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I can’t please everyone

“Get a hobby.”

“Get a job.”

“Clean your house more often.”

“Let down your hair and blow off steam.”

“You should go out with your girl friends.”

“Why do you go out so much?”

“Pay attention to your kids more.”

If I did nothing but look after my house all day, people would think I’m weird and need a hobby. If I just sat around and did a hobby all day, people would think I needed to work more. It’s called balance people. I do what works for my family. Not yours.

Why are people so judgey? I didn’t ask your opinion. Okay, I just did about the judgey question, but before that. Why do people judge my parenting based on how often I’m on the internet? Shouldn’t they judge my parenting based on my kids themselves?

I’m a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom). It’s a lame term. I don’t just stay home. Sometimes I do. Sometimes all I can do is wait for the kids to leave the house for the school bus so I can watch Sherlock on Netflix or Downton Abbey. I make myself lattes and eat baked goods and am in clear denial as to the amount of work I actually have to get done. It’s a coping mechanism.

Then there’s some days I leave the house around 9 am and don’t get home until 7:30 or 8 at night. Between errands, appointments, volunteering and taking the kids to their activities, I am non-stop.

On a really good day, I’ll throw in some laundry between errands and empty the dishwasher. On a fabulous day, I’ll prepare a dinner that is nutritious AND delicious. Whoa.

So if you’re wondering, no, I don’t spend my whole day on Facebook. Or my blog.

I blog when I can, usually after the kids go to bed. Or when they’ve left for school.

Why am I even telling you this? Because there’s bloggers and moms and dads out there who seem to share their opinions freely about how horrible us blogging, Instagraming, Facebooking, and Pinteresting moms are. And I’m tired of it.

I’m pretty sure my kids are totally fine while I sit here next to them and I’m on my computer. Or wait in the carpool line on my phone. And when they were younger, how many times did I hear, “mommy watch this!” and for the one millionth time I was shown how they could spin and forward roll. Or burp. I didn’t miss any milestones of my children’s development because I was on the internet. My children are not maladjusted because I don’t give them every breathing, waking second of my attention. No, in fact. They are independent beings that know how to wipe their own ass. (Most of the time.)

Now with the book, I Just Want to Pee Alone out and kicking book selling butt- I want to be clear that I am in support of other moms who share their candid tales of parenting and motherhood, pregnancy and post-partum, and not just do it honestly, but hilariously! The kind of stories you laugh so hard at over a Girls Night Out when someone shares the story of how they gave birth, that you pee your pants, or spew your cosmo out your nose. Don’t all moms pretty much share their birth stories?

Then there’s my marriage. If I make a few jokes about McSweetie, can we not jump to conclusions that I must be a nightmare to live with? Can we not think my marriage must be miserable and my husband so pussy whipped, he doesn’t know what hit him? If I was a stand-up comic and did this piece about how husbands can behave like children, there would be a lot of women who agree with me. Or husbands that agree with me about their spouse being childlike. But put it in a blog, and all of a sudden, I’m Dr. Phil and I need to stop giving marital advice and stop emasculating my husband. Trust me, a list about how my husband doesn’t pick up his underwear, doesn’t emasculate him.

He admits to his foibles. He knows he can be lazy around the house. So what? I get something off my chest, a few others laugh about it and tell me they relate, I feel better. Life goes on. We don’t have to psycho analyze it into a marriage crisis, people! I’m actually pretty awesome to be married to. I wash his shorts, make his lattes, encourage him and his career, send him off to heavy metal concerts with his buddies, take care of his mother’s birthday… I’m a pretty damn good wife.

Here let me interview McSweetie on his feelings about this….

Oh, sorry, he was asleep on the couch. I’ll ask him later.

Okay, are we cool? Because I’m a little tired of people getting their knickers in a twist. Just chill the fluff down. I can’t please everyone, so I please me. And my family. Thankyouverymuch.

And if you haven’t yet- buy the damn book!

Reason to Live Friday #32- 54 years and counting

So if there’s any reason for me to get up in the morning (hence the Reason to Live Friday posts in the first place), it’s my dear sweet parents who are rocking 54 years of marriage this week.

That’s right. 54 years. That’s almost 55 years, which is almost 60. Just stop. That’s getting ahead of ourselves.

1959 these two people married in another country, came across the Atlantic on a ship to New York, set up home in Chicago and made a living.

In 1961 they had my brother. Then in 1964 they had my sister. Then there was- two foster kids (who were black and Native American, and this was the 60s folks!), a trans-continental move aboard the Queen Mary to England, a devastating illness for my sister, another move back to the US, then came me in ’72,  then just years of living, thriving, earning a living, health, traveling to Europe to visit family, graduations, sending kids to college, cross-country move in a Ryder truck, weddings, battling cancer (both of them), grand kids, baptisms, two hip replacements and a new knee (all my mom), an emergency heart procedure (my dad) and somewhere in there- 10 cats – not all at the same time, but over the years.

They’ve been busy.

None of my life would be possible without what they’ve made. I’m humbled, grateful, and brought to tears.

This is the bedrock of my family. These two people.

Thank you.

 

The Valentine’s Day Flu

This post was an original written for Bonbon Break Magazine

Ugh. I hate Valentine’s day. Okay, not really. It’s cute and all. I like getting heart shaped things and baked goods for the kids. I like the ‘IDEA’ of Valentine’s day. The actual holiday- it is never cracked up to the expectation.

Valentine’s day is in February. What is February? Winter, that’s what. And winter is flu season.

Do I remember the Valentine’s day getaways hubs took me on for romantic dinners for two? No. One, because those didn’t happen. Two, because I’m usually home sick with the flu. Every. Freakin’. Time….

Read more here- http://www.bonbonbreak.com/the-valentines-day-flu/  (go on, you know you want to)

 

 

10 ways your husband is just another child

Once again Scary Mommy let me contribute. She posted this and I think wives everywhere agree.

 

 

Reason to Live Friday- #30- We are going to be okay

I’m usually the smart one in the relationship. It’s true. Hubs has done some pretty stupid things. He’s trimmed the cord on the blinds once while they were up so when we went to close them, the cord was too short.

He’s used my dishwashing gloves for applying moss killer to the roof of our old house and then just put them back under the sink like it was no big deal. I thought he was trying to poison me, but then I realized, he was just kind of being stupid.

So when I do something dumb, I feel REALLY bad. And I did something dumb this  week.

Back over the summer I paid the mortgage twice in one month on accident. It’s easy to say, that mistake caused us to default on a few other payments since there wasn’t sufficient funds in the bank.

I felt awful. And you can’t just call up the mortgage company and ask for your money back.

This week I did something similar. I feel like a huge idiot.

Scene begins- McSweetie calls me up during his lunch break because the debit card doesn’t work. While he’s on the phone I log in to our bank to check what’s going on.

Oops. We have no money. And it was MY mistake. – AND… scene.

You would think that after 15 years of joint accounts and being in charge of the bills, expenses, household shopping, I’d have my act together and come up with a system.

How dumb does a grown woman feel asking her mom for a few bucks to cover groceries? Pretty dumb, that’s what. But a lot better than pawning my wedding ring or grandma’s candle sticks. Okay, it’s not THAT bad. Don’t panic.

What makes me feel even more guilty about my lapse in judgement was that last week I was in a major slump. I wasn’t sick, even though my family around me was. I was hormonal and cranky. But also emotional and lethargic. I had nothing in me. I couldn’t pinpoint if it was just Uterus Armageddon or winter blahs, or what.

I needed sympathy and cookies. I needed to be told I was pretty, even though I hadn’t showered and was wearing the same clothes three days in a row. My friends did this for me. They saw the bat signal distress sign, and came to action. I got to hear what I wanted to hear. Sure, maybe it was just to be nice, but they knew that I needed it. That whatever it takes to lift us out of the fog is necessary. What’s a few shallow compliments to keep me from drastic measures? Okay, apparently, drastic measures are spending too much and wiping out your bank account.

Maybe my mood and my actions are correlated. Oops- no shopping or bill paying for me during Aunt Flo! This will go in the marriage survival handbook.

My gracious husband last week was kind and let me order take out a few nights for dinner. He saw the laundry pile up and the sink stinky with dishes. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even get mad over this bank account debacle I have caused for us. He’s taken Owen to soccer, run a Cub Scout den meeting and coached a soccer game at 8 am on Sunday morning. He stood out in the freezing cold selling cookie dough with Owen’s Scouts for a fund raiser.

Other people’s goodness and grace doesn’t make me feel bad about myself. It pulls me up out of the dumps and keeps me from wallowing in the sludge of self deprecation. Not the Tina Fey kind that entertains us, but the damaging kind that can be cruel and destructive.

If you’re feeling like the bottom of Charlie Sheen’s shoe in a strip club, or you know someone who is- send them a cookie, tell them their hair smells nice.

I’m so grateful for my support network. My mom, my family, my friends, even readers. When I need something, someone is there for me. I hope you have a safety net like that too.

And thank you dear spouse for putting up with my neurosis. I’m 90% awesome, and I know that when my game is off, it’s only for a short while. I appreciate your patience. I do. Feel free to watch a Bourne movie marathon this weekend, or Karate Kid. I know how much you like those.

 

 

 

7 Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage via Scary Mommy

This post was featured on Scary Mommy last week. I was so excited that she let me contribute to her blog since she is pretty awesome and a published author, and widely known.

I posted it on my Facebook blog page and wasn’t sure if everyone saw it. So here you have my Scary Mommy contribution.

Let’s remember folks- I’m sarcastic, I’m putting it all out there, and don’t take me too seriously. (hee hee) Oh, and mom and dad, don’t bother reading. Thanks.

My husband and I have been together almost two decades. 17 years. That is crazy. Especially since I’m only 31. Just kidding. I’m 40 and everyone knows it.

 

I believe there are some things that should be kept from one another. Basic human nature aspects that really don’t need to be shared. Sure this guy is your soul mate, the love of your life. But I try to keep him from seeing the elephant ear shaped labias in actual daylight. I think romance needs to stay somewhat alive. I try to keep a shred of dignity around him. If my efforts keep him wondering, keep him thinking, “this woman has such a mystique, even though I’ve been married to her all these years,” I’m doing something right.

 

Here goes…

 

1. Only wear those pore trip nose thingies on your nose when he’s not around. I even have ‘Frownies’ which are these stick on tabs you use to immobilize your face instead of Botox. They are like postage stamps for your forehead. He will never see me in these.

 

2. Hide your Aunt Flo stained underwear at the bottom of the hamper. Better yet- wash everything yourself and keep your husband from laundering any delicates.

 

3. Don’t go #2 in his presence. Yes, my husband thinks I, like other women, don’t poop. And honestly, I’m just going to pretend he doesn’t either. There are limits in our marriage. We can go #1 in each others’ company, but #2 is strictly off limits. What’s the worst is when we have to go to a hotel and eventually I have to have my morning poop. I make sure the fan is on and I keep a travel Febreeze in my product bag.

 

4.  Keep from seeing each other’s anuses at all costs. I don’t think my husband has seen mine. I can’t guarantee what my husband saw of me during childbirth. It happened so fast and the poor guy was forced by the nurse to hold my leg. I told them no, that I wanted my hooha to be a sacred shrine of adoration kept intact in my husband’s mind, but they insisted. I don’t care that porn stars bleach their back door, this hemorrhoid addled (yes childbirth was retched on my body) butt isn’t going to be seen by anyone (except my gyno), not even a hand mirror I hold myself. And you can guarantee I will NOT be seeing his.

 

5. Don’t vomit on your spouse. Thankfully this has never happened to us. Once I puked on the bathroom rug and he graciously took it out to the garbage while I crawled back in bed with the puke bowl. Which is also the salad bowl I take to our neighborhood block parties.

 

6. Refrain from farting during sex.  This I think I’ve done actually. We had Mexican before for dinner. I had too many margaritas. We were rolling around in the sack and I did a Carrie Bradshaw to Mr. Big for him. I think he was a little distracted about the other stuff going on and continued as usual.

 

7. If you’ve snuck his razor for lady grooming, rinse it off and put it back without him ever knowing. Pubes are kind of a mood killer. Hopefully he has done the same should he borrow yours ever. Guy pubes are pretty wiry. I’m counting on the fact that he doesn’t want my Lady Schick in that jungle of his. Not that he does any manscaping down there, but if he did shave his balls- it would so be some Mach 4 razor that is only man enough for the job.

 

So there you have it. I think I’m about 80% mysterious to my husband. I will do my darndest to keep from him my stained underwear, hemorrhoid asshole and nose strips till death do us part.  Truly, this is key to a long and healthy, happy marriage.

 

7 (LOL) Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage

 

Please and thanks – vote for me at the Circle of Moms 25 Funny Moms contest- WOO HOO! Click Here

RTLF #23 – So many things!

This week is chock full of things to be grateful for. Remember, this is my list. If it doesn’t coincide with yours, just kindly move along. I’m grateful we can agree to disagree. There.

Big election week. Duh. So I’m grateful for some outcomes. But most in particular is the Washington State referendum that allows same sex couples to marry. It doesn’t redefine marriage. It allows all people to have the same civil rights when it comes to marriage.

Anyway, we need to get over the definition of marriage. Over the centuries it has meant many different things. Such as:

In the Old Testament men had many wives. Women were property. Even in the 1800s women couldn’t own property, yet they were married off like it. In the south, first cousins married each other in arranged marriages.

Inter racial marriages were illegal up until the 1960s. Slavery had been outlawed for a hundred years but folks couldn’t marry outside their race. And it’s pretty obvious, you couldn’t marry a slave either, it says so in the Bible.

Let’s include all the non religious people have weddings all the time. Nobody makes a stink about that. So to say it’s a religious, biblical sacrament, just isn’t cutting it for me.

I have many gay friends. Some don’t want to get married. Hey, I get that. But those that do, now can. I think it’s wonderful. They aren’t clamoring for rights to kill puppies people. They are fighting for rights to love openly. How can that be bad?

I’m grateful for my mommy and daddy being well. They are getting old. We all are. But this week they had more Old People tests than normal. Mom had to have a second mammogram to check things out. Dad had some heart tests to confirm a few things.

But the news at the end of the week was good and all their tests came back clear. So I can breathe a little easier. And they can too. Which makes me happy knowing they are happy.

I love that my husband works his butt off for this family. We both do. But his working butt gets a paycheck. You could say my butt spends it. Okay, that was weird. But yeah, I’m so very grateful for the two checks a month we get to pay the bills, buy the food and maybe even a little extra for some treats. Not much extra. But that’s okay.

With the holidays coming it’s always stressful stretching the paycheck out over extra extra stuff. I love the festivity, I love feeling generous and grabbing as many giving tree tags as I can. But then I need to remember to budget myself. I’m grateful for the ability to take some of those giving tree tags to help other people in what little way I can.

So there you go. My list, my gratitude. My cup runneth over not just with tea, but with so much warm fuzzy love. I know, it’s disgusting.

Namaste.

Sex (or lack thereof) and the Married Couple

Or as I should call it, How 50 Shades of Grey ruined my sex life. That’s right. I said ruined. I know, I know- you’re like, ‘WTF FRUG, you were all gushing about it in your music video. Yeah, well, that was back then. Now, unless my husband reads those books, (has any guy read them?) or any other middle aged-mom-soft porn, I can forget getting hot and heavy like Ana and Christian did. My husband will never look at me with smoldering eyes, fingering one of his silk ties in his hands, while he strolls on over to me wearing ripped up jeans and carrying a riding crop, telling me to ‘hold still’.  Our idea of kinky is when one of us gets a neck cramp during ‘relations’.

Who the fuck has time for hot sex anymore?  I’m talking monogamous, happily married, tear off each other’s clothes, pretend like you haven’t been married for 15 years sex. My body isn’t a robot. I don’t have a ‘TURN ON’ switch. So if it isn’t the time of the month, fatigue, sciatic nerve spasms, gas from too much bread at dinner… it’s a miracle there’s any relations going on at all. Seriously, mom- this might be where you stop reading- or put your fingers in your ears ‘lalalalala…I can’t hear you.’

Is it nature’s job to just mess with us? And by us, I mean women. It’s not that I don’t want sex, necessarily (oh dear God, mother, I am so sorry), it’s just that the urge for it really is sporadic. Here is a typical cycle of my libido in any given week-

Monday night= staying up to catch up on DVR shows and blog. Plus, my crops in WeTopia are far overdue to be harvested. Hubs is asleep on the couch. #Sameoldstory.

Tuesday= 11 am, started reading a book/ article/ or was watching Last of the Mohicans on one of the Encore channels with Daniel Day Lewis wearing deer skin pants- the only movie he’s ever looked THAT good- and think- hmmm, if hubby was home right now I would SO tap that keg.

Tuesday night= hubby’s home- and awake, but I have gas from that new quinoa and white bean recipe I tried. Plus, I snarfed that bag of Doritos when no one was around earlier, so the MSG is bloating in my intestines. This equals unsexy for sure.

Wednesday = Hubby’s working from home but I’m feeling glum and sad over how my jeans don’t fit me after I take them out of the dryer. I wish he would give me a back rub. And by back rub, I mean, back rub. And bring me donuts.

Thursday= holy hell- was surfing the web for blog material and happened to come across a whole handful of hot guys which got me thinking how nice it would be if hubby was working from home today. But he’s not. Once again, two ships- different ports.

Friday night= fell asleep in front of my lap top at around 9:30 surfing the web for swim suits that will never fit me. Got distracted and started watching cute kitten videos on YouTube, but my eyelids were so heavy, so now I’m just snoring on the couch. Maybe hubs will carry me upstairs, undress me and put me in to bed, which will wake me just enough for me to be aroused and he’ll pleasure me luxuriously for hours. Wait. Scratch that. Hubs hasn’t picked me up EVER since I weigh as much as he does, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make it up the stairs carrying my fat ass, especially with his bum knee. Plus he’s fallen asleep on the couch while updating his roster for Fantasy Soccer.

Saturday= went out with girl friends and got all dolled up to impress other ladies and get hit on by men that don’t mean anything to me. Stumbled home around midnight and took some Advil and went to bed.

Sunday= still recovering from the night before’s outing. Hubs gives me THE LOOK while we are brushing our teeth getting ready for bed. I’m like, “What?”, He’s like, “hey there”. I’m all, “hey there yourself”. Put in my night guard, throw my hair up in a scrunchie and call it a night. 6:30 am isn’t waiting for nobody and Monday mornings are always hell trying to drag my sorry ass out of bed. So no nookie for you my dear. Sleep time.

And there you have the random week in the life of a married couple that wishes, just wishes, that Afternoon Delights, Hotel Sex, or Anniversary sex, could come during random times of the day, conveniently when there’s no time of the month, gassy stomach bloat, constipation, or children around to bother or in their case, be bothered. OR telemarketers or the Mother In Law calling, or the dog whining at the bottom of the bed.

Yep. I went there. My next blog will be- ‘Why you shouldn’t blog about your sex life and humiliate your ultra, introverted husband.’

Stay tuned.

50 Shades of Unrealistic Foreplay and (S)Expectations.

***SPOILER ALERTS****

Not that it matters. This book is not necessarily some M. Night Shyamalan movie that will be all messed up if you find out what happens at the end before you actually finish the book. Not to say the ending is anything special. AND, I think it’s safe to say, everyone pretty much knows what’s going on in these pages.

Here’s the 101-

50 Shades of Grey– smut/soft porn/ romance novel. I think what’s crazy about this book is how popular and main stream it is. Judy Blume and other authors have written some crazy sex shit in their novels too, and no one talks about it. This however, is all the buzz.

You saw my Music Video last week. You know I read the book and was obviously ‘distracted’ by it.

But let me break down to you where I call some serious ‘bull shit’ out to Ms. E.L. James and her big tease she calls a novel. This is not to say I didn’t enjoy the book. Which I did. Very much so. And after all you folks telling me you bought the book after seeing my video- Ms. James should thank me. I like Sephora gift cards- thankyouverymuch.

The author is married and has kids- so she obviously knows what ‘married’ sex is like. This book is after all, fantasy. And fantasy, means, we separate ourselves from reality. And yes, the characters in the book are not married. They hardly know each other. So the reality being that my husband will never play piano with his shirt off and send me texts and emails that are so witty and bantering, or tell me to eat my breakfast because he’s worried about me. HA HA! No sir-eee! One thing my husband has never had to tell me was, ‘to eat’!  I’m pretty good at doing that on my own. Nor will he buy me an Audi sports car and fill my closet with brand new clothes.

BAM- THIS is the fantasy ladies- A CLOSET FULL OF CLOTHES THAT FIT YOU PERFECTLY!!! Of all things in this book, this was my favorite. Does this Ana bitch know how lucky she is??? Oh my gosh- to never go in a dressing room with hideous florescent lights?? Heaven on earth!

Some points I would like to make as well-This is where some points of the book cause me to roll my eyes. And yes, if Mr. Grey caught me rolling my eyes, I’d get a spanking in the Red Room of Pain. Speaking of, I would not survive the ‘can’t roll my eyes’ clause thingy. Just get me a mini fridge and a futon in the Red Room of Pain, cuz I’ll be living there with my sarcasm.

When in the hell does Anastasia pee after sex??? All that massive thrusting and you know what– makes for a serious UTI. That’s Urinary Tract Infection, for those that don’t know the speak.

All I could think of was, ‘this girl better go pee here before she falls asleep or she’s going to have a raging bladder issue in the next 24 hours’.  And, you don’t automatically eliminate the risk of getting pregnant after taking your birth control pills for just 3 days for the first time ever in your life. PUHLEEZE!!

Then- the courtship of witty exchange, nuzzling with his hands in her hair, smelling her skin…. blah, blah, blah…. SERIOUSLY??

Unless you are on some tropical getaway with your husband to some remote island and you haven’t done it in ages so you’re ripping each other’s clothes off in your villa- it’s more like, ‘hey- do you need lube, watch my hair, your elbow is on it. Could you get me a pillow- my neck is cricked and oh, move the dog, she’s like, right next to me. Why is it so cold in here? Can you just make this quick, I’m not even taking off my t-shirt’.

You get the idea.

My husband is so preoccupied when he walks in the door. He doesn’t drop his laptop bag, throw down his Crackberry, grab me by the waist and pull my hair back to bring my mouth up to his and plant a deep kiss on me. If he did, I’d probably gripe about his scruff scratching my lip, tell him he shouldn’t leave his laptop bag there since one of the kids will trip on it, and ask where his commuter coffee mug is so I don’t forget to put it in the dishwasher overnight, and did he bring the sour cream I need for dinner that I texted him earlier about.

The character, Anastasia, tries to be all upstanding in her principles. Yadda, yadda, yadda. We get it. She can’t be a total floozy or we’d lose interest. There needs to be tension between the two characters. He wants to shower her with fancy things- she wants to make it on her own. Okay fine.

But seriously- I wanted to give her a head thump on the forehead through the book. Are you insane??? Take the guy’s offer!

Clothes that fit, a car that you will never have to take to Jiffy Lube for a tune up and wonder if you should go for the transmission flush AND the new air filter or not, since you are still paying for the new tires you had to put on back in January.

Clothes. I keep coming back to this, I know. Maybe it’s because I have dreams where I go in my closet and there are clothes I’ve never seen before with tags on. It seriously is the best dream ever. They are beautiful clothes that fit me and I don’t remember having to pay for them. I’ve had this dream since 7th grade. It just changes from stirrup pants of the 80s to pencil skirts and Manolo Blahniks of the present.

If my husband bothered to tie me up during sex, I’m pretty sure  both of us would fall asleep before we were finished. Leaving me still in the bonds. Which when I finally did wake up, he wouldn’t unstrap me and give me a massage on my shoulders like Christian does, I’d have to nudge him in the head to free me, which I’m sure he would (maybe). My hand will have fallen asleep so I’ll be walking around the room, waving it like a lunatic to regain blood flow, then stub my toe on the laundry basket over by the dresser that I can’t see in the dark. Then he’d roll over and steal the covers and double check that his alarm clock is set for the morning, while I remind him of the fact that tomorrow he needs to take the boy to Cub Scouts,  bring home cat litter and call his mother.

Christian in the book, doesn’t let Ana, touch him, but he does all kinds of ‘things’ i.e. caresses, spankings, massaging… to her. Okay, fine with me. Let HIM do all the work. Do any of you ladies know what the ‘race track’ is? It’s the figure 8 pattern your husband sleepily draws on your back when you’ve asked for a back rub and he lays there half asleep with one hand pitifully ‘massaging’ you.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Hired help to make breakfast. Another deal sealer in my book. Not having to do breakfast dishes, make the coffee and wonder if I remembered the milk… priceless.

This is some serious porn in my book.

So don’t get the wrong idea. Like, I said, this is fantasy. We want to escape when we read novels. And yes, I did, for the most part. But I guess I’m so firmly entrenched in my way of living, that all I could think of was the minutia of details. I’m thinking Christian puts his socks in the hamper. What do you think?

That's more like it.

Dear McSweetie

Oh, that is the cute name I call my dear husband. He’s like McDreamy on Grey’s Anatomy, but he’s mine and even cuter than Patrick Dempsey. Which is hard to be, cuz that Patrick is FINE.

When I get the urge to write something like this, I pretty much drop everything and do it. Not always do I feel like a warm and devoted housewife. Often I feel like a cold-hearted bitch with a bone to pick. And by bone, I mean big ol’ fish to fry, burr in my craw, chip on my shoulder the size of Lisa Rinna’s top lip. SOO, I am in a good mood and was thinking fondly of the ol’ ball and chain. So I thought I would dedicate this little ditty to him.

Dear McSweetie-

It’s been 15 years that we have been married come this August. I can’t believe how time flies. And although you are not perfect by any means. And by ‘not perfect’, I mean, have no clue how to empty the dishwasher or load it.  You pretend you still don’t know where stuff goes in the cupboards even though we’ve lived here ten years, and things haven’t changed really- at all. You don’t know how to put your dirty socks IN the clothes hamper. You can’t seem to get your beard and neck hairs out of the sink or away from MY toothbrush. You seem to miss the garbage can while clipping your toenails. BUT- even with ALL those little flaws, I thank you for putting up with MY flaws.

Yes- shocker. I have them. You know this, but THEY might not know this. (THEY, are my blog readers honey, pretend we have an audience.) Okay- so here goes. Thank you for not picking on me for the following:

Wearing socks to bed every night of the year (even in summer except when it’s reallllly hot, like 85 degrees or something). Remember my orange socks of our early wedded years? I should’ve kept those. They were so thick and cozy. And orange.

Wearing the rattiest, saggiest pajamas to bed every night. I can’t sleep in the nude OR one of the various Victoria Secret nighties you’ve bought for me over the years. Sorry those only see day light when I bring them with us if you and I go away for an outing overnight that involves a hotel. Hotel nooky = sassy night gowns. Wearing that at home would mean that I would have to go through the trouble of changing out of them before morning came. Because getting the kids ready for school in satin and lace is just gross and weird. And itchy. So I’m not going to even bother. PJs it is. Sorry.

Wearing the same pair of lounge pants three days in a row  and not wearing any makeup despite the Sephora store that is practically our bathroom. Geesh, I’m lazy.

Never mentioning that my legs feel like a cactus since I haven’t shaved since September.

Not complaining over the bajillion products and lotion bottles that cover our bathroom counter top.

Having to see my lady bits when I birthed our children. I know you asked not to be down there. Cuz being ‘down there’ when they’re conceived is really different than when those watermelons are coming down the pike. There’s poop, there’s goo, there’s tearing.  Oh lawd, even I didn’t look when they offered the mirror. So I’m sorry. That must’ve been real hard for you. I’m also sorry I didn’t let you play with my milk jugs after the babies were born. I know I must’ve resembled someone out of Hustler magazine, but considering my boobs felt like flesh that had been twisted in a vice that was so sensitive even air hurt when it touched them- you didn’t have a chance.

Thank you for letting me complain how messy the garage is, but not saying anything to me about how ransacked the pantry looks.

Not complaining when I’ve been home all day, didn’t make dinner, and then ask you to pick something up.

You give me the remote.

Pretending that you don’t realize how many shoes and purses I actually have.

And who would have thought, the kids call you the 'goofy one'!

That’s all I can think of for now.  I’m sure I will add to this list soon. Despite the fact my flaws are so few and far between

xoxo

Love,

Hot babe

(okay, that isn’t what he calls me, I just think it’s what he thinks of me)