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