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. 

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.

Roach Got Your Tongue?

   Laryngitis. Ah, what can you say about Laryngitis? Nothing.... because when you have it you can't say much of anything at all. My throat has been playing mean tricks on me for the past two days. One minute, I can talk and be somewhat painless only to find myself minutes later unable to get out more than a raspy syllable or two as my throat feels like I'm swallowing glass. Laryngitis (self-diagnosed, because why would anyone ever bother getting sick on a Monday when they could get sick on a weekend while the doctor's office is closed?) is a tricky illness to deal with, particularly when I am a therapist and my entire job revolves around being able to talk (sometimes talking above hyper-manic clients that ramble (without breath) at very LOUD volumes).
   Laryngitis also makes it quite difficult to scream. For some of you, this may seem slighly insignificant. But for those of us that enjoy the occasional shout, shriek, or high-pitched laughter, Laryngitis totally interrupts a basic form of self-expression. My husband, for example, is not a screamer. If he is startled, happy, sad, or totally freaked out, he takes it with stride. I, however, am a screamer. (I also startle easily, so I shriek.... ever so mildly.... when I see unexpected bugs near me, walk into a cob web, or when my husband taps on the window next to me from outside.... although honestly, that's super creepy and he deserves every scream he gets.) My man abhors these squeals. He literally yells at me if he feels that my reaction was even somewhat unnecessary. This from the man that doesn't seem to attract bugs at all, so he really has NO idea what it's like to be attacked by a swarm of winged insects.
   So, this morning, I went to the kitchen sink to rinse out my cup. And crawling up the side of the silver basin was nothing less than a cockroach. A COCKROACH. (I know cleaning day is tomorrow and all, but it's not THAT dirty in my house!) I could feel the scream working it's way up my torso and hit my vocal chords, only to release a sharp pain into my throat that practically made my teeth hurt. My heart stopped for about 5 seconds before it started beating rapidly, realizing that there was indeed a nasty bug inches from me. After alerting my husband (via raspy whisper), we decided to drown the insect and then secure the food trap so he couldn't climb his way back up into the sink. I'm sure the little devil will find some way to seek his revenge (these buggers never die), but hopefully the next time he shows his nastly little head, I'll be able to scream properly, sending the roach (and my husband) through the roof.

It's My Theme Song

   It's been one of those days where everything seems to go just a little wrong... and then as the day progresses, those little things seem to turn into monster things and those monsters start to turn their ugly, hungry eyes my direction before charging and swallowing me whole. Dramatic? Yes. Do I care? No. From a fight with the spouse (on his birthday, no less), to clients REFUSING to do what they need to do to take care of their children, to sound machines REFUSING to make sound, to the sore throat turning into an all-out phlegmy cough.... I can almost hear "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter playing on repeat as images of my most irritating moments from the day slowly and emotionally flash across a forty-foot American Idol screen. My hope is that tomorrow I will wake up in Philadelphia, put my sneakers on, and run up a mountan of steps while "Eye of the Tiger" thuds in the distance and bystanders cheer my name because they KNOW that it's gonna be an awesome day for me. Of course, they'll probably get my name wrong, as strangers often do, but I won't hold it against them because they'll mean well. Here's to tomorrow and whatever theme song comes my way!

Good God, Where Is The Febreeze?

   Ah, there is nothing like laying down for a quick "rest" and realizing an hour later that you had taken a nice nap. Even better than that is the realization that you're cuddly and sleepy still AND that there is no reason you can't just go to bed for the whole rest of the night. Wanna know what's WORSE than that? When your husband suggests that he take the dogs outside for a quick puppy play time (in which they all went into the woods) and then he lets them come back into the house because he can't smell that they were all sprayed by a skunk. How? HOW does he not smell that? As my dog came up the stairs my eyes started burning and bile actually rose in my throat, yet he smells nothing! At one point he actually put his nose directly onto Milo's head and reported that Milo smells strongly of something you'd put on pasta. That right there cinches it in my mind that he is NEVER allowed to cook dinner. Ever. Skunk and pasta sauce are absolutely the farthest things in the world from one another.... but this IS from the man that used to work in plumbing and go out on dates with me while still wearing his plumbing boots that had the remains of human feces on them, but he could never smell it (no matter that every person within a 15 foot radius was examining their own shoes for traces of unwanted matter). So, three dog baths later, a house smelling like stink, and me feeling a lot more disheveled and a lot LESS cuddly than before, I bid this day adieu.

Feelin' Kinda Wild

   Lately, we have been trying to do different sorts of activities while enjoying time with one another. Tonight, we decided to give the local Wild Game dinner a try with some gentlemen from church. My first question was "How does one dress for such an event?" Is camo a necessity or will flannel suffice? I'm assuming that all open-toed shoes are out. Is there a requirement to pack some heat at this event? My second question was "Will there be any other women there?" And yes. Yes there was. Surprisingly enough, there were only a few mullets, but I was wise in opting against the open-toes.
    I can honestly say that I DIDN'T expect to watch a full-screen home-video on animals being shot and gutted WHILE I ATE, but at the same time, I had very few expectations at all, since this was my first Wild Game dinner and all. I put on brave face and boldy tried the caribou stew, roast beast, venison kabobs, wild turkey, and roasted grouse. When all was said and done, I think I liked the caribou best of all (I think it helps, too, that I can't actually picture a caribou in my mind....it's something like an Elk or a moose, right? Either way, if you can't picture it, you can't picture it being shot either!). There was a pastor that spoke to the large group and trillions of prizes raffled off. Not that we won anything, of course. I'm pretty sure that out of the hundreds of people there, we were possibly the only two that walked away empty-handed after the 40 minute prize winning! But since our buddy won (twice) he gave us a gift card (NOT to a hunting store but to a local cafe). Now we're back home and Pat is pushing out a deer in the bathroom while I try to mentally calm myself from the gore that I observed during our meal.

Birthday Bliss

    There is truly nothing like a training on Domestic Violence that gets the Birthday spirit rolling. I should've known straight away when my alarm clock went off at 6am that it was going to be such an inspirational and light-hearted day. Perhaps the down-pouring rain helped ligthen my mood some, or maybe it was the video clips of 911 calls that we were exposed to as our trainer pronounced that she was going to "traumatize" us with this training.... I really couldn't have asked for a better day of pure celebration. I must admit, however, that my husband bouncing with delight as I opened my beautifully UNwrapped present (it's not his fault, he's just bad at wrapping), freshly out of the shower without time to even dress was part of the uniqueness of this special day. I was excited to find a beautiful new camera that I can use to capture the festive essence of the day that celebrates my birth (I honestly was really wanting a new camera so this is VERY exciting for me!). And what good would a birthday be without the possiblity of the creek flooding our road and yard again as the leak in our ceiling procedes to drench our plaster wall, making a sticky, gooey paste leading to the outside? Ah, the memories. The truly great parts of the day were spent listening to phone calls and reading messages from friends and family wishing me a blessed day.... along with spending the entirety of a nasty training with two of the funniest girls I know as we made fun of Wow-Brows and discussed the philosophy of Angry Birds. I also enjoyed the cultural aspect of my day as I was donned with a sombrero at El Canelo while Mexican men surrounded me and sang Feliz Cumpleanos with my my hubby, work partner, and her man-friend. Thirty-minus-one isn't turning out to be half-bad afterall. :)

Sudsy Surprise

    Yesterday was a VERY long day at work. I was away from home for 13 hours and had warned my husband that he would have to fend for himself for dinner that night. So around 8 o'clock, he calls me and asks if I would like him to make me something to eat (which was very sweet of him). I declined, but found an even bigger surprise when I arrived home. I walked inside and discovered that the house had been straightened and all the dishes had been put away. I was in shock so it took me a moment to realize that my man was no where to be found. It wasn't until I heard a yell from upstairs that I recognized a familiar smell.... smoke. Great, I thought.... he cleaned up the downstairs but set the upstairs on fire.
    I quickly bounded the steps and followed the smell into our bathroom. There I was greeted by my husband, our three dogs, and a beautiful, lavendar-scented bath. I also noticed that most of the candles in our house were scattered around the bathroom as well. The smoke? That was from my husband trying to light the wick-less candles and then discarding the matches into the garbage with disgust. I was filled equally with parts of pure love, giddyness, and amusement (the third part over the fact that he had quite the array of scents going on in that bathroom of ours! Lavendar, lemon drop, strawberry cheesecake, hazelnut coffee...). As I sat soaking in the warm tub, not only did he give me my usual 30 minutes of after-work chat time, but he stayed and sat next to the tub for a full hour to let me unwind from my day and process the craziness of work. It was so romantic... the candles, the steamy water, the handsome man next to me, Molly noisily lapping up half of my bath water.... (It was probably the lavendar that stirred up her food-driven nose. I saw her eyeing several of the candles and I really wouldn't put that past her either!) All in all, I enjoyed my sudsy surprise immensely :)

A Bronze Star

    My wifely ratings have been bipolar in their extremes today. I started out thinking I was going to surprise my hubby with a little cuddling this morning (gold star); however, someone (not me) wasn't feeling very cuddly and wanted to go back to sleep (bronze star). Then, when I called home after work today, he told me he was going to lay down and take a nap. I encouraged this action (gold star), but then proceded to call him 20 minutes after he fell asleep, forgetting entirely about his nap (bronze star.... or whatever star is equivalent to a pile of crap). So I figured I'd make it up to him and cook, for the first time ever, one of his favorite meals.... sausage sandwiches (gold star). But not the exact kind he likes, which is hot sausage (silver star) because the hot sausage gives ME the bronze-pile-of-crap-star. However, it was the wonderfully aromatic sweet, garlic sausage (which was on sale... GOLD STAR) covered in marinara and placed on a grilled bun (SUPER gold star). He loved it. Two and a half (MY half... total gold star for sure) sandwiches later, he knocked me back down to a silver star for calling him a dork and telling him to wash his own dishes. (I don't even care that I was demoted, it was totally worth it). But then I proceded to talk his ear off each time he started to read his book. This occured at least 4 times in a few minutes. So I end my day on a bronze star. Who cares, really? Marriage isn't the Olympics or anything, and even if our marriage was the Olympics, it would be the special kind, and we all know they give a prize to anyone that competes, so at least I won't walk away empty handed.

To My Hubby

   Cliff Huxtable, Mike Brady, Charles Engles.... you know the names; you know the men. They are some of televisions all-time best husbands. They greet their wives with kisses in the morning and again at the end of the day. They don't get worked up over little things and roll with the punches, choosing kind words instead of angry annoyance. These men take care of their families, making sure everyone is safe and cared for. Most importantly, these famous men (even if it was fictional) demonstrated true love for their wives and their children through affection, positive problem-solving, and an overabundance of caring gestures. And although not a television star, I know a man that has been rivaling these famous names, especially recently. He is my husband. From little things like parking his truck far away from the house so that my car can get in and out of our muddy driveway easier, to sending me mushy text messages (well, mushy for a boy anyway!), to sweeping behind the couch for me so I don't have to move the furniture. For all these things and more, I love you and appreciate you, Babe. Thank you for being my Cliff, Mike, and Charles :)

Scared To Death

   Perhaps I'm working too hard lately, but everything is either making me laugh hysterically or completely freak out (the first is much more enjoyable, by the way). Last night, I arrived home way past dark, and little Freida greeted me at my car. So I opened the door, gave her a few head pats, and turned back to gather up the mail and my work items from the passenger seat. I turned back around and next to me, where Freida had been, was my husband, crouched down and about 5 inches from my face. Now, I'm not sure if you've ever had a moment of pure terror or not, but it feels surreal. They say that moments before a car crash, as the vehicle is flipping through the air, a person can actually experience a sense of unbelievable calm right before death. This is what happened to me (minus the death part) as I turned and saw my husband. I stared right into his eyes for about 2 seconds with as much calm as you can imagine. And then I let out a scream of terror that could have sent Satan himself running. The realization that he wasn't an axe murderer out to kill me came after about a 10-second screaming/hyperventaliting fit, at which point we laughed profusely at the fact that my scared-face looks fairly ridiculous.
   So tonight, I come home (prepared for weird men waiting for me at my car), and my husband and I get into a conversation about clients and some of their seriously violent behavior. My husband leaves the room, only to return minutes later to ask me what I want done with my body after I die. At this point, I feel pretty certain that he's planning to murder me and bury me somewhere on our 40 acre lot. The stint from the night before was all just part of his plan to freak me out, and now he's talking to me about death and my remains. If my picture shows up on the Missing Persons website, please start digging.