Husband Issues

1940's Dining Table Gets New Life As My Game Table

You know how you can admire someone so much because they are just perfect in every single way, and you love them so much that you’re actually disgusted by them at the exact same time as being in love with them?

Like you follow them on Instagram and they post something amazing (as usual) and you get irritated and say, “Dammit” sort-of under your breath, annoyed at their perfection and also annoyed that now you have to spend your time copying their incredible fall centerpiece or autumnal mantle setup because all you want in life is to become that person?

On Lies I've Been Told & Getting Myself Together

You know we just moved into a new house, right? Well, so something’s--  wait, I can sense that you’re giving me an “I won’t respond to that” face right now.

Ok, so it’s been 15 months since we moved, but I have a hard time with change, you know, and I’ve been mentally dealing with this effing teenager who has turned out to be someone I don’t even know, plus our youngest, who is the ebola monkey, and is constantly sick, and I can’t possibly be expected to keep up with getting this house set up and being a mom to two effed up children* and keep up with my chores so that Mark doesn’t have to dip into his reserve underwear, plus write to you once a week, as well as write a book, and stay groomed, for the love of God, and I am doing my best over here.

I just want to sip lattes and browse fall outfits for my Bitmoji - it’s not like I’m asking for a kidney.

Too Old To Be Trendy?

One night a couple of weeks ago I was scrolling through Facebook and a hair tutorial caught my eye because the girl doing it was just so cute, but also seemed somewhat relatable.

She wasn’t one of those stick-skinny 20-year-olds that look super cute no matter how busted up they are.

No, this girl was a little older and a little curvier and her hairstyle ended up super cute: it was just a basic bob blown out with a tiny bit of sea salt spray and she scrunched her hair up in her hands as she dried it, so it was tousled and airy and just adorable.

I did my hair the same way the next day - it was meet-the-teacher night at my son’s school and I felt cute. My makeup was on point and my hair looked tousled and airy and just adorable, if I do say freaking so.

I'm Afraid This Was Caused By Old Eggs

Have I ever told you how we decided to have another kid?  

The truth is, I always wanted a house full of children until my youngest was born and I realized I could barely manage keeping two children alive, much less a throng of them.

Mark was perfectly fine just having one kid.  

I tried for years to get him on board, but our first-born wasn’t an easy infant.  He had colic, but not the kind that people claim to have when their baby is just an asshole and cries a lot. 

A Few Ways To Save Your Marriage During The Trump Administration

It’s a bad time to be non-political, y’all (wait - apolitical? Pan-political? Anti-political?  Non-politics-specific?  I’m not sure which term is accurate, and with all the labels we throw out nowadays, I can’t keep up with all their meanings.  I just know that I’m not interested in any of it and I know that sounds naive and immature, but this isn’t about maturity.  It’s about politics.  And divorce.)

What Do Joanna Gaines & A Members Only Jacket Have In Common? Nothing. Absolutely Nothing.

Remember I told you we moved to a new house recently?  We moved over the summer to a town about 10 minutes from where we lived before, and I'm just starting to feel settled. 

I'm like a cat when it comes to change. 

The style of this house is a little more modern than our old house, but I don’t really “do” modern.  I love rustic - not country - but distressed, modern-farmhousey, industrial-ish, old-world European-esque.  

Like if Joanna Gaines and Michelangelo’s David had a baby and pushed it around in a steampunk buggy.

Learning From the Mistakes We've Made

This week’s big task is packing for a ski trip to Telluride, Colorado, that Mark and I are leaving for on Saturday.  By “ski trip” I mean that he will be skiing, but I’m opting out this time, and will instead spend my days curled up in front of the fireplace reading and writing.

The truth is, most of our rockiest marital moments have happened on the ski slopes.

Problems With My Uterus

Sorry I’ve been off the grid for the last week or so.  You may remember that we’ve been prepping for a new addition to our family, and last week, Mark and I drove the six hours (one way!) to pick up our new little puppy-nugget.

We argued for the entire six-hour trip over what her name would be.  

Me:  I love the name Ivy.

Mark:  **Crinkling his nose up in disgust**  But that's a plant.  No.  What about Rio?

Me:  Ew, no.  Rio Braziel?  No.  That sounds like a strip-dancer.  What about Birdie?  Or Bunny?

Why I Stay Married

There was a time - about 15 years ago - when I threw my bags into the trunk of my car, tears streaming as I vowed through gritted teeth to myself that I wouldn’t spend another night with this man I called my husband.

I don’t remember what we were fighting about, I just remember we were about to leave to go to a holiday party and I had just put a casserole dish filled with baked beans I’d made using my mom’s scrumptious recipe into the trunk, carefully sitting it on a layer of towels to keep it from moving around.  

In a huff, I yanked the trunk open, snatched out the hot casserole dish, trading it for my packed bags.

We're Expecting!

We’re expecting! Not a human, good God, no.  I’m almost 47 years old - my eggs are like the crusty old raisins you find when you pull your oven out to clean behind it once every five years, surrounded with fur and dust bunnies so big, they require vaccinations.

No, no.  The baby we’re expecting is a Goldendoodle!  A petite one so freakin’ cute, I want to eat its little face.  

Back When ISIS Was A Good Thing

I've gotten into what some would view as being a very bad bedtime routine with our youngest son.  At his bedtime, I go upstairs with him and we snuggle up together in his bed, and read a story.  Then it's lights-out, but instead of me tucking him in and leaving the room, I continue lying next to him reading on my phone or iPad until he falls asleep.

Isn't it funny how people will give you their opinions on this?  "Oohh, you're going to regret that!" they'll say.  

But I haven't regretted it, yet.  

The Problem With My Husband

I love my child.  I do.  My love for him far surpasses the hatred he has for writing.  And he has a deep, dark hatred for writing.

Bizarre irony, don't you think, considering his mother has a desperate, twisted love for writing?

He's in second grade, now.  In kindergarten, I'd get calls from the teacher saying my son gets distracted during writing practice, and doesn't get his work done.  We chalked it up to his age. 

And the fact that he's a boy.  The maturity thing, you know: boys mature slower than girls, blahblahblah.