It's Not Easy Being Green

First published on Home Educating Family. Republished with permission by the team, and the author (that's me).

Women have something in them that fools them into thinking they are Super Woman. Well, for me it’s Wonder Woman (I even had the Underoos to prove it. And the aluminum foil bracelets. And the crown). So, when I get sick, I live in total denial for several days.

“I’m fine,” I croak, crankily.

I gargle garlic juice and take hot showers. I drink huge amounts of tea and put my hair up so it doesn’t stick to the back of my clammy neck. I google my symptoms and realize I’m dying of a flesh eating disease. Eventually, the sore throat begins to get worse. Where a scratchiness was a moment ago, a full on forest fire the likes of which California has never seen, is breaking out now. My voice begins to go, which small totally children take advantage of.

“What’d you say, Mommy?” I hear as they run off to wreak havoc and take over the free world, “We didn’t hear you! Did you say DO put the baby on a leash and DO dress up the neighbor’s cat? OKAY!”

My insides turn to sandbags. Is it my kidneys and liver and spleen shutting down, or am I just exhausted? Do I even need my spleen? What’s with the sudden bouts of narcolepsy?

Then the coughing begins, and I sound like a bull frog with a smoking problem. I hack up my spleen and learn having it on the inside of me was optional after all. Like my tonsils, wisdom teeth, and appendix. Which all seem to be dripping out my nasal cavity.

Still, I do not admit to being sick! By golly, I may be a little under the weather. But I can beat this. For crying out loud, I fly an invisible plane and karate chop Nazis for a living, I think I can beat a wee little head cold and still teach phonics! Pshaw!

Speaking of air planes and Nazis, I start to see strange things. Am I hallucinating due to a fever, or are there really purple life size Gummy bears in my office? Do I embrace them or eat them? Why is it so hot in here?

Still, I do not admit to any illness. On the sly, I may be sipping Nyquil like it’s a juice box, but that’s a total coincidence.

I.

Am.

Not.

Sick!

As if to punish me for ignoring them, the Porcelain Throne Gods demand a sacrifice and a thorough worshipping at their alter. Knees knocking together, I answer their call. They are angry with me and I have to prove my loyalty to them by sticking around for oh, about three days.

I haven’t combed my hair or put on make-up in a week. I keep my bangs slicked back with homemade, organic hair gel (boogers and spit). My nose looks like I was stung by a mass of killer hornets with pink Kool-Aid in their stingers. I’ve gone through so many rolls of toilet paper for blowing my sore snozz that I’ve had to ration the remainder in the kid’s bathroom: three squares for #1, five for #2. We can’t have company over because they might have to use the bathroom. Also, since I have The Plague (or is it The Black Lung?) they wouldn’t want to come in anyway.

Now comes the point where I admit I might be sick. After a full week of hearing people in my life tell me to go to the doctor, I am finally at that space. That space where I can admit I need help. Help of the narcotic variety, that is. A little Codeine? Don’t mind if I do. A Tylenol cocktail? Why, yes, please. Bubble gum flavored antibiotics? Come to mama.

Of course, deciding to see a doctor and actually seeing a doctor are too entirely different scenarios. In the scenario in my mind, I call, they answer, I go in, they are glad to see me, I get medicine, they say goodbye, I come home. What really happens:

I call.

They don’t answer.

I have some lovely flute music to occupy myself while I am on hold for thirteen years.

Christmas comes and goes. My baby graduates from college.

Eventually, they come back on the line and what do you know? I’m still sick.

They can squeeze me in in three days.

Three days?

I’ll be dead in three days, I say.

Okay, come in now, they agree.

I go in.

They are busy. Small children sneeze on me, and one licks me.

I read Redbooks from 1989. Crickets chirp. Tumbleweeds tumble by. I’ve heard every song Michael Bolton ever sang on the soft rock station. Twice.

They call me back.

I explain my symptoms. Well, not really. My voice is gone at this point, so I charade my symptoms.

Flailing wildy, I make gestures and do a little improv interpretive dancing.

You don’t feel well? The doctor asks, as I back flip over the table and mime Scarlet Fever. I land to a 9.5 from the Romanian judge.

I nod, in relief.

Would you like something for that? The doctor asks.

I embrace him fondly and get snot on his coat.

He writes me prescriptions. I mime a marriage proposal but he declines.

The thought of driving to the pharmacy to pick them up makes me cry, but I am strong! I am Wonder Woman! I am invincible!

Before I brave the horrors of the pharmacy, I need a nap. And some tea. Maybe a sandwich.

Afterwards, I feel a little better. I skip the prescriptions, toss what’s left of the Nyquil, undress the neighbor’s cat, and comb my hair.

I hear my husband sniffle gently.

Horror crosses his face. “I’m so totally sick! No one’s ever been so sick! I’m calling in sick! Honey, I’m sick, would you make me some soup while I go immediately to the doctor? I’m sick!”

Ah, my hero. My manly man. He of the bulging biceps and raging testosterone. My G.I. Joe.

“Don’t get too close,” he gasps, as I rub his chest with Vapor Rub. “I wouldn’t want you to catch this…don’t want you getting sick…I can take it though…is my soup ready? My soup, cuz I’m sick? Man, I’m so sick,” snarf. Blurp. Snoffle. “I’m so glad you didn’t catch this, honey. Aren’t you glad you didn’t get sick?”

“Don’t worry,” says I. “I never get sick.”

Health Plan Promise!

Yesterday, I went running. I had been realizing for quite some time, that I am not the svelte, thin, non-jiggly woman I once was. My body hurts all the time anyway, from too much ballet and too many births, so I figured, maybe I should be sore for a reason. You know? Like from working out.

I convinced Mike to go with me, and part of the reason was for him. He had gone twice with Cora this week and I didn't want him to ruin his streak. So, despite the fact that it was a mere 94 degrees, I strapped on my sports bra and tennies and off we went!

It was so great. I could literally FEEL the fat melting off me. I totally found my rhythm and I could sense that I was getting stronger. Runners say you just have to hit your stride and there I was! The way there was pretty tough, but by the time we turned around, I was really pounding the pavement and my heart was singing its new health song. I could even envision the future:

Me, in nothing but a sports top and short shorts. I'd be tan and toned and even the eighteen year olds would look at me with envy! Mike would be fit and buff, and we'd be the motivation of middle aged frumps everywhere! We'd be ADDICTED to this running stuff, like all those other ADDICTED runners we know!












HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA!!!!!!!!


No, really. It sucked. I never want to do it again. My shins were splintering into a thousand pieces, my face was egg plant colored, I had sweat running down the twins, my toes felt like they'd been hit repeatedly with a hammer, and I had an instant migraine the likes of which I'd never had since New Years Eve 1999 when I was pregnant with Cora and thought I was going to die from the disco lights in my head.

Those feelings cannot possibly be good for my health and I quit.

If you ever see me running again, it is because someone is chasing me with a bloody cleaver and you should intervene.

I remain,

your chubby friend,

me.

Top Parenting Tips

Once upon a time, I started blogging on a different site. It was free for a limited time, I got a lot of spam comments, and then the whole site went up for sale. I don't think they exist anymore. Anyway, this was back before I could do wayyyyy technologically advanced things like copy and paste, so instead of transferring my old stuff over to blogger, I just deleted everything. Long story short, one of my most popular posts was something like this:


TOP TECHNIQUES TO PARENTING


1. "The Disappointed Look."  This is useful for when you need to pack your kid's bags and take them on a guilt trip. It only works for sensitive souls though. Actually, it doesn't really work at all, but we still use it frequently. You can partner it with a long, drawn out sigh. Maybe squeeze a few tears if you can, but don't try too hard. Kids can smell manipulation, just like they can smell fear. The only child of mine that The Disappointed Look works on, is Anna. Sometimes I shake my head sorrowfully to go along with it. She immediately starts yelling, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't really eat my green beans - look! I'm eating them now! I'm SORRY!"


2. "The Furry Hand of Discipline." This was is a misnomer. I think once Mike gently tried to explain to his little angels the term, the firm hand of discipline. It didn't go over well since they burst out laughing and shouted, "the furry hand! Not the furry hand! aaagh!"  To this day, we still call it the furry hand of discipline, and we picture it like Grover's blue hand coming out of the blue to strike fear and obedience into the hearts of little sinners everywhere.


Unless your kid has a fear of blue muppets though, this probably isn't the most effective threat. Which leads me to my next technique:


3. "The Idle Threat." This technique is as old as time. Eve probably used it on Cain and Abel, and look how - um, never mind. Bad example. But we can't seem to stop ourselves as parents with this one. We know we have to NOT let little Sue slide with whatever naughtiness she is currently involved in, but we really don't feel like full-on parenting at the moment. So we idly say something like, 


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will cancel Christmas!


Sometimes it's not that scary or over the top. Sometimes it's something like,


Stop these shenanigans immediately or I will come in there, so help me, God!


Either way, we're lying and we're not canceling anything or getting off the couch.


4. "Talking Them Half to Death" or "Preaching." This is especially effective with teenagers. They will do anything, ANYTHING, to get you to stop preaching. Even delete bad songs off their Ipods. Even if Lil' Wayne is the only one who understands them.


I'll leave you with some great parenting quotes. If you know of any others, or have one yourself, leave em in the comments! (and admire my copying and pasting skillz, will ya?!)


A child is a curly dimpled lunatic. 
Ralph Waldo Emerson


No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.
Erma Bombeck


My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first one being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
Erma again


Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going.
Phyllis Diller


The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found." 
 Calvin Trillin 


To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. 
Oscar Wilde


Even very young children need to be informed about dying. Explain the concept of death very carefully to your child. This will make threatening him with it much more effective. 
P. J. O'Rourke

Gramma's Fitted Sheets

Coming out of a strange and wonky, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year, we were left with little in the way of personal possessions.  This has been quite tolerable since we kind of prefer the minimalist life anyway and you'd be surprised at how much you do NOT need.  But we were down to one set of sheets for our bed (mis matched of course: a flowery fitted sheet and a solid color flat sheet.  And a squillion pillow cases.  I guess I was worried that I'd have a squillion kids who needed to go trick or treating or something).  And those sheets were ...well, threadbare.

Okay, I totally just thought of a hilarious story involving my grand mother.  She was a young bride and very shy.  She was setting up housekeeping and needed some sheets.  I guess they didn't come in sets back then (this would have been in the fifties) and she was specifically in need of a fitted sheet.  She couldn't find them in the department store and so she had to ask.  Did I mention she was shy?  She found a sales lady and peeped,

"Do you have any fitted sheets?"


Only she didn't say fitted sheets.  She mixed up the consonants in the last two words.

She was so mortified, she ran out of the store and never got her sheets.  To this day, my mom, sister and I cheerfully refer to fitted sheets as !@#! @#$T%&.

Okay, back to the original story.

&^$%@!!!

So, hubby and I got into a conversation about sheets and thread count.  He decided our sheets - which you probably could read a novel right through - had a thread count of two.  One for him and one for me.  Hahahahahaha!  Next to his warm panini press legs, I married him for his sense of humor.  

So we've been keeping our eye out for new sheets.  But I'm too cheap to buy any.  And I actually kind of like super well worn sheets anyway.  Ironically, I get this from my gramma!

Wait.  She probably didn't really like them.  She was just scared to replace them.  I just figured that out!  I probably need a series of detective novels written about me.  Also, an action figure.

But anyway, Hubby texted me from work the other day.

Hey, babe, Obie is going to the Sportsman Show and they have 1200 count sheets for twenty bucks!  Want him to pick us up a set?

Ummm...no.  Not really.  Do I want some guy named Obie to buy me sheets at a Sportsman Show?

Call me old fashioned.

Hey, maybe some guy named Juan could run out and buy me some Always Overnights with Wings at the dollar store!
And some dude named Butch could grab me some pantyhose at the Super Walmart!
And some man named Carlos could snag me a bra while he's at Freddie's!

Heck, I'll never leave my house again!  I'll just get strange men to buy me the bare necessities of life and deliver them to me while I lounge in yoga pants and eat bon-bons! 

Sadly, I turned down the generous offer made by my husband and his shopping pal and now I can't find a better deal.  Actually, I can't find 1200 count sheets at all.  Ross and TJ Maxx - my two main haunts - don't have anything over 400, and they're more than twenty bucks.  But I'll never admit it to him or to Obie.

$^%#$%!!

The Valentine's Day Post

Late at night, when the kids are finally asleep, the lights are dimmed, the phone is off, the dishwasher is humming, the doors are locked, and I'm in bed with my husband, he whispers an insecure thought:


you only love me for my body.


Stop wiggling and get over here! I demand. 


No!  I'm more than just a hot body, you know! he hugs a pillow to his chest and effectively blocks my embrace.


No, you're not.  Quit fighting and give in!


*whimper*


Seriously, stop being so dramatic and give me what I want!


But...but...


No buts.  Come here.


And then I stick my freezing ice cold feet in the panini press that is my spouse's  legs.   Ahhhhh.  Then he says immmknottttjussupeeesameatunoihaffeelysanduhbraintooounoifweelsoust. which I think is something over the top like, I'm not just a piece of meat you know. I have feelings and a brain too, you know. I feel so used.  It's hard to understand him when his teeth are chattering and clanging together.  Even his teeth are melodramatic. 


We're good at this romance thing.  K, not so much.  Sometimes he tries to be romantic but I tend to kill it with sarcasm so we just eat some more leftovers and dvr something.  


On Valentine's Day, he spends his day in fear at work because he knows I said that it's just a hallmark holiday and he does NOT have to observe it, but of course, like any man he wonders if this is a test.  Am I serious?  Will he come home empty handed only to have me burst into tears?  


Last year at Mother's Day, he forgot to do anything.  When I mentioned it, his eyes got wide and he said, 
I thought you said it was just a hallmark holiday, riddled with commercialism?  


That's Valentine's.  Not Mother's Day.  Do I need to go over the birth stories with you again?


Sometimes he gets a little twitchy and gets this haunted look on his face.  I don't know why. 


I think I'll get myself a pair of fuzzy socks for his Valentine's present.  And you said I wasn't the romantic type!  Pshaw!  Take that, Cupid, you ornery little bugger! 


But he better not bring me flowers cuz that's a waste of money.  Plus I will kill them posthaste.  And my hips don't need chocolate.  And I only like the funny cards, not the mooshy ones.  But it has to be the BEST funny card.  The one you find after you've read each and every one at the store.  It's probably just best if I find my own card actually.  


Happy Half-Off Candy Eve, everyone!  God bless us everyone.  Amen.  


P.S.
I was only kidding about the chocolate.   

Weirdbeard

No Shave November turned into No Shave December around our house, and not just because the razor likes to fall off the shower wall at night and scare the living daylights out of me, but because I like my guy scruffy and he knows it.  But tonight he couldn't take the Sasquatch attacking his face any longer so I bring you...in stages...the evolution of man.

Grizzly Adams.

Bob Cratchitt.

Rob Reiner/Meathead.

Ummm....1970s man in a questionably morally wrong line of work?  (hey, this is a family blog!)

Well, we all know why this look went out of style.  Speaking of which, Will Farrell singing Springtime for Hitler is just something we should all see at least once.

Bare as a baby's bottom.




He knows I like the mountain man look so if he knows what's good for his love life, he'll grow it back pronto.


P.S.


Gianni refuses to call him Dad any longer and now refers to him as Uncle Mike who lives in New York.

Marriage

We'd been together a few months here.  Fourteen years ago.

She was shy, insecure, stubborn, probably passively aggressive.
He was blunt, comedic, stubborn, probably aggressively aggressive.

She was short and skinny, broke, artistic.  She was still dancing, but had lost some of the love for it.  She wouldn't order anything to eat, ever, when out with friends causing them to confront her about eating disorders.  She just didn't like the ugly business of choosing something and then chewing and swallowing it in front of anyone.  She drove a two toned beat up car.  She wasn't getting along with her sister.

He was zealous about religion, loud, stressed out about work.  He was performance driven, romantic, funny, but sometimes rude.  He drove a pick up where a lot of kissing took place, especially at red lights.  He didn't like to be alone.

He talked all the time.  She didn't.

He wanted a blonde career woman.

She wanted a boot wearing cowboy.

She wasn't interested in careers.

He wasn't interested in boots.

Sometimes they argued but it was only about big things, not the little things that everyone always says you'll argue about when you get married, like toothbrushes and how to make the coffee and whether or not to have decorative hand towels.

She can't focus in clutter or chaos; it makes her depressed and tumultuous inside.

He will always put dirty spoons on the counter after she's washed it down.

He loves football.

She will always have a martyred look on her face when he watches it.

He likes sugar.

She likes salt.

They learn eventually that looks and expressions say more than words in a marriage.

Once she got so angry at him she threw her set of car keys at his face.
Luckily, she throws like a girl or he'd be wearing an eye patch now.

He likes to talk about his feelings.

She would rather write about them.

He is her biggest fan even when she makes him crazy.

She is his best friend even when he does the wrong thing.

Now they don't argue about the big things anymore because they have all that worked out.  Birth control and vaccinating and home schooling and budgets and travels and moves - all the kinks have been beautifully ironed so that there are never any wrinkles to unfold and discover that inside is a nasty difference of opinion.  Instead they argue now about the dumb little things, like toothbrushes and how to make the coffee and whether or not to have decorative hand towels.

They don't say the wrong things anymore, but since they know what one another is thinking they might as well sometimes.  She mentally curses his eyesight when she picks up his dirty socks from the bedroom floor.  He mentally rolls his eyes when he asks how he can help around the house and the offer only makes her mad.

Their flaws are more evident the older their children grow because it's like being followed around by three miniature looking glasses with milk mustaches and footy pajamas.

He can be insensitive and she can be manipulative, but they are both forgiving.

What about all of you?  What has marriage taught you?

This post is linked up at:

Family Bonding is Distressing

They're so cute...

...like baby piranhas...

They're so dang lovable.

How can I possibly want to hide from them in the bathroom and eat pasta until I melt into a puddle of Melyssa and Gorgonzola?

That one at the top?  He is a puppy in striped pajamas.  He is wearing a leash.  He is eating cereal out of a bowl on the floor.  He just told me he's "Mindy from the network."  (Bolt).  He has all fifty states memorized.  This is not due to my spectacular parenting as I had to stop and think if there were indeed, fifty states.

The one in the middle photo keeps getting disqualified from her heats at swim meets.  She is rebellious and won't follow the rules.  I blame her dad.  She wouldn't sit still and listen to our family reading of The Hobbit.  She made dinner so we forgive her lack of family spirit.

The last one up there gives me anxiety attacks for the teenage years to come.  Her future husband must enjoy  being the steak to her mushrooms, for he will be smothered until he surrenders.  She insisted on unbuttered popcorn...yet will not learn to pop it...so she sits, dejected...like a wounded small elf...on the corner of the couch while we read The Hobbit...until she melts down the side of the couch like so much unwanted butter...and she pouts some more on the floor.

Excerpts of The Hobbit were peppered with the neurotic dog pacing...back and forth...back and forth...doggy toenails on a hardwood floor under vaulted ceilings...Mommy interrupting to say things like

Move that glass, it's going to get spilled.


Don't sit on the couch like that, it's not good for it.


Get your face out of the popcorn bowl.  Yes, I know you're a puppy but you can't put your face in the popcorn bowl.


I know he put his face in, I'm sitting right here!


Be careful of Daddy's stomach, he just had surgery.


Let go.


Be nice.


Shh.


Starving kids in China would LOVE to have Daddy read to them!!


The dishes are piling up...the laundry is too...we lost the car keys for Mike's car...I will have to drive him to work at zero-dark-thirty...bedtime can't come soon enough...

I am blessed.

Once upon a time, a handsome prince had a steed that looked like this:

...and the steed had a very hot engine...

that caused a rather bad third degree burn on the handsome prince's right hand.

So the potion master mixed up a little cocktail of Demerol and Vicodin and sent him on his way.

And now the handsome prince believes himself to be married to:

And in his dopey, drug induced kind of way...

...he and Jennifer Nettles lived happily ever after.

The End.

Anniversary Hijack!!!

That's right... Melyssa's tech savvy husband has siezed control of the blog(and changed the password) as a celebration of both my nearly limitless power, and our 11th wedding anniversary.




So let's all take a trip down memory lane shall we?...




I Love this one for three reasons. First she wore those coveralls everywhere!!! (Hillbilly).
Second, how secure does she look in her decision to go through with this?

Third, do you SEE the gun show going on in background...???

Play this if you LOVE Mariah as much as I do!!!

Now, who WOULDN'T want to be permanently attached to these women???



At this point, I was about to cry... so was Dave... Still looks scared... If she only knew!!!
Ok, this was ILLEGAL!!! She's only 20! We got kicked out of the casinos at Lake Tahoe on our honeymoon as well.



The whole Fam Damily!!! Hey it's uncle Vinny on the right, yeah be afraid...


So 11 years ago I got married. Me. Mike Williams. I still can't believe it, I'm sure most of those reading this can't believe it either!!! I can honestly tell all, that I am more in love today than ever before. I have all I could ever want, need, or desire with Lyssa by my side...


I love you forever Baby.

My fourth child

This is Kevin James. Not Mike. But when Kevin James is on tv, Gianni shouts, "daddy!" and points at the screen. And this is Kevin James' wife, I think her name is Stephania. Also not me. But I can pretend.

Even with squinty eyes, we're pretty cute. Dontcha see the resemblance? Well, dontcha? From now on I will only answer to Stephania.

Getting a christmas tree last year. Well, of course it was last year, even I won't get one as early as the end of October! Only because it's illegal though.

This is the consequence, oh manly men, of having daughters.

This was Daddy with Cora. Obviously several years ago. Sniff. Snort. Uncontrollable weeping.

Reading to his girls. Blubber. Sob. Bawl.

Easter with Anna like, a million years ago.

Home improving: Up next - how to hold open windows with everyday household objects!

To be fair now, he was the one who suggested I name this post what I did.

Mike came galloping in on his white steed close to a dozen years ago now. Yikes, how did so much time go by?! Most of you know this story, but humor me while I tell it anyway. The first time he asked me out was kind of an accident. I was 19. He was...ahem, older than 19. I was standing talking to a friend and he came sauntering up, all casual like, and asked HER to go out with him that Saturday. She said no. She walked away. We were left standing there in awkward silence. A tumble weed tumbled by. Crickets chirped. He cleared his throat and proceeded to confirm my paranoid suspicions that I am every one's second choice in life (a disease that happens when you are Laryssa's Sister) by asking me if I was busy on Saturday night. Now I remembered him from a barbq we both went to earlier that year and I thought he was nice and good to his niece who he had brought (good with children is always sexy), but I also was of the opinion that he was a bit loud and ornery for my tastes. But what do we know about me, readers? I am incapable of the word no. Besides, who wants to see a grown man get shot down twice in two minutes? So I said yes. And we went out.

The First Date: homemade pizza, Easter basket assemblies for church kids, and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It was fun. Monty is always fun. But no love at first date for either of us.

The Second Date: tennis and a picnic. Also fun. More fun than The First Date. I am athletically challenged and playing any form of a sport in front of any form of a human is very stressful for me. I would rather chew off my own eyebrows. Luckily for me, my date was also disastrous at tennis and we spent the whole time dodging each other's tennis balls (and fly away rackets) and laughing and generally annoying the other couple we were playing with, who actually were interested in the game. I remember thinking when he was untangling the racket from my hair, "This guy is kind."

The Third Date: was actually a phone call. See, he worked with The Boy Scouts of America (let's hear it for culottes!!) and had taken a bunch of miniature men up to the mountains for several weeks to do whatever it is miniature men do in the mountains for several weeks. And he called me to ask if he could take me to the upcoming fair. We talked for two hours. I think 1 and 3/4 hours was flirting.

The Fourth Date: the fair. He says he held my hand but I don't remember this. Isn't he sweet and old fashioned? I do remember going out for frozen yogurt afterwards and he sang something in German while we were ordering. I was thinking it was a bit embarrassing until the waitress winked at me and said, "You better keep him." Little did I know how much public singing that man would put me through.

I don't remember all the dates after that, just know that we were joined at the hip. He used to leave me notes at the coffee shop where I worked and do all sorts of mooshy romantic things, which are mostly wasted on me. I either don't notice (unless it's public singing) or I confess to rather having something more practical than roses and a handwritten poem, like a blender. So a perfectly romantic chivalrous man is wasted on me, I know.

Since then, he has given me three curtain climbers, two doggies, several homes, lotsa memories. We've been through less hard times than most, and more than some. He is always and forever there for me, faithful and funny and dorky and romantic. He stills sings publicly and he still enjoys embarrassing me. I wish I could remove his love for football and replace it with a love for home improvement, mad scientist style. He lets me hog the bed. He watches dancing programs with me. He has musicals on his Ipod. Whoops, how did that get in there? He is currently looking for a job. I'm considering pasting this blog post into his resume... would that be a little too like the Doris Roberts character from Everybody Loves Raymond? I think employers would understand and be grateful. He could do Kevin James impressions at the water cooler - very important for moral. He lets me drag him on idealistic family outings where it's all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out. He thinks I'm Super Woman. This is great until I get really tired and have to smack him and say, "I am not Super Woman!" and then he babies me until I get over it.

Love you, my jungle stud!

Kisses, Stephania.

Michael, just call him Ty Pennington, Williams strikes again

Some women marry home improvement gods. I married Mike.