naturally, my whiney husband began to object, criticizing the fact that his loaf doesn't look exactly like a picture out of the Betty Crocker cookbook. I told him where he could shove the meatloaf, if he so desired, but he chose to grudgingly taste it.
    Lo and behold, the man loved it. What I mean by "loved it" is that he ravenously ate all but one slice of the loaf in 3 days. He talked about the meal to his entire family, swallowing a big piece of humble pie for dessert. Then tonight, he asked me to make another loaf so he could have it throughout the week. I agreed, but decided to make a few changes in order to add some visual appeal. It was the same basic ingredients, just altered slightly. When I told him that I think I may have improved the recipe, his face crumbled and he proceded to tell me that if it wasn't as good as the last loaf, he was going to kill me. Well that's gratitude for ya! What's a woman got to do to get a little thanks? My guy is so particular about NEVER trying new things that he is willing to threaten death if his meatloaf is subpar? I'm tempted to let the dogs lick all over the meat before I serve it to him tonight. So the jury is out..... Will he like the new recipe or will I apparently be tossed into the creek? Only time will tell.....

I Love You.... But Go Away

    As a newlywed, people are constantly making comments about how great that first year is... wanting to be with one another every second of every day... missing each other when you're apart.... blech. Honestly, I don't know how normal newlyweds do it! I was lucky to fall in love with someone that requires alone time just as much as I do. But here lies the dilemma. With his work schedule, he gets free time in the house to do whatever he wants on a regular basis, whereas I struggle to have time to do the things that us girls like to do when we're all alone... things that boys would find silly and hold over our heads forever and ever (face masks, foot soaks, eating completely random junk food, naked dancing... the usual).
    Therefore, I don't consider it being mean to tell him to get out. Afterall, it's my house too.... I should be able to do what I need to do without him sneaking up the stairs to catch me being girly, or without him calling to ask me to come help him with something. The problems is, my husband ENJOYS annoying me. It's some sort of twisted pleasure that he receives when he sees my face turning red and my mouth start to open to hurl an insult at him. So this weekend I laid down the law. I said, "Honey, I love you.... but go away." No one else has to understand, no one else has to agree. You can feel sorry for my man all you want. But if you tell me I'm being unreasonable to kick him out for a few hours, I will simply tell you that "I love you.... but go away."

Groceries

    I'm a fat kid, so I understand the excitement of grocery day better than most. There's the thrill of making my list, finding items on sale, sniffing fresh produce.... even better yet is getting all that delicious food home and organizing it into straight lines in the pantry (labels facing out) and sectioning off different types of food in the refridgerator (this IS my fun). But best of all is seeing all that food, organized perfectly, and then choosing what my next meal will be (now that there's more than condiments and crackers to choose from).
    However, my husband doesn't seem to understand my process. As I try to put things away, he's taking things out again (throwing my OCD out of wack in all sorts of ways!). Before I've even had the chance to unload all the bags, he's digging through them, getting in the way, and standing in front of wherever I need to be at that moment. And the worst part is that he even steals my favorite meal-planning time by opening up a bunch of new foods and diving in to eat....despite the fact that I'll be making dinner within the hour! It's like buying a new pair of shoes- beautiful, shiny, never been worn.... and then having a roommate with smelly feet wear them before you've even had the chance to give them a test run. I feel cheated. My relationship with the newly-purchased items was so short lived. Had I known it wasn't going to last, I would've lingered a little bit longer at the store- just a fat kid and her food.

Steel-Toed Uterus

    Milk jug. Empty cereal box. Glasses case and contact solution. Dirty towel. Water bottle. Coffee mug. No, this is not a psychological word association activity....but these various household items do have something in common. They are the things that my husband religiously leaves out instead of putting away. (I'm not saying that there aren't 20-30 other things constantly out of place due to his willy-nilly ways, but these are the ones that I have learned I can rely on daily, as constant as a sunrise and his morning grunts.) I've started wondering if he intentionally empties milk down the drain so that he can leave the jug next to the sink instead of in the recycling bag... 3 feet away. What baffles me more is when the man eats the rest of the cereal and then leaves the empty, uncrushed box DIRECTLY NEXT TO THE GARBAGE! He actually had to walk the box TO the garbage but couldn't be bothered to lift the lid? I mean, what's next, pooping NEXT to the toilet? Sleeping NEXT to the bed?
    So this morning, when I decide to mention this absurd pattern he has developed, the man had the nerve (THE NERVE!) to look at me and say, "I think you're gonna start your period soon."
    If my uterus had even just one leg with a steel-toed boot on it, it would've jumped out of me to kick him square in the groin. Because OBVIOUSLY only an emotional, bleeding woman would want her husband to throw trash INTO the trash can. There could be no other explaination! So from now on, I will make sure that I VERY clearly preface each request with, "Even though I'm NOT on my period, could you find it in your heart, dear, to put your dirty mug in the sink?".... and then I'm gonna slap a feminine pad onto the back of his shirt and wish him a good day.

Just To Say Hi

    It's the little things that my husband does that make me smile on the inside. I was having another long day at work and my cell phone rang. I saw that it was my guy, but I couldn't pick up because I was on a work call in the office. A few hours later when I had a free second to call him back, he said he was just calling. Just to say "hi". Ah, that's the stuff that melts the heart on a day when you need it. (Nevermind that 3 minutes later, he informed me that he was bored talking to me and that he was going to hang up.... but it didn't matter. I had already gotten my smile in so he was free to go and make his jokes.) I think it's just nice to know that someone thought about me through the day and cared enough to make me smile (through the kind thought, or through the joking comments... I'll take whatever I can get!).

P.S. Hi.

Boy Interrupted

I'm a new wife. It's been almost 8 months since we've been married, but even though we're relatively new, I know my husband... I know when his "needs" must be addressed. And let's just say that these last few weeks of itchy rashiness and fluish goo have put said needs on the backburner. Especially since I'm still covered in purple marks that are starting to finally crust over (sexy). So today, when my husband offered up a little romance, I knew the man was desperate. However, in the meantime I had received my weekly phone call to do Bible study with a girlfriend from out of state.... my husband did not know this as he came up the stairs very suggestively. I informed him that we would have to post-pone our rendevouz until I was done. What does he do? He pulls the covers back and lays down next to me on the bed... to wait. I don't know how many people have attempted to do Bible study under these circumstances, but it makes things SLIGHTLY AWKWARD! I told him to go away and that I would summon him when I was ready (ha).
   
Fast forward 30 minutes.
   
    Bible study was done, husband was ready, wife was settled.... and then wife's phone rings. It was my work partner. I had to answer due to an earlier crisis with one of my families. My husband yelled a resounding "Nooooo!!!" as the second wave of disappointment came over him. Poor fella...he was so close. My partner was laughing over the phone as I told her that he was just upset because we keep trying to have playtime but it's just not working tonight. At hearing this, my hubby frantically reminds me that I need to expound on what "not working tonight" means (something about male pride....). It would figure that tonight of all nights, our entire area loses our electricity due to the wind storm. No lights. No tv. Dead phone batteries. Candles everywhere.... Boy UNinterrupted.
   

The Forgotten Dwarfs

   In our house, we have found the forgotten dwarfs that must've missed the cut when trying out for Snow White. Our dwarfs decided to try out for the Garbage Pail Kids instead (flashback circa 1987 anyone?). I like to call them Itchy, Seepy, Pukey, and Poopy. The first two dwarfs belong to me. Apparently this lovely rash cocktail I have consists of severe poison ivy and some random allergic reaction to something unknown at this time (this is the Itchy dwarf). The doctor did a few skin biopsies (talk about nauseating to see a chunk of your flesh go into a labratory tube) and for whatever reason, mine won't stop bleeding! (Hence the Seepy dwarf.) It doesn't help that I'm allergic to bandaids, so my itchy and seepy rash is getting itchier and seepier every minute these bandages have to stay on. My doctor actually called me a "Hot Mess" which I'm pretty sure I've never been called (at least not by someone that isn't a client).
   The last two dwarfs, Pukey and Poopy, belong to my husband. The flu is refusing to leave him (well, lots of things are LEAVING him) and he has been stranded to the couch for the better part of 3 days, unable to eat and keep anything inside. The poor guy has had a rough week, so I've decided to lay off making fun of him for whining. Afterall, he has to put up with Itchy and Seepy... so I guess I'll cut him some slack and hope that our dwarfs find new homes soon. 

Big Man Baby

    All these months I've thought I wanted a baby. And then I realized that I already have one. He is 6'0" tall and has a goatee. Sure, he's potty trained, but he's the biggest man-baby I know. "I'm shivering, will you make me some soup? Not the canned kind, but the kind from the box with the skinny noodles? And get me some grape gatorade from the store?" I'm an obliging wife, so of course I try to make him comfy and get what he asks.
    "You got me DIET grape gatorade? It tastes funny. Can you pour off some of this broth from my soup? There's too much. Can you get me some water? From the Britta, not the tap? Will you wipe my butt?" (ok, that last part was an exaggeration, but it's only a matter of time before that comes up.) Our house sounds like we're on the set of a dirty movie with all the moaning this man-baby does when he's sick.... "Aahhooohh, I'm cold.... Aahhooohh, I'm weak...." I would LOVE to see this man have just one menstral cycle.... just one! He wouldn't make it through the first 30 minutes of cramps without falling apart. Well I've had enough... Pull out that tampon, ya big sissy, and suck it up!

(I love you, honey....)

Humane's Society

    There's nothing like coming home from a long, hard day's work and sitting down to check your email, only to find horrifying pictures of half-dead animals, brought to you from your neighborhood humane's society. I honestly don't know why I ever signed up to receive their notifications. It's always about seal extinction, puppy mills, or the slaughtering of something or other. If I didn't know any better, I would swear that they keep track of my facebook posts, choosing to send me depressing notices when I'm at my lowest, in order to get me to donate while I'm feeling vulnerable. Really it just makes me want to strap on a weighted vest and go for a swim, but I always seem to muster up the courage to say "no" to despair.... why I can't find that same courage to delete my name from their mailing list, I'm still not sure. It's sort of like getting those spam text messages that tell you to pass on the text if you agree that you want to stop genocide over in Whatstheplace... well, of course I want to stop genocide, so I send out a stupid text message that has nothing to do with anything. Perhaps I feel that the humane's society will accuse me of agreeing with animal cruelty if I remove my address from their list, and that's just a chance I'm unwilling to take. So if it means that I have to see yet another picture of a pathetic one-eyed creature while Sarah McLaughlin sings in the background, then I guess I'll just have to pull out the tissues and get on with it.

Tattletale

    I LOVE to shop. Seriously, this is one of my favorite hobbies. All of that, however, went out the window when I got married. Afterall, I didn't feel right buying shoes when needed to pay the electric bill. Every now and again, I allow myself a small, single purchase. Something that reminds me of what life used to be like in the carefree days of singledom, when I only bought food for one, there was only one credit card, and I had no idea how much a new tractor costs. Ah, but those days are gone, and I try to set a good example by limiting my extra spending.... so much so that we recently paid off several of our debts. Something I've noticed about myself, though, is that I'm a stress-spender. When I feel overwhelmed with finances, there's an urge that bellows within me screaming, "BUY SOMETHING, YOU FOOL!!!" I thought I had beaten the urge down within the last year of my life. It was now only a faint echo ringing in the back of my brain.
    And then I saw the purse. It was red. It was shiny. It had gold buckles and pockets galore. I always needed a purse with gold buckles and pockets galore. I could use it for work... AND for evening! It's an investment!! There's FREE SHIPPING!!!!! And then, with the simple click of a button, I had made my first impulse purchase (via the worldwide web) in well over 6 months. Crap. I know it was inexpensive, but I still felt terrible.
    Yesterday I come home and my husband announces that a package had arrived for me. Yikes... the moment of truth. My apologies and excuses for my accessory compulsion spewed out of me in at least 10 run-on sentences, my husband giving me an amused grin. He didn't care at all! A few dollars spent on something red and shiny was obviously ok in his book! I excitedly grabbed the package and tore into the cellophane wrapper..... And there were the curtains I had ordered for our guest bedroom. CRAP! I had tattled on myself for curtains?? In slow motion, I turned to my husband with a sheepish look. "They're for the house, it doesn't count!" I explained. He laughed, shook his head, and walked away. I'm pretty sure my impulsive shopping is now cured (well, at least for the next 6 months).

The Bird Must Die

    It was a glorious day of only one appointment. I was able to stay home and relax all morning and early afternoon, which is virtually unheard of to have the house to myself. I was lying in bed, soaking up the peace, when I heard this banging coming from downstairs. The dogs heard it, too. I was starting to get nervous as the noise got louder and didn't stop. It sounded like it was coming from the side door on our porch. Was someone trying to break in at 9am?? I crept down the stairs and was relieved to find that a robin was at the window, banging it's head repeatedly on the glass. My heartrate slowed and I shooed the bird away. Problem solved.
    I had just climbed back into bed when I heard the thudding again. Ok, perhaps the bird can see through the house to the other window and is too stupid to just fly OVER the house. So I went back downstairs and shut the blinds in our kitchen, then I shooed the bird away again. Finally, it was quiet. I started making phone calls (since I was not longer in the mood to relax in bed, thanks to that red-breasted beast). Into the second phone call, I heard it again! This bird is obviously suicidal because either it's trying to smack it's brains out on the window, or it's trying to annoy me enough to do it for him. So I decided to take matters into my own hands (well, into the broom's bristles to be precise). I swung like mad at the little devil until he flew frantically to a nearby tree. That will teach him, surely.
    A half hour later, the bird was back. He had apparently called a friend to come back with him and they took pleasure crapping all over our front porch before that same, stupid creature began beating his head on the window again. At this point, the window was covered with bird markings and the porch looked like it was covered with freshly fallen snow. I didn't know what else to do; afterall, I HATE birds in the first place, so I started screaming at it. Literally screaming at through the glass panes at a 5 oz bird. I SWEAR that the robin smiled at me! The dogs were barking and jumping, the bird was mocking me, and I was screaming like a banchee.
    By 2pm, I was at my witts end. Everytime I let my nerves calm back down, he returned with his hard-as-a-rock head and sent me into another anxious uproar. Finally, at 6pm, I called my husband and gave him my one request. Kill the bird. I don't care how, I don't care if PETA shows up at our door, I don't care that his precious little bird feeder is drawing these demons to the house.... just KILL THE DANG BIRD! Conveniently enough, by the time my husband returned home, the bird had lost interest in our front window and had apparently given up for the night. He knew I was plotting his death and now he's in hiding. That evil, winged creature has not seen the last of me, though. Oh no, I WILL destroy him... but before I do, I'm going to put him in a tiny glass box, and then I'm gonna tap on that box for 9 straight hours. And I'm going to smile the entire time.

Stevie Wonderdog

    Milo is the first dog that I've owned as an adult. I took in that cute little beagle-hound at 11 months old after hearing that he had been abused by his owner, who had then died and left Milo in a crate for days before the man was found (my social worker's heart extends to abused dogs as well as children). I was so nervous bringing him home for the first time. It was like bringing a newborn home from the hospital. Did I have the right kind of food? Was my apartment dog-proofed? How to I house train him? We were cat people growing up, so I had no idea what to do with this energetic, howling, shedder of a dog. Through the years, this animal has tested my patience more than most.... after peeing on EVERYTHING, pooping whenever I left him home alone, being a terrible listener when I call him, and eating 3 pairs of blinds, flip flops, candles, my black nativity sheep, a door knob, 3 dog crates, 2 leashes, and a block of rat poison (this dog is indestructable!), I realized that it was pure love that has kept this pup in my life.
   That's why I can't stand it when my little guy is in pain. And since he and the neighbor dog have an intense dominance war going on (I don't know, it's something about borders, territories, and such... I didn't finish reading the treaty), it's our job to make sure that they NEVER go near one another. Well, Milo got out. Mac was in the yard. The fight was nasty. My husband had to carry Milo back to the house because Milo suffers from Little-Man Syndrome and kept going after the large Boxer, despite having a wounded ear. So for days now, Milo has been walking around the house with his head tilted to the side, moving it back and forth in an attempt to find some relief from the pain. I know it's not right to laugh (because as I said, I love this pup!), but pop on a pair of sunglasses on him and you've got Stevie Wonderdog. Everytime he went to shake his head, he yelped and went back to the swervy head motion. Thankfully the vet was able to see him today and clean out the gobs of blood that had crusted up in his ear canal... he was apparently a deaf Stevie instead of a blind one. Anyways, the whole event was very supersticious... I mean, Milo is the sunshine of my life, so told him "Don't you worry 'bout a thing, Bubby, because signed, sealed, and delivered, I'm yours."

Schwan's Man

   Yesterday was my day of rest after a long and overly grueling week. I chose to lounge in bed, watch movies, nap, and read a book. Noticing that I had a massive zit forming above my lip, I decided to put on my usual pimple removing cream.... toothpaste. The minty sensation not only dries up the nasty blemish, but it also gives me a fresh feeling, which I like. It's incredibly sticky at first, but once it crusts over, you don't even know it's there.... which leads me to my problem.
    After lying in bed for a couple of hours, I had completely forgotten about the pale blue gunk that had hardened on my face in a blob directly under my nose. So when I heard a knock at the door, I sauntered downstairs and opened the door without a care in the world. I greeted Chad, our adorable Schwan's man, with an unknowning smile. He gave me a curious grin in return, but I had no idea why. I proceded to smooth down my hair and wipe any racoon-eye mascara streaks from under my eyelids, just in case I looked a mess. After placing my order, Chad went back to the truck to retrieve my purchases while I ran inside to grab my wallet. I took a quick glance in the mirror before reaching the door and realized, with embarrassing horror, that I had forgotten to remove my "zit cream" before going outside! I licked my finger and furiously began scrubbing my face (which actually causes the toothpaste to foam up). Dang it! I ran into the bathroom and washed it off with a bit too much vigor.... leaving my upper lip raw and bright red. Great.
    I can see Chad's figure standing at the door through the curtains and I'm forced to return without retrieving my coverup stick. I step out onto the porch and Chad looks at my face with a smirk. He obviously sees that I realized I had toothpaste all over my face (so he thinks I have terrible aim when I brush?) and that I tried to remedy the situation, which ended very poorly. Yet, he is a gentleman and wants my continued business, so he looks away and makes small talk about the weather while refusing to look at my face as my debit card TAKES FOREVER to process. The awkwardness was getting to me and I let out a nervous giggle (because THAT obviously helps awkward situations). Please, God, please, let the debit card go through! Finally, just as I'm about to explain my pimple situation, Chad hands me my card and receipt and I'm free to escape inside. The moral of the story is.... don't get pimples? And if you do, forget zit cream and go with the paper bag? Who the heck knows. Just be glad you're not me.

Master Baker

    My man has a new hobby... bread making. This is the man that asked me for step-by-step instructions on how to boil green beans. He has finally mastered the art of tacos and eggs (two ways) and is now trying his hand at bread. This all began one morning before work as we were eating breakfast. He asked me to pick up a loaf of bread because he doesn't like the kind we have. I explained that the price of bread has gone up and I'm refusing to pay $4.75 for a little loaf of the good bread when we can pay $2.50 for a big loaf of the ok stuff. I was convinced that my sound argument would lead to a conversation about reducing our carb intake and how this is, in fact, a good thing for us. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my husband would pull out the bread maker (I didn't even know he knew what that machine was for). I couldn't deny that he made a valid point when he asked me if flour was cheaper than packaged bread, so he flipped through the recipe book and began pulling ingredients out of the cupboards (of course, he didn't know where any of the ingredients were and he didn't know what some of the bread instructions meant, but he was trying, and far be it for me to discourage someone from pursuing their dreams...).     After the ingredients were correctly measured and added to the bread maker, my husband paused for effect before hitting the Start button. Instantly, the machine groaned to life and began to toss the flour mixture to and fro. My man gave a pleased grunt before saying, "I'm doing it! I'm baking!" I offered my congratulations, stopping just short of patting his head and giving him a lollipop. "I'm a Master Baker!", he exclaimed. Really? One loaf of UNTASTED bread and the man is ready to write to Emeril. Well, as it turns out, the bread rose (as did my husband's ego) and came out beautifully. Now, he keeps reminding me how awesome he is and how he is going to tweak "his recipe" to make an even more superb loaf this weekend. Lord, have mercy... there's not enough room in our kitchen for more bread AND his big head.