Posts Tagged ‘marriage’

There are certainly times, like last week, when I can do a lot of complaining and feel fully justified in doing so.  And then there are days like today.  Sunny, mid 50s and spring is in the air in this beautiful New England seaside town.  So, I spent the morning at the beach with my little family (even the dog).   Searching for Periwinkles.  Splashing along the shore line.  Hearing them call out in high-pitched voices as they discover something new.  Breathing in the ocean air and thinking…wow.  Thank you…

For curiosity
For carefree splashing
For tiny hands…and frog boots
For this foolish but good-hearted dog
For the way he loves them.   The way he loves us.

For all of it.  Thank you.

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Just emerged from seven long days in which the kids and I were violently, repeatedly sick.

But, now Husband has a cold.

Commence Armageddon.

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We’ve moved a lot in the last few years.  A little more than 4 years ago we lived right here in Marblehead.  Then, we moved to Vermont.   Two years later we moved to Connecticut.  And then, about a year ago, we moved back to Marblehead.   A lot of packing, and unpacking, and packing again and unpacking again.

People say that the best thing about moving is that it forces you to weed through the stuff you don’t need so you wind up with just the essentials.   Not us.  We wound up with an entire room in our basement that’s full of boxes.  Full.  And, its not a small room.  We moved into this house in June and still that room sits.  I hate it.  And, most of these boxes have moved with us from one state to the next (some even remained sealed) and just continued to move to the next location.

Come on.  Clearly, this is sh*t we don’t need.

Nice, isn’t it?  Dontcha just want to come visit me?  No.  You don’t.  You want to call “Hoarders” and turn me in.  Admit it.

So, we’ve committed to this:  On every Saturday going forward that we are home for the weekend, our plan is to remove two boxes from that room and take them to the dump.  Whatever is in those ridiculous boxes hasn’t seen the light of day in years.  And, sure, we could go through them meticulously, post things on craigslist and eBay and host a profitable tag sale.  We could donate things to worthy charities.   But, we won’t.  The boxes will sit there.   Probably making their way to our next house in our next move.  Enough.  Judge me as wasteful, as lazy, whatever.  It’s probably true.  But, damnit, those boxes are outta here.

The other night out to dinner, Husband and I had a conversation that led to this question:

What percentage of clothes in your closet do you think you actually wear?

Husband thinks his is somewhere around 7%.   Because, he mostly wears suits and I’m a laundry maniac.  He never has a chance to get down more than one or two levels of boxers before I’ve washed them and put them right back on top in their drawer.

I’m closer to 15% but you wouldn’t know it to look at me because I have a number of the same style (it’s generous using the word “style” in any sentence pertaining to myself) of clothing that I just wear over and over.  My daily uniform is a pair of jeans (I have three in rotation at the moment), a turtleneck sweater (three again) and a fleece overshirt (two black, one red).

But, don’t those percentage numbers seem really low?  As though we have a giant closet full of items we should never have purchased?  But, we are not fashionable people.  We don’t have a whole bunch of nice things that we just buy because we think they’re stylish at the time but then we never actually wear.  Nope.  Like the boxes, there are piles of clothes in the bottom of our drawers and the back of our closets that get packed up, and moved, and packed up, and moved.  That we haven’t worn in years.  Still, in the back of the closet they remain.  (With my mirror, I might add.)  I think they like it in there.

So, how about you?  

What’s your percentage?

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That’s this week, though.  The Hell Week.   Next week, I’m sure I go all Hallmark again but, for now, this works.

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…I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher.

Did you miss me?   Well, I’ve been away.  I went on a six day walkabout through Hell.  Hades.  The Underworld.   Old Dante had nothin’ on me.

And Hell hath no fury like a stomach bug passed along from a five year old to a two year old within a very loooooong six day span.

Ah, where to begin?  How about this?  If I asked you to name the locations at which you would least like your children to throw up you’d probably say…?

#1.  Their beds?   Course.

#2.  Your bed?  Oh, yes.   A few times, in fact.

#3.  Inside a friend’s car?  Charming.  How to make friends and influence people…

#4.  On your computer?!  Awesome.  (As you all can imagine, this was the worst for me.  It happened on day one of my six-days in Hell and oohh, it hurt.  Funeral rites were performed.  And the replacement was not cheap.)

I won’t go into any more detail.  Suffice to say that it was all hideous and stinky and awful and I felt very sorry for my kids and even more sorry for myself.

I hear it rained?  We had a little wind?  What happened to Boner?  There was a hockey game?

But, the boys appear to have come out of the dark, dark place and into the light and onward we go.  School for Big Brother today, grocery store for Little Brother and me, life returns.

My washing machine desperately needs a day off.   So, do I.

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A few months ago I posted a blog about how there are certain things that should be discussed before a loving couple decides to tie the knot. There are obvious things (children, finances, family issues) and then there are the not-so-obvious things that, while maybe not a big deal at the time may, over the years, drive you certifiably insane night after night after night.

I swear, my husband is half-Eskimo.  And, the man has been freezing my a** off for seven years now.  He truly believes that any temperature above 60 degrees is downright tropical and certainly much too warm for bedtime.  I, on the other hand, apparently have lousy extremity circulation so my nose, my fingers and my toes are in constant danger of turning blue and falling off.  Nightly.

When we go to a hotel, he can’t wait to get into the room and turn the air conditioning to “full arctic blast”.  And then we get back from whatever evening activity and it’s Siberia in there.  And, I’m miserable and want to turn the heat on for Christ’s sake but he’s happy as clam.  Or a polar bear.  You pick.

(He almost always fall asleep first, though.  And then, as you can imagine, I take matters into my own hands and quietly sneak over to the thermostat to crank that heat right up to where I’m comfortable again.  This practice, by the way?  He just loooooves it.)

Oh sure, he thinks the issue lies with me.  That I’m the freakish one.  That I’m James Arthur Ray and he’s my lodge prisoner.

Either way, we’ll likely be fighting this battle for many years to come.   The up side is that at least I’m saving lots of money on skimpy lingerie.   So, there.

Just a little p.s.  — In my search for a harmless and/or humorous illustration for this post, I Googled “animals in lingerie”.  Umm, yeah.  Don’t do that, let me tell you.  Excuse me while I go wash my burning eyes.  Goodness gracious.

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Grocery shopping
Rock throwing
Life’s alright…

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Dear So and So...
Dear Market Basket Store Manager,
I want to keep coming back, really I do.  Your prices are far better than my local stores and even somewhat better than your chain competitors.  It’s worth it financially for me.  But, man oh man.  It’s a rough trip.  And, I’m all for exposing my children to the filth diversity of your plentiful clientele, but not willing to expose them to scurvy.   Where are the Handi-Wipes?  And the mouth masks?   It frightens me.  Really.
In Cleanliness,
Dear Dog,
You know we love you, right?  Hate your hair.  Hate it.  Hate it on my wood floors, hate it on my black clothes, really hate it on my bed.  I know we let you sleep there for six years but it was a lot cuter when you were 10 lbs than it is now that you’re 80 lbs and shedding.  Get off.  You have your own bed.  Use it.   There’s a pound around the corner and, I promise you, their cold, dank floors are not as comfy as your Orvis bed.
The One Who Feeds You
Dear Husbands,
Big, heavy bags left at the bottom of staircases mean “pick me up and deliver me to where I belong.”
The One Who Feeds The Dog Who Is Quickly Running Out of His Kibbles & Bits
Dear DJ Lance Rock,
Your show is weird.  Just plain weird.  You’re the Telletubbies of my kids generation.  I don’t get it.  Kids love you.  Grown-ups?  Not so much.  And, don’t let the Brad Pitt thing go to your head.  He dresses like a homeless person most of the time so your orange jumpsuit was an upgrade.   As soon as I can get my hands on the DVR remote, your days are numbered.
“Yooooooo!  It’s Almost Time To Go!”,
Dear Libido,
OK.  Kids sleeping through the night.  Lost some weight.  Settled into my new home.  Come on back, old friend.  Welcome.
I’ll Leave the Door Unlocked,
Dear Oil of Olay,
I’ve been using you every day since I was 14.  So, if you’re not helping me look younger too and I’m a wrinkled old raisin at 60, I’m coming after you.   And, $4.59 once every two months for 46 years ain’t gonna be cheap.   Just sayin’.
With the Better Business Bureau On My Speed Dial,


Dear Evan Lysacek,
Saw an interview with you yesterday in which you explained how you aren’t like all the other male skaters.  That you are, in fact, quite masculine (gasp).   Here’s a tidbit from your interview:

“I think I’m bringing an element of style and showing that this is my idea of what a modern man should dress like and look like,” Lysacek explains. “It can still be stylish, but [also] be masculine at the same time.”

Here’s what you wore last night for the Short Program.

Are those curly q’s on your shoulder blades?  Feathers on your fists?

Uh huh.

Thanks for the laugh,

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Sweets with My Sweets

Channeled my inner Martha Stewart on Valentine’s Day and made hand-rolled lollipops and little chocolate stars with Ross and the boys.  Everything came out surprisingly well and we got to spend a little extra time creating a Valentine’s Day memory or two.
Oh.  And now I get to hear “Can I have a lollipop?” every 4 1/2 seconds.  So, that’s a real bonus.

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I’ve been coloring my hair blonde for roughly 17 years.  Started right after college.  Most of the people I see on a regular basis (including my husband and, obviously, my children) have only  known me as a blonde.   I mean, everyone probably knew upon any sort of close examination that I wasn’t actually blonde.   But, no one ever saw me with truly dark hair.

I’ve been thinking about going closer to my natural color for a while.  Grey hair has come creeping in and I’m sick of having to go to the salon every five weeks to spend too much money on too-blonde coloring.  And, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier post my hair always looks pretty much the same two days later anyway.

Well, yesterday, I bit the bullet.   Sort of.  Instead of going au natural blah-ish brown, I went with a sort of brownish-reddish color that I’m totally into.  I think it works.  But, still, for the last twenty-four or so hours, when I walk by a mirror I can’t believe I’ve actually done it.  It’s definitely not anything like it used to be.   Who is that woman?

And, like my tattoo experience, Ross had absolutely no idea I was doing it.  I hadn’t even mentioned I was considering it.   He must think I’m going through some bizarre form of almost-turning-forty mid-life crisis.

Hmmm.  Maybe I am.

Whatever.  It was cheaper than a sports car.

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