The Facts of the (Married) Matter

The curse of the broken mag charger looks to be broken today, thanks to my awesome husband who is picking a new one up for me at Best Buy this afternoon. (In spite of the fact that I got a ridic speeding ticket yesterday - one which I truly didn't earn. That would make this my second bogus ticket this year, but the last one I paid because - while I was NOT doing the speed the officer stated, I knew I was speeding and I wasn't going to quibble over the difference between the 73 I was doing in a 65 and the 80 he claimed I was doing "based on his visual estimation".) (I was hoping for good karma for my honesty in paying the price for my speeding.) (My estimation of karma's fairness was highly inflated, obviously.)
So I got a ticket yesterday for going 38 in a 25, only I was not going 38 in a 25. My van won't even get UP to 38 between stop lights, which is where I was supposedly doing this mythical 38mph, and apparently karma wants to bite me where the sun don't shine because now this 2nd offense = double fines and Hooray, kids! Christmas is officially CANCELLED! OY.

*pause for deep breathing exercises*

SO! In light of the fact that I have the worst habit of falling into bad luck, and also of PMS'ing approximately 25 days out of each cycle, I figure I owe it to the HubCap to publicly thank him and maybe fill out an entry on my sad, neglected corner of the web by admitting some things I would never admit to him in person.
And with that... away we go.

5 Things I Really Hate To Admit To My Husband But Are True.

1) It doesn't really bother me when you grab my boobs while I'm washing dishes. I would have told you so sooner, but I was waiting for you to recognize that it does not, in fact, constitute actual foreplay.

2) You snore a lot less than you used to. That said? When you DO snore, it is still akin to jackhammers clearing out a lot in my skull. But still, not nearly as common an occurrence as it was a decade ago. I just like to tease you about it because it's one thing you can't prove me wrong about one way or another. (Unless you secretly set up a recording device in our bedroom, which I'm fairly certain would be grounds for divorce in any state. Plus, my brothers would woop you but good.)

3) Your butt? Still looks just as cute in those jeans. I just don't like to admit it because my own arse is officially the size of Texas. But that's petty of me, so I'm letting it go. (It helps that I finally started to lose a few baby pounds and am now merely wearing "Ridiculous Size" pants instead of "Ludicrous Size".)

4) You probably haven't noticed, but I'm working on enacting the principle that me having a bad day does not, in any way, get improved by making your day worse. I'll keep working on it, and next time you can totally have the last beer from the fridge. And I promise not to pout about it - not even a little. Also, I will try to stop hogging the remote.

5) When I said "I'm not sure how we would work it out" and "we can talk about it more later" what I really meant was "Yes, of COURSE I want to go on a free trip to Arizona with you, but I am too exhausted to work out the particulars". I was hoping you would pick up on that and take care of all the arrangements, but I ran out of things to fill out the last number on this list, so I am translating from Wife Speak for you. You're welcome.

So, Baby? Thanks (in advance) for the macbook charger that will allow me to get all caught up on the rest of my laundry list of computer chores, and let me dust the cobwebs offa this place.
**Not to mention upload the photo of me in my smokin' hot "Mominatrix" shirt from the super-hawt Kristen Chase , otherwise known as "She who makes being the mother of 3 look way sexier than it actually is".**

Cuz, Baby? You are, and shall continue to be:
the monkey to my banana
the black mask to my ninja
the peg leg to my pirate
the Orb of Inquisition to my cloak of +5 agility

You. Complete. Me. (and my laptop, Angelina, who also thanks you.)

Rejected but not Dejected.

So to the surprise of exactly nobody, I was not selected to read at the BlogHer Community Keynote.  However, that said and my minor disappointment aside, quite a few people whom I alternately admire and adore were, indeed, selected. I will live vicariously through them and also probably give them some of my drink tickets so I can watch enviously as they sip the martinis I wish I could have.

Although technically my drink tickets don't belong to me and I'm really giving away her drink tickets, since as my room mate she has already staked her fair claim on them.  

But I digress, and y'all can fight her for them later.  Seriously. I'll make a fortune selling tickets to that spectacular, which is much more reasonable than my idea for the Pregnant Caged Death Match - Me vs. Amalah.  Because everyone knows pregnant women don't do caged death matches.  At least not when there is a buffet in the vicinity.  Unless they're fighting over the last slice of pineapple upside-down cake.  MMmm.... cake.

But, er, BlogHer is only a week away, people!  My head is aching with the sorting through my rapidly dwindling selection of "cute maternity clothes that still fit my enormously bulky girth" and the choosing between money for groceries or a new pair of lust-worthy shoes.

So dedicated am I to this whole proposition that I even managed to give myself a pedicure today.  Imagine sitting on a kitchen chair with a yoga ball strapped to your stomach. Good. Now try to lean over and reach your toes.  Yeah, that's a fair approximation of what I just went through.  But I managed it, and my feet are velvety soft and the french pedicure even came out respectable.  You may now marvel at the greatness of my accomplishment.  Me? I'll be over here snarfing down more cake.

OH! And speaking of cake... (smooth transition, right?!)

Happy 30th Birthday to Big Daddy!

We celebrated the occasion early - way back on the 4th - so that he could be surrounded by loved ones when he came to terms with his mortality blew out his candles.  I even got a cake with appropriately funerary festive black roses, because I'm thoughtful that way.

Mmm... cake.

Does not look 30.

So today he is OFFICIALLY 30, and we celebrated again with a Funfetti cake expertly crafted with the help of the small humans.  Also, he received new boxer shorts and Hanes undershirts as gifts because, obviously, I am the best wife EVAR.  

Actually, his real gift comes this weekend when he heads out to the wilds of the New River for a weekend of camping and whitewater rafting with the proverbial "guys".  I'm not sure what all this weekend entails beyond probably head injuries, possible drowning, and the odd weenie roast. (Not a euphemism... so far as I am aware, anyway).  I'm guessing there will also be mass quantities of beer and maybe some manly chest bumping.

So Happy Birthday, Baby.  Enjoy all the opportunities for untimely death and male bonding.  Just be careful, and remember that you're not as young as you used to be.  You know - like, yesterday.

Decisions, Decisions...

So we had actively decided to take a family vacation to the Outer Banks this year. I looked up a few likely suspects for a one-week rental house and we tossed around ideas for a few dates.

THEN, Big Daddy T's Mama decided that she is going to treat herself, for her very special birthday this year, to a one-month rental in August... and invited us to spend whatever portion of that month with her that we would like.

Holy. Freaking. Awesome.

THEN, Big Daddy T tells me that Sure, why not, why don't I go ahead and stop pining for the BlogHer conference this year and go ahead and GO already. I mean, it's in San Fran (Hello Old Stomping Grounds!), in the middle of the summer when kids are out of school and weather is beautiful, and it's before I'll be so pregnant that the notion of waddling around San Fran would feel less like a luxury and more equivalent to a waterboarding.

So I'm thinking about it. And I'm also thinking about maybe using his frequent-flyer miles to truck my happy behind out to Rome, Italy and visit with my brother and his lovely wife and their adorable children.

But I can hardly rationalize, even to my spoiled self, taking both trips alone this year. Especially, really, when you include the fact that I'll likely get to spend a few weeks basking in the salt-spray of the Outer Banks come August.

So it's decision time. And I have to figure out what I want to do more... Finally get my chance to accost Dooce and make a fool of myself with the laughing and the weeping on her tiny, tiny shoulder and maybe compare buddha bellies with the also-pregnant Amalah (and probably end up with a restraining order by the time I finish frightening these and the rest of my favorite blogging Mamas..) Except for the effervescent MochaMomma, who I'm sure totally won't take it the wrong way if I happen to suddenly lick her face or perhaps administer a firm smack to her posterior...

OR...

I could finally have a real excuse to get a passport and, at long last, set foot in Europe. Not just any part of Europe, but ROME, people! The architecture, the history, the art, the FOOD. I'd also mention the wine but, sadly, the fetus in my belly makes that impossible. But still... ROME!

Seriously, I should always be faced with such dilemmas. Like winning the lottery and having to choose Bulk Payout or Incremental. Still and all, though, it's going to be a difficult thing to make up my mind....

The Honeymooners

This morning started off, almost immediately, with an argument. It wasn't about anything important - even though he DID tell me he was coming back on Friday and it turns out he's coming back on Saturday. Just a matter of detail.

But this always seems to happen. Whenever T is getting ready to head off on a trip to someplace far away (or even near by) we both tense up. Our relationship is both heartily symbiotic and, at times, unhealthily codependent. But what can I say, we're two crazy kids in love. And so we celebrate that love by fighting whenever we face separation. Makes perfect sense, no? No. Yeah, we know.

The funny thing is, it usually greets in the same way on his return. We nearly always start on our way home from the airport and end up bickering in the car. The argument itself is never anything important, and I think of it more as a dispelling of the tension. The only way we both know how to let off some steam, because there aren't the right words to say "I missed you so much I thought my head would explode, and why is the rest of the world so annoying when you're not around?"

The last year has been particularly hard for our relationship. Between work, extensive travel, and full-time school, T has barely had enough time to inhale and exhale between chores - let alone spend any decent amount of quality time curled up with his wife. I'm sure it doesn't help that I've been - you know - me. (which is another way of saying "a big whiner who complains too much and tends to be grumpy for no particular reason").

But we are not usually like this. Our relationship has always given each of us a greater, deeper appreciation and zest for the joy of living. Just being alive together, experiencing a small few of the incredible possibilities, has given me the greatest memories of my life.

One of my favorites is, of course, our honeymoon. After all the stress and running around of getting married, once the deed was done we were in bliss. Married! Alone! On a cruise ship bound for Mexico's sparkling sands and crystal blue waters. We followed up our blissful cruise with a few golden days in New Orleans after docking at port there. That week is the most memorable of my life, to date. All that time together, uninterrupted, and we explored and tasted and breathed in everything around us. I've heard New Orleans is a different place now, and I can't imagine having missed the chance to see it as we did. The moment, though, that stands out the most in my mind - the one that will stick forever as a portrait of our carefree and exuberant youth together - is a moment from the cruise.

We stood on the rear deck of the giant ship, he in his best casual evening wear and me in my chiffon sundress. He held his tumbler of Jack Daniels in one hand, a finely rolled cigar in the other. I sipped my small glass of very good port wine and casually drew from a small brandy-dipped cigar. We stared over the rail, out into the vast darkness of the sea, the wind that whipped around us making my dress dance in the dim glow of the ship lights. We talked about the wedding, about our future, about how we would take many, many more trips like this one. It felt like a scene from an old Hollywood picture, one where the hero and heroine make grand plans that are sure to cut short by tragedy, only to be redeemed by the power of true love. It was a lovely cliche, and I relished the moment.

It has been more than five years since that night on the boat; two (and a half) children, two moves, and an infinite number of adventures (and, yes, tragedies) later, we have never quite recreated the blissfully naive optimism of that moment. What we have done, though, is go from the soft-focus dreaminess of that night to the gritty day-to-day of an actual life together... and kept that same sense of adventure, and found an even greater sense of wonder and joy in this other person we are each bound to for as long as we both live.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is... Sorry for being a royal pain in the arse, honey. Have a great trip, and go ahead and have a smack at a few Czech girls. When in Rome and all that. Just make sure you tell them you have a pregnant wife at home who has no qualms about flying half way across the globe to give a real whippin' to any woman who tries to get over-friendly with my man. I'll see you when you get back... and I'll even do my best not to pick a fight at the airport.

Alive and Kicking.. and Maybe Biting.

I swear I'm still here. Just very, very tired and attempting to keep up with the pace that these men in my life are setting for me. It's not easy.

Especially when two of them are running circles around me most of the day, attempting either to strangle each other or pile on the dog.

Fear not, however, for I shall return. Soon. With more brilliant and fascinating parenting tales. Like how Jack is learning to wipe his own behind after making magic in the potty.

And yes - I really did marry a man who refers to that particular activity as "Making Magic". And I still consent to sleep with him on occasion. Even though he is passing this mystifying colloquialism on to our children.

But he also washes dishes, so really... like so many things in life... it's a trade-off.

Like how you, dear internets, wait to see what else I will come up with or what catastrophe will yet strike our little family. It's like watching a train wreck, isn't it? You want to look away, but you're captivated against your will.

Also probably a fair description of what is must be like to be married to me... the woman who shares your personal scatalogical vernacular with the world.

In truth? I'm fairly cartain that, beyond the oft-mentioned impressive rack, he only puts up with me because I will play video games with him and because we both like our steaks a bit bloody in the center.

I'm a catch, y'all.

Of Sisters and (Not-So) Secrets.

My sister has a blog! Did I mention that before?

Well, I mention it now because the buyer who was supposed to close on their Utah house just lost financing. SO they are still stuck with 2 houses, and she's having a bad day. Also? Apparently someone in our faux-prudish family busted her for telling the story of how the Angel came to sit atop the Christmas tree. (Personally, I laughed the first time I read it a few years ago... and again when she posted it.)

SO I felt the urge to write her a poem. Because I am just the sort of sister who is helpful that way. I mean, really, what ills exist in life that a silly poem cannot cure? Well, a poem or a bazillion dollars. Since spiders are now nesting in my empty wallet and the bank card audibly whimpered when I paid for gas yesterday (Thank You Christmas) I opted to go the poem route.

For your reading pleasure:

A Poem.

So sorry to hear that your buyer fell through
That sucks more than a Christmas tree up the wazoo
It may be that your humor's a little askew,
But I'm your sister, and mine is, too.
When it comes to warped humor there's one thing that's true
It's not far from the oak tree that we acorns grew.

*******************************************

And now for something completely different!

For weeks I have been planning a surprise getaway with T for tonight. Before the Spinal Injections of Doom, before the Great Appendix Crisis of 2007. I have been telling him I am taking him out to dinner at a surprise location.

In truth, I arranged with the owner of a local B&B (who also happens to be another mom from Jack's preschool class) to get a room at the Inn for an incredible price, as well as have a lovely dinner and breakfast for the 2 of us there.

Now, given that he is my most avid reader, you may be saying "But how is it a surprise if you're writing about it here?" And to that, my friend, I say "Exactly."

You see for the last several months T has always worked from home on Fridays. Like clockwork. Without deviation. But, due to the aforementioned Appendix Crisis and yesterday's Christmas program at Jack's school, he has been working from home a lot lately. And so, yesterday, he announced he would be going into the office tomorrow.

I argued with as much feigned disinterest as possible. I attempted to dissuade him, to cajole him, to be insistent to the point of obnoxious -- all without divulging the secret reason for my objection.

Finally, after losing the argument and starting to panic, I spilled the beans. For which, incidentally, T is very happy. Now he can look forward to our getaway all day today, and has also made arrangements to make his schedule fit for tomorrow. So, while I'm disappointed that I didn't manage to totally blindside him (this time) (2 surprise birthday parties and 1 very arduously-attained signed copy of his favorite childhood novel having been sprung on him without a hitch) I am glad that it doesn't change the fact that we have an entire evening to look forward to. Alone. Together. With our Scrabble board.

That's not a euphemism, by the way. We always play scrabble when we have a night alone. Also, we put together puzzles. Of course we also engage in activities befitting two consenting adults with a king-size bed and a jacuzzi at our disposal, but seriously - we can do that at home. Me? I'm looking forward to the Scrabble and the trash talk over a bottle of Cabernet. That, my friends, is something much more difficult to accomplish with any peace and success at home.

May you all have a romantical-type evening (or at least a relaxing one). 'Tis the season to lose your mind in the whirlwind, after all, and we all deserve a little R&R at a B&B once in a while - or at least a reasonable facsimile.

I mean, you haven't really lived until you've played Strip Scrabble, baby.

Luck Is All Perspective.

Since we're leaving tomorrow for a early Fun Family Christmas Weekend with T's family in Virginia, I thought I ought to at least check in before we head out. You know - give you the Reader's Digest version of How Crazy My Life Is Today.

Case in point: It is becoming distressingly evident that I react to personal crises in a very particular way: Baked Goods. The Moms from my Moms Club group brought dinner in for 4 days, and it was all I could do to sit down and enjoy a lovely meal (okay, so it's possible I was curled up in the recliner in front of the television and howling for another percocet while enjoying my dinner) and not simply shove my face directly into the containers of Desserts!

Chocolate cake. White cake with chocolate AND vanilla icing. Christmas cookies. And the evil, evil chocolate cookies with peppermint hershey kisses in the center.

But was this enough, you ask, to satiate my craving for comfort sweets? Oh, No, my friends.

So it was that I found myself in the kitchen this morning.... up to my armpits in 3 different varieties of fudge (chocolate, butterscotch rum, and peppermint with little bits of soft candy cane), spiced sugar cookies, and the last batch of fresh pumpkin pies from this year's pumpkin baking frenzy.

I'll be lucky to fit in my seat when I fly to Utah in a few weeks.

Of course, I thought our days of dining in on meals not made from creatively altered macaroni and cheese were over... And then came The Box. A large, white, styrofoam box from Omaha Steaks arrived on our porch with enough food to keep us dining like royalty for days. Turns out T's friend and his wife were worried about us, what with me being poked and prodded and surgically repaired, and wanted to make sure we didn't revert to a diet of Ramen Noodles.

Soon thereafter I also received a lovely bouqet of flowers from T's office. I think it might have made them feel a little guilty, him having to jump a plane from Singapore and arriving home 24 hours too late to hold my hand while the hospital people cut me open to remove body parts. But they did hustle him home, to be fair, and let him work from home this entire week so that he could cater to my every whim.

Mostly he listened to me whine and brought me my pain meds. Well, "mostly" meaning "in between doing work-work, school-work, and caring entirely for the children and animals".

Have I mentioned I married a fairly saintly fellow? Because honestly... Why he ever thought he was getting the good end of this deal when we got married is beyond me. (He is currently assuring me it was something to do with the sex. Also possibly the Christmas cookies, but mosty it was the pumpkin pies.)

At the end of the day, I am adding up my good fortune. In the past 10 days I have had my appendix nearly rupture and be surgically removed and had needles stuck into my back to alleviate a six-month battle with a herniated spinal disc and nerve damage to my right leg... But I didn't have to focus on anything but the healing process. The boys were constantly cared for, first by an incredibly awesome neighbor and then by their incredibly awesome Dad. T's Mom made sure I didn't have to be alone in the hospital through that terrifying ordeal, and even held it together when I was writhing in agony, puking up stomach acid and CT scan contrast. T kept the house from falling down around our ears and kept me comfortably medicated and swaddled in blankets.

And so it is that, today, I got to spend the day cutting out cookies with the boys, stirring cauldrons of candy until the "soft ball" stage, and rolling out pie crusts to fill with fresh-baked goodness. The Christmas shopping is done, the house is decorated, the goodies are baked, and there's nothing left to do but settle in to enjoy all the festivities and wait for that magic day to come. I get to end this day exhausted, mostly pain-free, and coated in sweat and flour.

My friends, I lead a charmed life. Mostly.