Category Archives: Marriage

When Life Gives You Lemons

Pregnancy makes you want some weird sh$t real bad.

It started with lemonade.

But that was just a gateway craving.

Then I experimented for a while with straight lemon extract. (There’s an extensive collection of empty plastic fruit under my kitchen sink.)

Now I’m eating WHOLE lemons – everything but the peel. Sometimes more than one a day.

I’ve tried to keep my addiction a secret, but the other day Todd walked in on me methodically slicing my snack.

Hovering over one of Colt’s plastic plates,  mouth watering with anticipation.

Soon I’ll have mouth sores and acidic teeth, but I sure won’t have scurvy!

Instead of judging me, Todd has been my biggest enabler. Er, supporter.

Tonight, he bought me a BAG of lemons.

Sweet Jesus. I’ve never been so excited to see tropical fruit in my life.

Forget flowers. THIS is true love.

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Valentine’s Day at the Awful House

These are places I hate to go – listed in order of least to most hated.

  1. The flea market
  2. The state fair
  3. Waffle House
  4. Chuck-E-Cheese
  5. Golden Corral

The common denominators? Pickup trucks and dirty fingernails.

My husband loooooooooves Waffle House.

(He actually loves all of the places listed above.)

He likes the cheap coffee, the single-ply napkins, and Patty the waitress with only two teeth.

I don’t have anything against food that’s been smothered or chunked, it’s just not my first choice. Or my fifteenth.

But I really love my husband. And sometimes I am an awesome wife.


Oh, yes I did.

On Valentine’s Day, certain Waffle Houses serve a reservation-only, candle-lit dinner.

Complete with black plastic table-clothes, faux flower centerpieces and purple napkin roses.

Not a fruit or vegetable in sight.

Colt had grilled chicken, hash browns and root beer.

(Somewhere a bra-less vegan Earth Mama just passed out reading this.)

The happiness on my boys’ faces was worth all the grease.

And how great is the commemorative Waffle House picture frame?!!

However you celebrate it – Happy Love Day!


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Oh, What a Wonderful Year

Below you’ll find some of my favorite moments from the past year.

So many wonderful memories!

Thanks for following me on this crazy journey…here’s to an exciting 2016!

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Beach Babe or Bag Lady?

There are many blog posts on what to bring on a family beach trip.

Posts like “How to Pack the Perfect Beach Bag in under 30 minutes” and “The Ultimate 10-Item Beach Packing List” and “7 Essentials for A Family Day at the Beach.”

We took our son to the beach the week after Christmas (because it’s 90 degrees in the dead of winter) and I can tell you, all of these articles are…ahem…crap.

If you are over the age of 18 and/or married with children, then the truth is, you’ll take 27 tote bags of sh&t with you on your next beach trip.

It will not take you 30 minutes to pack.

It will take you 7 hours, and you will still forget something.

You will venture to the shore with saddle bags of:

bathing suits, sandals, hats, protective eyewear, diapers, underwear, change of clothes (or two, or three, or ten) snacks, water, sippy cups, pacifiers, shade screen, stuffed-animal lovey, baby blanket, umbrella, sunscreen, face-sunscreen, snorkel, flippers, surf board, volleyball net, frisbee, asthma puffer and medication refills, baby-sensitive-skin sunscreen, sand toys, seashell-collection-bag, kite, 57 beach towels, sheet, hair tie, baby powder, bug spray, bandaids, tampons, change for the parking meter, cash for the snack bar, lawn chairs, cooler, fishing pole, your phone with the fancy new all-weather case, the Nikon…

My husband parks the car, and leads the way to the perfect spot.

He scouts out this spot like a hound dog on a crime scene.

No, no… not here.

Sniff. Sniff.

Yes, that’s it… 15 more miles in that direction.

He is a sleuth, and I am his bag lady.

I am out of breath from carrying so much sh&t across the Sahara desert, and also from being a little fat (it’s the week after Christmas, remember.)

However, I am wearing a Spanx bathing suit, which is very flattering, thank you very much.

I am also wearing a tunic, sandals and large sun hat.

Suddenly, like a flock of seagulls, a dozen barefoot teenage girls flutter past me.

I am blinded by their glistening tan skin.

Do you know what they are carrying?


They are prancing about without so much as a cover up.

I take that back, one of them was carrying a radio.

Because the only thing one really needs at the beach is Nick Jonas.

(Incidentally, I forgot “music” in my above-mentioned packing list.)

Why do I have 1,000 things, and they are drip drying half-naked in the warm winter sun?

Because they aren’t afraid of anything, and I am afraid of everything.

I am afraid that someone will get hungry, or tired, or melanoma (or bored God forbid) during the 2-4 hours we will actually be at the beach.

I get so caught up in preparation, I sometimes forget the entire point of going to the beach is to HAVE FUN.

Oops, mommy forgot to pack a positive attitude!

When I finally settled into my lawn chair (so comfy, with the cup holder!) and caught my breath, I watched my son fly a kite for the first time.

I realized, I love my life as a pack mule mom.

There is nothing like building sandcastles and digging tunnels to China.

Or collecting sea shells.

Or eating too much ice cream at the Twistee Treat.

Which brings me back to that Spanx bathing suit, and the cover up, and that bucket for the shells, and some extra cash….and…

Ugh, we forgot the shovel!!!!!!!!!!!

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What Does the Peace Corp and Playboy have in Common?

They are both taking up space next to my bed.

I had to chuckle at the diverse collection of books piling up on my nightstand (I removed the dozen water cups in front of them, so you could see what I’m talking about.)

Books for days!

Books for days!

I just celebrated my 32nd birthday. And I think this photo perfectly sums up my current life status.

I’m either really well-rounded or profoundly confused.

Most likely the latter.

There’s always a fashion magazine nearby, or “grown-up picture book,” for the nights when I can’t comprehend actual thoughts (and because I’ll be damned if I end up a middle-aged-mom-jeans-wearing frump!!!)

Then there’s the “Real Estate for Dummies” book – purchased by my father after I casually mentioned an interest in the topic. I’m still not sure why he didn’t send me “Real Estate for Geniuses?”

There’s also a fertility guide (I’m sure you can figure out what that’s for).

And a memoir written by one of my customers about her time in the PeaceCorp, nestled next to a Christian-based book on making wise decisions in the midst of endless demands.

The last three books are a bit “heavier.”

Todd always knows when I’m reading one of the “heavy” books because I inevitably end up sobbing and mumble-yelling incoherent thoughts at him.

[Sniffle, sniffle] “Did you know that people in Botswana live on $15 a month!!!! We are so selfish and ungrateful in this country. We should join the PeaceCorp!!! Seriously!!!” [Sniffle, sniffle]

[Sniffle, sniffle] “I feel guilty. Maybe we should try a Catholic church next!!?” [Sniffle, sniffle]

[Sniffle, sniffle] “After five FREAKING years, I FINALLY decide to get pregnant, and I can’t. What is wrong with me!!!!!!” [Sniffle, sniffle]

So much for being emotionally stable at this age.

Actually, I might be bat-sh&t crazy.

Holly Madison is on top (no pun intended) of my book stack – writing about her time as Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend.

This book has absolutely nothing to do with my past or my future (hopefully, anyway).

Oh, don’t act like you’re not curious.

Aside from that last guilty pleasure, I think these books reflect my struggle to be a loving wife, better mother, good Christian (or just a good person, for that matter!), have a successful career, and do something that matters in this life.

And if I could make room for a little Playboy SEXINESS in there, that would be OK too?

Let me tell you, the struggle is real!

Here’s to 32 more years of not knowing what the hell I’m doing, but muddling my way through it…

One book at at time.

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Mommy and Daddy Busted at the 7-Eleven

Last night was Colt’s soccer practice, and I admit…

I didn’t want to go.

I wanted to want to go, but I just didn’t want to go.

I was exhausted from work and what I wanted to do, was go home and sit on the couch, alone.

I wanted to watch anything but football, or baseball, or Disney channel.

I wanted to put on my pajamas and not wear a bra.

I wanted to get only myself a drink. Only myself a snack. Only wipe my butt.

So I lied to my husband.

I told him I was working late, and I wouldn’t be able to make it to soccer.

He completely understood. In fact, he was so sweet about it.

He assured me he’d pick up Colt from after-care, take him to get dinner and then on to practice.

What a wonderful husband.

If only he knew what his sneaky little wife was up to.

I am an awful person.

Confident in my plan, I left work promptly at 5:30 p.m.

I drove to the 7-Eleven near our house to get gas and saw a woman walking out with a pizza.

It smelled delicious and hot and cheesy.

It smelled like bad decisions. And that’s what tonight is all about, I thought.

So I did the unthinkable.

I went inside and bought a $5 gas station pizza and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

I felt wonderful. Exuberant. Rebellious.

I was meandering over to the Nutter Butter bars (because, why not?)…

When I literally WALKED into them.

My husband. And my son.

Like a deer in headlights.


“I thought you were working late?” my husband asked.

“I, umm,” I stuttered.

Then I looked down to see my son clutching a king size bag of Cheez-Its and a lime Slurpee.

“I thought you were taking Colt to dinner?” I asked.

“Umm, well….” he paused, “I am.”


(Seriously, there are 25,000 people in this city!!! What ARE the chances we’d run into each other at the same gas station at the same time?!??!!!!)

So what did we do?

We got in line to pay, of course, because what was left to do?

We stood next to each other in silence.

“Put her pizza and wine together with my son’s Cheez-Its and Slurpee,” he told the cashier.

She pursed her lips in judgement. She was “SMH-ing” us in her head, I was sure of it.

We walked out the door and gave each other a quick kiss – not saying another word about our transgressions.

I wished Colt good luck and promised I’d be at his game on Friday.

I went home and ate three pieces of that delicious quickie-mart pizza, washing it down with the finest glass of vino seven dollars could

This is what guilt looks like.

This is what guilt looks like.


I watched an hour of Project Runway and dozed off.

Todd got home shortly thereafter with my sweaty soccer player in tow.

I managed to get Colt bathed, brushed and into bed before plopping down on the coach next to Todd.

Tomorrow we’ll try harder.

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My Husband is Head Over Hanes for Me

underwearHusband: “Your underwear are heinous.”

Me: “What are you talking about – these are from Victoria’s Secret.”

Husband: “Well, I hope you got your senior citizen discount when you bought them.”

Me: “Just because they are full coverage doesn’t mean they aren’t sexy. Look at this fun pattern!”

Husband: “Mmmm, nothing like faded pink elephants on boxer briefs to turn me on.

And look… there’s a hole in the back…”

Shortly after we got married, I threw in the towel. And by towel, I mean T-back.

I happily traded in the polyester g-strings of my youth for FULL-coverage cotton panties fit for the elderly.

I never looked back.

I guess it’s a little bit sad. To give up the stuff of legends and Sisqo lyrics.

I like it when the beat goes da na da na
Baby make your booty go da na da na
Girl I know you wanna show da na da na
That thong th thong thong thong

That song was so hot. I remember standing in line at Sam Goody for the single on CD.

Of course, I told my parents I was studying for the AP exams.

Eukaryotic cell structure? (Shhhhhhh. Dumps like a truck, truck truck.)

By 2006, the black fishing line wrapped around my rear had done its due diligence – reeled in the man of my dreams.

Less than a decade later, I was rocking faded, holey grannies like Def Leppard rocked the Ages.

Even the elastic was worn out.

And yet, it didn’t occur to me to buy anything new.

I couldn’t justify spending money on undergarments. I’d rather spend it on shoes or nail polish or a new Michael Kors wallet!

But Todd was right – the situation was dire.

So I suggested he go pick something out.

Surely, he’d go to an expensive lingerie store, I thought. Choose something from his fantasy playbook – with lace, and pink, and frills!!!!

Two days later amidst the turkey and half-and-half, I saw it…

The Hanes Ultimate Comfort multi-pack of 5.

From (gasp) the grocery store?

I didn’t even know they sold underwear at the grocery store.

Me: “This is your solution for my underwear problem?”

Husband: “Babe, they are high cut briefs. They’re gonna be so hot.

And they’re solid colors – no weird patterns. I thought you’d like the bright pink and purple!”

Me: “Well they’re size large, so they’re not gonna fit. They’ll be HUGE on me.”

That turned out to be untrue.

I modeled a purple pair from the pack, and his eyes lit up with pride.

“See! Those look great!” he exclaimed.

It must have been worse than I thought, for supermarket underwear to be so GREAT.

I appreciated his practicality and frugality, really I did.

And I’m glad he didn’t expect me to be parading around like a Thong Song hood rat – post C-section.

Turns out he just wants to see me in something that fits. That shows off a little leg. That’s clean and mended.

Turns out, he’s head over Hanes for me.

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SMH…and Feeling Old

teenager feet-349687_1920Husband: What does “SMH” mean?

Me: I don’t know.

Husband: Well, people keep saying it on Facebook. We should figure out what it means.

Me: I’m sure it means something gross… like “Suck My Hoo-Ha.”

After consulting a friend (and mother of two teenagers) I was relieved to find out “SMH” actually means “Shakin’ My Head.”

Maybe kids these days aren’t as dirty as I thought.

Recently a coworker’s daughter asked if I knew of any cool places for 18-21 year-olds to hang out.

Except she didn’t say, “Do you know of any cool places for 18-21-year-olds to hang out?”

She looked at me and said….

“We want to get turnt up tonight. Where can we go?”

Translation: “We want to get loose. Wild and excited.” (Could also mean ‘we want to get wasted, high, or engage in sexual activity.) But we won’t tell her mom that.

Frankly, I was flattered she even asked.

I started to answer, but then realized I had nothing to say.

Because I haven’t the SLIGHTEST idea where one would go to get “turnt up” these days.

If you want to know where all the coolest toddlers are hanging out…where the juice flows like wine…where everyone’s passed out by 2 p.m…

Call me.

I’ve always thought it was weird that neither of my parents had an appreciation for 80’s music. They were in their thirties in the 1980s – they should have been at the peak of coolness.

But my mom can’t name ONE SONG by Queen, or Duran Duran, or Journey. Why? Because she had a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old at home.

If it wasn’t on Raffi’s Greatest Hits album, she wasn’t into it.

And now I totally understand.

But I’m trying to stay cool. Like I really like that song by Lil Jon…”Turn Down the What.”

Oh wait….

It’s “Turn Down For What.”

Translation: “Rhetorical question used by teenagers. “turn up” is the act of getting drunk and high and being reckless so “turn down” would mean sobering up. Turn down for what is really saying i am Fu*&ed up and will continue to be all night, no matter what.

On second thought, maybe I’ll switch back to the Frozen sound track.

And just “Let It Go.”

THAT song doesn’t have any secret meanings, does it?

Surely, Elsa’s not “letting go” of her virginity or anything crazy…

O.L.A.F. isn’t an acronym for Open-wide Lusting And Freaky?


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Not All Meals Are Epic Failures

But this one was.

I looked over at my son who was moving the grilled chicken around on the plate, less than enthusiastically.

And then over to my husband, who was choking down a lettuce wrap with even less enthusiasm.

I thought, where did I go wrong?

But that’s when I saw it.

Its bulging, iridescent eyes staring back at me.

A big. ass. fly. taking shelter between two of my hand-picked, gently washed lettuce leafs.

Ok, now I’m not hungry either.


I was so excited to find this healthy recipe on Pinterest a few hours earlier. Shortly after I had downed a bag of Krystal burgers with a coworker.

Speaking of…I’m mad at you (and you know who you are) for forcing me to go there. Reminding me of the cheesy, melty, tiny-white-onion-and pickle deliciousness…

So small and so evil. Before you know it, you’ve eaten 6 of them.

The last time I indulged in a steamy white bag of meatloaf buns, I was in college. Most certainly hammered. Having convinced some poor Sig Ep pledge to drive me there at 2 a.m.

Now, what’s my excuse?

I’m not in college. Rarely hammered. A frat boy did call me a MILF the other day…

At one point during lunch, my coworker clutched her chest in pain.

And that’s when you know it’s been a good meal.

My husband and son clearly weren’t as excited about our healthy dinner as I was (even before Diptera reared his ugly bald head.)

I  only started cooking about a year ago. (That’s sad, I know – given that I’m 30 years old and have been married for seven years. My excuses were superfluous. I work too late. I’m too exhausted. I don’t know how to cook. My husband loves to cook! The truth is, I don’t actually know if he loved to cook, or if he just did it out of necessity. You know. To survive.)

Even though I’ve only been cooking for a few months, I can already tell when my husband loves a meal and when he hates it.

Like the time I made vegetarian lasagna roll-ups, and he suggested, mid-meal, that we go to Cold Stone.

Tonight I knew right away that he didn’t like the lettuce wraps. But he lied and said he did. And he did eat part ..of one.

He wasn’t fooling me.

I’ve seen this man eat an entire rotisserie chicken in one sitting.

I just have to accept the fact that not all meals will be winners.

But I’ve got roughly 50 more years of meals to go (sorry, Honey), so the odds are in my favor!

And should I have another fly-infested-lettuce-wrap failure…well, there’s always Krystal Burger!


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Jesus Wouldn’t Hock Loogies

Spitting. One of the many few topics, in which my husband and I disagree.

Specifically, the appropriateness of it.

He believes that phlegm needs be expelled. That it will somehow make you sicker to swallow it.

It must leave the body immediately. In the parking lot. On the sidewalk. In the kitchen sink. Out the car window.

Apparently every player of every Major League Baseball team in America  is under the same guise.

It’s a wonder I’ve survived all these years – swallowing my own spit.

I guess it’s publicly acceptable because  it’s “a man thing.”

But before I was married, I lived with a man (my father) for 21 years.

I know I’m partial, but he’s A LOT like Jesus.

And besides a sneeze, or sweat stain, or tear of joy, I never, EVER witnessed him expelling – anything.

I do think I heard him break wind once.

What if we applied the same spit logic, to other bodily functions?

What if passing gas was not only acceptable, but encouraged!

Before every at-bat. After every base gained. Into big cups in the dugout.

At least we wouldn’t have to step in that.

To be honest, I wouldn’t even know how to “hock a loogie” if I had to. Mine would be a weak, pathetic…pa-tooy.

The sharp-spitters I encounter (and live with) muster up the goo like Puss in Boots musters a hair ball.


And then somehow they compress it into a solid-ish object? Before shotputting it onto the footpaths of innocent women like me.

Like I want your DNA on my stilettos.

Maneuvering the corridors of a college campus is like playing Paperboy on Nintendo. Ten points to avoid the spitballs flying at your feet!

It disgusts me to my core.

I can promise you this. My son will never, EVER hock anything in front of his mother.

And if he does, I will scoop it off the sidewalk and shove it back down his handsome little throat.

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