Battle Of The Gross

   I sometimes can't tell if my man is my Husband or my Fraternity Brother. On the one hand, we do many husband and wife things together... lovin', cuddlin', kissin', naggin', etc. On the other hand, we relate to each other like we're in a fraternity... he tells me when he's seen a pretty girl (sometimes it's me, which is my FAVORITE kind of story!), he calls me by my last name, and he makes me sniff his fingers after he's been digging in his belly button. It seems that lately we've been engaged in a Battle of the Gross (either that or we've just gotten so comfortable with each other that these things are now super funny). For instance, tonight we were sitting down to dinner. It was typical meal conversation. He, commenting on how I've neglected to sweep the floor; Me, commenting on how he decorated the counter with bread crumbs. He, telling me that one day I'll learn to be as good of a spouse as he is; Me, saying "Douche bag".
    I had just finished cleaning up the dishes (like a GOOD wife) and sat back at the table to write up some paperwork. I felt something rubbing on my shoulder and I turned my head in time to see my husband, drawers down, with his naked rear end swishing back and forth on my shoulder. Ok, seriously? Nothing says Frat Brother like a shoulder-to-cheek incident. I yelled. He laughed and clapped his hands like a toy monkey. My husband should've come with a tag that says "Not appropriate for adults: ages 8 and under". I think tonight, Frat Boy won the Battle of the Gross. Maybe tomorrow Husband will come out and play. And if not, I'll just have to beat him at his own grossness!

Someone Peed My Pants

    I went to the doctor last week to get a few things checked out. She ordered an insane amount of blood work, an ultrasound of my thyroid, and a urine test. Simple, right? Except that peeing in a cup used to terrify me because I HATE touching urine and I was always scared that I would somehow get dripped on. When the lab handed me two huge jugs and instructed me to collect all of my urine for two days, I was beyond grossed out. Worse yet is having to store these nasty jugs in our refrigerator... next to our milk... for all to see. And so much for having weekend plans, because there was no way I was toting my pee tupperware with me out to dinner, to the movies, or to church.
   But once I got into the hang of going to the bathroom in a bowl, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was kind of reminiscent of the old potty-chair days. By 8 o'clock this morning, I was finally done. Two full days worth of pee collected, refrigerated, and put in my car to be dropped off at the hospital after church. I even double bagged the jugs, just to be sure..... But let's face it. I've had 29 years of pretty lousy luck, and it was just poor judgement to think that an extra plastic bag would be enough to break the unlucky spell that is my life! So what I didn't realize before was that there was a tiny, pin-prick sized hole toward the top of jug number 2 (it was filled with number 1, just to clarify). And when I put the jugs in my car, they tipped, ever so slightly, allowing a thin stream of day-old urine to fill the first bag. Only bag number 1 had a small tear in the bottom.... as did bag number 2.
    I pulled into the hospital parking lot, dressed in my Sundy best. I gathered up my belongings and reached over to grab the jug bag. I never even saw the stream pouring onto the seat, center console, and floor. I set the bag in my lap while I fiddled with my keys. It was a slow realization. I can't even remember if it was the smell or the wet sensation that assaulted me first, but it eventually became apparent what had happened. I jumped out of the car, gagging and dry-heaving in the parking lot as I realized that my entire lap was drenched in my own, refrigerated pee. I tried wringing out my pants and coat while still wearing them, which just made everything drip down my leg. I quickly glanced around the lot to make sure no one was watching me as I yelled and gagged and acted like a fool. I looked at my clock and reazlied I didn't have time to make it back home before my ultrasound appointment, so me and my jugs (yes, I do realize how that sounds) went into the visitor's bathroom of the hospital as I scrubbed myself down and hoped to God that no one would notice my very wet lap. It was only when the ultrasound technician asked me to remove my jacket that I started to feel incredibly embarrassed. Afterall, if it looks like urine, and it smells like urine, it's probably urine! Thankfully, as I turned to undo my coat, she shut the lights off in order to better see the ultrasound screen. I can only hope that she had a stuffy nose as well.
    I rode home sitting in the damp driver's seat and immediately laundered my outfit. My husband, thinking he's sooo funny, offered to pee on the rest of me to even things out. I doubt I'll ever live this one down, and I pray that the good Lord takes me home before I ever end up in adult diapers.

Tax Season: I Spit In Your General Direction

   When I was single, it seemed that the entire world catered to couples. Eating-out alone always raised eyebrows, people constantly put a Mrs. in front of my name, and the bread-makers of the world apparently sat up in their big, fancy kitchens, turning their noses up at the idea of making a loaf of bread small enough for a single-person household. And then I got married. I assumed that I was now part of the norm. People were going to stop making me feel like the odd man (woman) out, and those little social annoyances were no longer going to be a problem. Little did I know, because according to our tax man, Rick Martin (yes, like the flamboyant singer), announced that Uncle Sam is STILL out to make me feel judged. With the assumption that filing jointly ("How exciting," she thought to herself, making yet another official statement of marriage) was going to be like one more big wedding present, my husband and I braced ourselves for the hefty tax return that was sure to follow. Naturally, the government would see that two people have just put out a lot of money for a wedding, honeymoon, and moving expenses and they would want to reward such honor and devotion (and lofty economic spending) with at least a decent return.
    Ha! I have been slighted once again. As it turns out, if you are a married woman WITHOUT children, you get to pay $850 to the government (that's by far the crappiest wedding present we received, by the way). If you're a man, however, you GET almost $1000 back (doesn't it just figure....)! With fees, plus state taxes, we brought home $11. How thrilling, we get to celebrate at the dollar menu. Thank the Lord that our local tax people totally screwed up by taking too much from us all year, because at least we got some funds back there, but do not think that will distract me from my rage towards the fedral blokes. But it was awfully nice of Ricky to remind me that I still have a few weeks left to get pregnant and prevent this tax discrimination from occuring again for next year's filing. No pressure. I'll just attach some cables to my ovaries for a little jump start... throw a few juevos down the ole' tube. Get in line, Rick. You're not even CLOSE to number one on that pressure train.

Finally Talked Out

    This feels like the world's longest day. I know that at one point or another, we all have said the famous phrase, "If only there were more hours in a day..." I call Bull Crap. Because as much as we'd like to think we would spend that extra time napping, reading a great novel, turning ourselves into someone awesome, or doing all of those great things on the ever-growing "To Do" list, in reality we would just end up getting forced to go to work longer each day. And I just spent 11 hours there with back to back clients the entire day, just talking and talking and talking.... I talked so much that I came home and had to interrupt my husband's story to ask if we could just NOT talk tonight. Well, you can imagine the praises and hallelujahs that came roaring out of him at that point. I never NOT want to talk, so this was almost like giving him a free pass to be a bachelor for an evening! Therefore, I feel that it is my right... nay, OBLIGATION, to hit (open hand, let's not get carried away or anything) anyone that quotes that famous phrase in my presence, because I never want to give my husband this kind of satisfaction again.

Manna From Heaven

    Twelve-hour days are always difficult, especially when I'm still feeling run down. So needless to say, dinner was not something I could manage tonight. I came home and, God bless him, my husband had decided that popcorn for dinner the best and easiest choice. He generously offered me some when I walked through the door, but I could see the look of relief on his face when I opted for cereal instead. We chatted about our day as he happily munched away on the popcorn, licking the butter and crumbs off his fingers. We talked for a while longer and had long since moved away from the table, when all of a sudden 3 pieces of popcorn fall to the floor from UNDERNEATH my husband's shirt. Me (with a disgusted look), him (with a very excited look). I was just about to utter the words, "Ew, gross!" when my man yells, "Manna from heaven!" He bends down and quickly shovels the popcorn into his mouth before carrying on with the conversation as if nothing had happened. Seriously, who does that? I realize that I must simply accept every weird thing that occurs in this house from now on.
    It has to be said, my husband MAY have been a bit salty after reading this blog. He began to annoy me, so I mooned him (obviously, I'm mature). His comment? "Honey, the Super Moon was a couple nights ago, so I don't know WHAT that was." At least I don't eat chest-hair-popcorn.

The Bird House

    My husband's spring fever is at an all-time high this year. He is full of energy, smiles while talking of manure and topsoil, and practically skips out the door at the prospect of playing in the yard. I get the feeling that he may spontaneously twirl and find himself in a true Sound of Music moment. His latest obsession is his new bird house. My husband decided earlier in the year (yes, January) that he really wanted to get a feeder for the yard, ya know, so we can enjoy the nasty creatures that are birds. He mentioned this again. And again. Until finally, he came home with a feeder. I don't know how this little wooden seed container has managed to work itself into nearly all of our reent conversations, but it has. I find him gazing out the window with a wistful look in his eye, only to be disappointed that no birds have visited. After a couple days, he started making hostile comments, saying things like "I'll give it a few more days, but if I don't see any birds at my feeder, I'm gonna shoot them!" (Shooting at birds that aren't there? Really?)
    You'd think the man was the first to land on the moon when he finally saw a bird at the house. He went rushing over to the feeder to get a closer look, scaring the birds in the process until they (his words) "ran away". Physiology 101: Birds FLY. And can you imagine the terror those birds must've felt as they nibbled the seeds in peace and harmony, only to look up and see this giddy, large, Italian running full speed toward them and their dinner? That'll keep 'em coming back. So if you find yourself in our neck of the woods, feel free to stop out and see our latest attraction, the bird house.

Germballs For Dinner

    It STILL feels like I'm swallowing glass, and something rattly has decided to rent out the space that used to be my lungs. I'm not sure what's wrong with my little white blood cells, but they're totally failling in the delivery of the eviction notice that my brain drafted up. And whoever came up with the idea to make cough suppressant pills the size of Rhode Island was seriously delusional. Afterall, if my throat was up to that sort of challenge, I probably wouldn't need the pill in the first place! Not that the medicine is working anyways. I can only assume that it took a wrong turn in my esophagus and is ALSO floating around with the Rattly tenants, completely abandoning it's mission to fix my throat.
    All of this crossed my mind just after I finished making my husband meatballs for dinner. Ah, there's nothing like a delicious, hand-rolled meatball from a woman that's been hacking up a lung for the last 5 days. And really, my husband deserves better than bacteria-infested, germballs for dinner.... afterall, he has been so good to bring me a cup of tea every morning and again every evening (well, ok, sometimes I request ice cream instead of tea.... if I cough a little more than normal and say "pweeze?", he doesn't even remind me that lack of exercise and the increased calories are a no no). But even though the Rattly family isn't letting me work out right now, I'm still being careful to watch the scale. I even went as far as weighing myself right after a coughing fit, having expelled quite a bit of phlegm into the garbage. I have no idea how much phlegm weighs, but the scale did seem to tip in my favor. How about it, ladies? A new weight-loss regimine for the sick? Alas, it is time for my nightly cup of tea (ahem, bowl of delicious goodness), followed by a Robitussun cocktail, and a Vix vapor rub slathering.

P.S. To make matters worse, I have an enormous zit starting to take over the lower-right quadrant of my face.

P.S.S. I'm STILL not pregnant.