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