Thursday, October 15, 2009

I have Sad News...Wonder Woman Died and Left ME to Replace Her

I have a news flash. It's rather tragic. Especially if you're married to me.

Wonder Woman died and left ME to replace her.


At first, I was just as shocked as you are. But it's getting easier, because when I totally suck at something, when I give up opportunities, when I try to be good-looking, a good mom, wife, entrepreneur, and employee, I tell myself over and over, "She's dead. Wonder Woman is dead. Get over it."

But in my high expectations of myself, and in my disappointing efforts to be perfectly imperfect, I have to remind myself that being Wonder Woman is not all it's cracked up to be.

First of all, she is there for EVERYONE, stranger or friend. What a co dependant moron.

Second, she saves EVERYONE from having to deal with natural consequences. How enabling!

Third, to have her body, she has to starve herself and undergo plastic surgery on a regular basis. Do I detect a distorted self image?

And last but not least, she flies around in underwear and a corset all day. Non-stop. Isn't that indecent exposure? Well...maybe not. These days, it's a toss-up.

So in the end, it's totally dysfunctional to even TRY to be Wonder Woman, but still, I have to clarify how her death has affected me.

Letting go of Wonder Woman isn't just letting go of a superhero in underwear with cleavage; it's also letting go of a persona that so many of us take on in the beginning of marriage.

And then later, we are utterly shocked when she dies and we have to bury her! This happens because one day, in frustration, or in self-confidence, we take off the Wonder Woman outfit and walk to the mail box, bra-less and in sweats, and we don't care anymore.

Then, we throw dirt on her coffin when our kids go to Wal-Mart looking homeless.

We bury her 6 feet deeper when we realize that we never married Superman! And we are happy we didn't, because we learn that in reality, all of our spouse's imperfections almost justify our own!

Ladies, myself included, we are not Wonder Woman, no matter how hard we try. And we were probably disappointed when we realized that our spouse was not Superman. However, the faster we let that go, the happier we will be.

So today, I am grateful for the death of Wonder Woman, and the birth of a really great, imperfect, normal woman.

Which brings me to another thought. Why don't they have a super hero named "Normal Woman?"

Oh that's right, 'cause Wonder Woman would always try to save her from being normal.

And that's a shame.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Love is all you need... Well...that and a small dose of Prozac

Okay, ladies, I didn't get hit by a bus... I just hit a wall. But now I've peeled myself off the wall, and I'm back with all the obnoxiousness as before, and maybe even more. And I am simply...unapologetic. I have written other things, which are saved in my computer. But this thought came to me today, in a moment, and I decided to share it with you...enjoy!

When all of us got married, we danced under the expectation that we would somehow be the same the rest of our lives. Sure, we would get old, but no one told you that you might also get...CRAZY.

"Whatever! I'm not crazy!" you say.

And I say, "Just wait. It will happen. Some sooner than others, but it will happen!"

Evil laugh.

So, when did I turn crazy? Well, it was a process really. I think it started when my hubby and I went through our first real week into our marriage.

Then eight months later, I found out I was pregnant with our first daughter. This is usually a time when a family is thrilled about the upcoming birth of a child, but I was slowly falling off my rocker.

Weird stuff was happening to me, like I would shake when I talked about emotional issues.

What's up with that?

At first I thought I was a walking freak show.

It went something like this:

I would be crying to my hubby about my day, saying stuff like,
"... and then, it really hurt my feelings that so and so was so disrespect--holy cow! Look at my hand! It's shaking! Wow. Weird. I should get that checked out!"

But I didn't. I was too busy living a selfish life and driving to taco bell.

Then after my third child, I realized something; I was certifiably nuts. I didn't want to get out of bed. Everything made me cry. I wasn't excited about life. My children were proof that hours upon hours of television can't ruin your kids (especially when it's PBS, but that's another blog).

I would often forget things, important things, like my kids' names. That's when I knew things were not good.

When I called the pediatrician (I should have been calling for me) the receptionist asked, "What's your child's name?"

"Ummmm... I don't know, just a second."


I'm sure she wanted to hang up! She probably thought I was a crazy person who was going to show up there with a stuffed monkey I referred to as, "My Child." (I may have, too, if I hadn't gotten help.)

But I get help. Did I have to wait for it to get that bad, forgetting my children's names, and talking to stuffed monkeys? No. But I am prideful and egotistical. It takes a lot for me to realize I'm a nut case.

So I went to the doctor. I cried the whole time. He wrote on his note pad.

The results?

I was crazy!

My thyroid was out of control. It causes fatigue, memory loss, and the crazies! And worst of all--anxiety--hence the shaking hands.

It was all coming together now.

I started medication for anxiety and for my thyroid. My ego was broken. I wasn't perfect. Still adorable, but not perfect.

One week after getting help, my husband came home from work. I was happy. I was myself. I was in the kitchen making dinner, and he came in and said the funniest words.

"Honey, I thought having all those kids ruined you. I can't believe it! You're that happy girl I married!"

My response has become my motto:

"Honey, don't you know? All you need is love! That...and a small dose of Prozac!"

So I leave you with that. If you have emotional struggles and feel incomplete, just know, it's bound to happen to everyone at some point. Bottom line, you're still amazing, great, and wonderful...and a little crazy.

Welcome to the club.

Friday, September 11, 2009

9/11 and My Marriage

I remember where I was on 9/11. I was at home with my toddler and my one month old in my arms. My husband was a college student.

He and I were trying to keep it together. We were struggling as a couple, and our marriage was suffering. It felt broken, maybe even lost. Life was difficult and somewhat painful for us. Then my husband called.

“Turn on the TV! Turn on the TV!" he said in a panic.

I did.

I watched for a moment, ready for the Hollywood film to end.

“This is real…this is real,” I had to tell myself over and over as I sat in our tiny apartment with my new born baby.

I felt grateful for my safety, but completely helpless at the same time.

My husband came home, and we sat and watched the rescue efforts on our television. Though all efforts were noble, perhaps the one which touched me the most was that of an ordinary man.

He was asleep when his wife called and left this message on the answering machine:

“Honey, a plane just hit our building! I love you!” she said in a panicked and sincere voice. “I just want you to know…I love you!”

As I looked at my television screen, I saw her husband. His face ached with a look of denial and determination to save his wife from the tower.

The camera crews followed him as he traveled with his homemade “equipment.”

He was on a mission to save his wife.

“She’s a fighter, I know she is. And I’m going to get her,” he said with determination.

Two days later, the same determined man, now broken and sullen, was interviewed once more.

“She’s gone…" was all he could say. “She’s gone…”

My heart ached as I wept for his loss.

And, as I watched the masses of broken rubble, I thought of my marriage. It felt like it was under all the rubble…but was it gone? Could it be saved?

I held my husband and began to see him differently.

I hadn’t lost him. I had a choice. I could save my marriage from the rubble or let it die.

The man on the screen didn’t have a choice. His wife was gone. His marriage was gone. And he was left to deal with it.

After watching his example, I felt a renewed determination to love my husband differently, to appreciate him, and to use all the “spiritual equipment" I had been given to save my marriage from the ruins.

9/11 allowed me to step back, love deeper, and appreciate the opportunity that I had to be married.

God Bless America.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

When I say "WE" I mean "YOU"

Women, lets face it. We are known for providing a sense of community. Making everyone feel good. But in the end, we're bossy. We just have a way of making it sound "nice." Here is a classic example from my relationship:

I call it the "WE" means "YOU" theory. For instance:

We are driving--oh wait--there I go again with the "WE" thing. He is driving, I'm just a passenger (but somehow, that doesn't stop me). WE keep driving and we can't find the stupid restaurant.

I start out really nice. "Honey, don't you think WE should pull over and ask for directions?"

"No, I think I can find it," he says.

Okay. All is going well. We are happy.

Driving...driving...annoying...more annoying...

"Yeah, but I mean it seems like WE don't know where we're going," I say, still in my nice, yet slightly annoyed voice.

"No, I think I know where it is." He's still calm.

Yeah, Okay.

"Well, WE are getting kinda car sick driving in circles here..."

"No, I feel fine, actually."

"No! WE are getting sick."

Don't relate? Here's another one.

This is a great classic in our marriage:

We (and I actually do mean both of us) HATE laundry. With a passion. I could blog about our hate of laundry to the point that both of us end up naked before we are willing to do the wash. Scary. But the worst part, we HATE to fold it, put it away, look at it...etc. I've tried techniques to help me be grateful, such as telling myself good quotes like, "Having laundry means you have clothes."

It doesn't work. It should, but it doesn't.

So laundry...long day, need to shower, all the clean clothes are in the basement.

I turn to my hubby. "WE should really fold the laundry."

"Yes 'WE' should," he says.

We both sit there.

Oh well, nice thought.

"Maybe WE should get off our butt, since I've been working all day," I hint.

"Yeah, maybe WE should, since I've been working all day too," he hints back.

Dang he's good.

This isn't going well. It never does.

Finally I just say it.

"YOU should fold the laundry. YOU should pull over and ask for directions, YOU should..."

His response:

"ME? You think I should do all of that?"

"Of course! That's what I've been saying this whole time!"

"You said, 'WE.' "

"Honey, come on. WE means YOU."

He laughs.


Well at least we're clear now. Until tomorrow, when he forgets, and WE have to start all over

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Blah Blah Blah...and Other Complaints

Okay, so today I'm thinking about women who have what I call “God Issues” in their relationship. It usually starts like this:

“My husband won’t let me do this. And he thinks…blah blah blah. But I feel like I should …blah blah blah…and so I don’t know what to do?”

I ask them, “Do you want to do it? Do you think it’s right for you?”

Inevitably they answer, “Well, my husband thinks…blah blah blah.”

And I say to them, “Who cares what he thinks! He’s not the one who pays the consequences...etc...."

Then their eyes pop out of their head in disbelief, or they laugh. I get comments like, “Wow Jodi, you're such a feminist! I love how you’re like, 'screw you!' What woman power.”

Then I try to explain that I’m not a feminist, nor am I screaming, "Woman Power!" Whatever that means. I have no plans on being completely independent from my hubby. But what I AM is...well...them; the same people who are complaining 90% of the time.

What? Are you saying you’re a hypocrite and your advice is hypocritical?


Because I have spent and continue to spend waaayy too many days of my precious life worrying about what other people think, to the extent that I have had to evaluate my behavior.

“Why am I so angry?” I would whine to one of my therapists. “Why is he such a jerk? He makes me blah blah blah….?"

And that’s when I began to realize something. He never MADE ME do it. He may have tried to guilt me, or even just stated his opinion, but he didn’t make me.

As long as I blamed him, I didn’t have to take responsibility for me.

Then I could go on and on to all my friends, feeling sorry for myself saying, “Blah blah blah.”

To this day, if you drive by my house and listen through the door, (I will call the cops), but before you go to jail, you will hear me say, “Why do you always make me blah blah blah?"

Then I get sick of feeling sorry for myself, and I realize that I am capable and responsible for who I am, what I am, why I am. And...

I can’t blame him.


So the solution? It's better to ask myself, “What can I handle? What does God want me to do? And how will this impact my family?" Because in the end, God is in charge of us, not other people.

Then I am forced to take responsibility for my choices, good and bad.

It’s painful at first, but you get over it.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

What's for Dinner?

Posted by Olivia Kwan--a woman passionate about NOT cooking.

So I was talking to Jodi about how funny one of her blogs was when I confessed that I do not enjoy cooking. That’s right people, I do not enjoy or want to cook almost on a daily basis. But I am great at re-heating food…under low to medium heat. I try to skip the microwave when I can. I know, whoop-de-do!

My husband knew this weakness of mine, when we met in the 1800’s, and he still married me, so obviously, he’s cool with it. I have no shame or guilt just because I’m a woman. I don’t fall for that “you are the wife and you should cook for your husband” crap! I gave birth, I think that’s heroic enough!

I’m a full time working mom and by the time I get home, my first words are, “Where are we going for dinner?" or, "What are we ordering for dinner?”

I know, I know, there are tons of meals broadcasted on TV and on-line claiming that you can make a meal in 30 minutes, but let’s be real here, we are only fooling ourselves if we believe that!

I think when they said “30 minutes,” they did not consider the fact that we do not have a “staff” to prep and cut our ingredients like Emeril does, and all he has to do is dump everything into a pot from those cute little bowls. In the real world, we still have to do the washing, the measuring, the peeling, and so forth. The other thing that wasn’t figured into the “30 minutes” is that there are children present who are whiny or who have to have a drink (but can’t decide what they want to drink) or who is just being a pain in my butt!

And at the end of the of all my hard work, there are plates, pan, spoons, forks, and other dishes just waiting for me to clean. By then, I’m full and still tired, and the next thing I really want to do is lay down and watch TV.

Look, I give props to the working moms who cook every night, bravo to you all! But let’s not gasp in disbelieve when someone like me announces that I do not cook. If you enjoy it, good for you, but I’m not a monster for not wanting to. It’s called “I’m tired as hell and I just want to relax and give myself a break (which I deserve).”

P.S. No worries on the hubby. He’s still alive and kicking…even without my home cooked meals.

Friday, August 28, 2009

My Husband Married a Plus Size Model

Okay, so I see an article on a new book called, Hungry. It strikes a chord with me because I’m on Weight Watchers, and I eat Weight Watchers ice cream 3 times a day, every day--it’s like a religion for me. Sort of. Okay, not really. But food is my obsession and my passion. Some people fantasize about things they shouldn't. I fantasize about onion rings with fry sauce.

Hungry? Yeess I ammm…

So I read on.

Well, Hungry is about a model who was once a size 0 and is now a "plus size" model.

She talks about how the industry is changing, and how women who are bigger, (plus size) deserve to be models too. She goes on and on about how size 0 should no longer be the focus for women or models.

In the mean time, my dieting mind is thinking, “Sweet! If "plus size" is the new size 0--count me in! Screw this stupid diet. Yeeeehaaawww on the bandwagon of fatness!"

So I get even more excited. My mind is racing--I can finally be my plus size self and eat onion rings all day! And secretly, I wanted to stick my tongue out at all the skinny people in the world and say, “Idiots! Plus size is in!"

So I’m reading and singing to myself, “Don’t you wish your mama was hot like me?”--when the music comes to a screeching halt.

This "plus size" model is a size 12.

Ohhhh Pllleaaassssee…

A size 12!

When was size 12 defined as a "plus" size?

If that's the case, I have to work my “plus size” butt off everyday, exercising and doing Weight Watchers, just to stay that size!

I don’t know what made me more angry--the idea that a size 12 is called a “plus size” or the fact that I can’t eat onion rings every day! Total toss up. Oh wait--onion rings definitely won.

Because when I think of being a plus size model, I’m thinking waaay bigger than a size 12! Give us chubby chicks a break here! I mean the industry is finally realizing that some of us have Italian genes and love food, and THIS--THIS IS OUR BIG BREAK?


The bright side is that I get to tell my husband he’s married to model material. Not just any model, a plus size model.

Ooohh Baby.

So at the end of the day, the fashion industry has tried to make me feel fat and plus size-ish even when I'm not! Maybe I won’t be a "plus size" model after all, cause that five seconds of considering it was pretty intense.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

My hubands Hands and My Hand were Competing

I have a confession. I have man hands. Yes. It's embarrassing. And that is why I will only share this in the intimate setting of the world wide web.

So I came up with a brilliant solution.

I told my hubby one day, “I have man hands.”

“No you don’t," he argues.

“We wear the same ring size!”

“Your fingers are long and slender.”

“They have hair on them.”

Awkward silence.

He just sits there. He knows where this is going.

“Soooo, I’m getting fake nails.”

I threaten to make an appointment. It's tough to measure MAN hands against Money. But ultimately, the Man Hands won, and off I went to the salon. However, ladies, let me warn you that when I made the appointment, I was under the illusion that I was pampering myself. Let it be known, let it be written, that fake nails are NOT a way to pamper yourself! They are a sacrifice of pain and terror. Here's how it goes:

First, they tear off all of your cuticles. I yelled at them to stop. “Owww! Holy crap! This sucks!”

They just keep doing it. The other ladies at the salon just looked at me. One lady nods at me knowingly.

I mouth to her “HELP ME…”

Then they take out this drill thing. I thought those were only used at the dentist office.
No one told me this was part of the process. I squirm.

The nail lady laughs. “Oh, honey. We are going to toughen you up.”

Wow. I didn’t know that’s why I came.

Then they primed my nails with this burning ointment.

By now, I’ve conjured up a pretty good lawsuit.

But before I know it, all torture ceased, and magically, my Man Hands disappeared. Maybe I wont sue. I'll just take two Ibuprofen instead.

Then I head up to the cash register to pay for my nails. My credit card drops to the floor. I try to pick it up. I end up with my butt in the air, chasing the card, as my new fake nails push it forward. Yep. This is going to be fun. I can tell.

I head home with my new nails.

As I walk through the door, I grab my hubby's hand in excitement. “Look!” I lock our fingers. “Now when we hold hands, I can tell which one's the girl and which one's the boy!”

“So? How was the salon? Was it fun?” he asks.

“It depends on how you define ‘fun’. If you prefer torture over Man Hands, then yeah, way fun.”

And quite frankly, I do. Our hands look different now, his and mine. They are now two separate entities rather than identical twins. I can feel like a feminine woman, and he can feel like a manly man. And even though he may never admit it, I think he likes it.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Invisible Rules...We All Have Them, and None of Them Work!

Changing others in my life is a great topic considering it is the very basis of all of my pain and disappointments.


Because everyone in my life should follow "THE RULES."

What are the rules? Umm...I really don't know.

They change everyday and totally depend on the situation. However, I expect everyone, especially my husband, to know what they are. For instance, if I have had a long day, (I work too), and the kids are all going crazy, then my hubby comes home from work and asks me, "Honey, what's for dinner?"
What's for dinner? Alert! A "RULE" has been broken. Don't ask me what's for dinner! Can you not tell that I am overwhelmed, busy, irritated and not in the mood for one more nagging question?

Then one simple question becomes a four hour conversation about how he is insensitive and obnoxious. Why? Because he broke the most important RULE.


(But you better guess correctly because if you are wrong, there may be hell to pay for it.)

So the next day he comes home and doesn't say a stinking word. By then I am calm, and wondering, "Why is he so quiet?"


See, the truth of the matter is all these RULES I make up are simply that. Made up! And no one will ever live by our rules. The guy on the freeway will always go too fast or too slow. It will rain on your kids' outdoor birthday party that you have been planning for months. People and "life" break these RULES all the time.

So today, the lesson for me is that the only RULES that will ever get me anywhere are the RULES I make for myself. Otherwise, I end up pissed off and angry! And that ruins my day and makes my family scatter like little roaches when they see me!

So if you're tired and your hubby comes home and asks, "What's for dinner?"

It might be better to say, "Wendys," and then spend 15 dollars to save you and your family a lot of grief!

Monday, August 17, 2009

Date Night Part Two: The Reality

Okay, I had lots of fun posting my first video, but I feel the need to put a disclaimer on it. I usually won't apologize for my honesty in that moment, but here I go.

First of all, when I watch the video, I already know I'm occupying my time feeling sorry for myself.

Second, I should have joined him in Wii. Didn't want to. Chose to gripe instead. Good times.

Third, I tried to change my attitude by video taping him and laughing. Believe it or not, it worked!

After I video taped him, I asked him to come out and ride bikes with me. He fixed the bikes, and off we went. Then we came home, and I asked him to help me work the video.

He watched it. I apologized. He watched himself, we died laughing. And at the end of the day, we both realized that what happened was funny.

So I hope if you are ever a moron like I was, you video tape yourself, post it on a blog and laugh.

'Cause in the end, we are all idiots.

And the best thing we can do is laugh about it.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Date Night At Its Best!!

I did not plan on posting this. I was practicing, but it turned out so funny... I couldn't help myself.

Please tell me this has happened to you!!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

If I DIE... These are the RULES

Okay, so I’ve been thinking about a lot of great things lately. One of them is wondering about when I’m dead. I have anxiety so strong that when I'm driving down the freeway, my mind goes a little psyco like this:

“What if I am driving, and a tire flies off of another car, and then I don’t even see it, and I get in a wreck and die. Wow. That would really suck. But it probably won’t happen. But what if…?"

Anyhow, by the time I have reached my destination, in my mind, I’ve died, my hubby has spoken at my funeral, and of course everyone thought I was a great mother and wife. Boooyyaaa! And at the end of the Funeral there will be a dance.

Yes, I said dance.

Okay, but it is after the funeral and flowers that the real discussion begins.

What if he wants to get remarried?

Can I make the rules?

Of course I can!

I try to talk about it with my hubby. Here’s how it usually goes:

“If I die, you had better get remarried. Men who stay unmarried their whole lives turn out weird.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “If you die, I can’t even think about it. I couldn’t remarry,” he says back. (Right thing to say, but not true.)

“Well, if you don’t remarry, you’re going to come to heaven a weirdo. I’ll be stuck with a weird guy forever. You have to remarry. But don’t worry, I’ve taken the complexity out of it FOR YOU."

"Okay...can we talk about this another time? I’m getting depressed," he says.

Get over it.

Rule number one:

"She must be fatter than me. She doesn't have to be huge, but she needs to struggle with weight."

He laughs. "Okay, got it! But you're really skinny so that will be easy."

Compliments. Compliments. Compliments. AWWW!!

That's fine as long as she is bigger than me.

Rule number two:

"She has to be uglier than me. I don’t want YOU to come to heaven with some hot chick on your arm. This would be intimidating as there is no plastic surgery in heaven. I have very few options while I’m there."

“You don’t need plastic surgery. You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you, dear, but if you marry a hot chick, I will haunt you.”

Rule Number Three:

"She cannot be patient. I want her to be good with kids, but she can’t be patient. Or else the kids will be like, '
Wow you’re so much nicer than my 'other mom', she always yelled.' ”

He laughs. He knows he can’t argue with this one.

Then I ask him, “What are your rules?”

He simply says with confidence, “I’m not going to die. By the time I do, you’ll be so old; you won’t even know I’m gone.”

This is his sanity trying to balance me out. Good luck with that.

I’ll interpret that to mean, “Don’t get remarried.”

Now ladies, feel free to use these rules. But I recommend talking about it before you die or post them on a blog!

However, I plan on living until I'm old. Very old. But I like to control the situations even after I'm dead. Yes, I'm the ultimate control freak.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Oprah and I have a connection... Well, ya know--we both turned 30.

Okay, so I am turning 30 in less than three days.

And I am so excited!

I didn't realize how great it was going to be until my hubby made me a DVD of my life. It was beautiful, the music was beautiful, but me...well to be honest, not so much.

And that's when I realized a connection between Oprah and me.

A few months ago, I was reading this magazine, okay not reading, mindlessly looking through pictures, when I was at the hair dresser's.

I don't like magazines, but this one had tons of celebrities from younger the present.

Most of them have passed 30, but here is what shocked me the most.

All, and I mean ALL, the stars looked like crap until they were in their 30's, including Oprah.

Then they started looking great!

So back to the DVD my hubby made.

Bottom line:

I looked like CRAP most of my childhood. No, I can't possibly blame my parents. They begged me to be cute.

"Please stop wearing your brothers clothes," my mom would beg.

"Whatever, I look great!" I would say back. "Besides, they're free." (Cause I took them from his closet.)

"You look like a boy."

"Whatever!" I said that a lot when I was young. Thank goodness I've traded the word "whatever" in my vocabulary to "crap." Way more mature.

Then I would stomp off in my boy swimsuit (yes, I thought they made cute shorts--scary) and a button-down boy shirt, and head off to school.

Then I would come home and cry because none of the boys liked me. Why did they judge me so?

Maturity has given me clarity.

It's because I looked like them. I was camouflaged as a man.

They probably didn't realize I was a girl until half way through the year.

Yep. That's not good.

So as I reflected on this video, I saw a significant change my senior year.

Then I went off to college and met my hubby.

I actually looked like a girl when he met me.

We got married. Then, I took a turn for the worse.

I had three kids in three years.

I reverted. Looking at those pictures made me realize that I am DONE having kids.

Then at about 29, I finally figured out how to have short hair and not look like a man.

I lost 40 lbs of baby weight and thyroid weight.

I asked my really good friend to shop with me and tell me when the jeans were ugly and made my butt looked big.

She did.

People in the dressing room stared at her in disbelief.

I hugged her and thanked her for her honesty, because I wanted to look cute.

She went through my closet and told me most of my clothes look like I'm ready to attend a Fiesta.

Which I thought was great, but apparently not flattering for me.

She taught me about bras and reminded me that my boobs hanging down to my belly button was not attractive. (Totally shocked to me too.)

She told me my shoes looked like I stole them from my grandma.

I looked at her in total disbelief and thought, "How did you know?" (Creepy)

And so the transformation began.

And now I look the best I can.

I could use plastic surgery, but I'm just happy to be out of the "boy clothes" stage.

Which brings me back to why Oprah and I have a connection.

She looked waaayy better in her thirties than she did in her twenties.

And even though I am not quite 30 yet, I suspect I'm going to get better at this fashion, girly stuff.

And after watching my DVD, I would never want to go back.

Who would?

How does this relate to marriage?

Ladies, we just get hotter with age!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Do You Suffer from a "Fartless" Marriage?

With all the talk on "sexless marriages" my ADD mind has gone to a new dilemma. I have yet to meet many in this predicament, yet I like to reach out to the few and lonely on my blog.

What about "fartless" marriages?

With a society so obsessed with Sex, we forget the little things, like passing gas.

So here I go.

Aww. That felt better. Just kidding.

It all started in college. I met this guy. Seemed nice, normal.

Ate breakfast with him everyday. We became great friends. Then he revealed something to me, and I knew from the very bottom of my soul that we would NEVER get married.

"I will never fart in front of my wife," he stated.

I dropped my fork in disbelief.

"That is the craziest thing I've ever heard of!" I retorted back.

"It's not appropriate. I think it's unattractive."

"Look," I said with unsurpassed passion, "farting can be VERY bonding. I mean, once you fart in front of someone, it's like you are officially friends forever--no it's more than that. You just don't get it, do you?"

He looked at me in utter disgust.


A "fartless" marriage just waiting to happen.

So I went on my merry little way.

Who needs him?

Then I met my hubby.

After a few dates, I had to ask him.

"Do you believe in farting in front of someone if you're really close?"

"Heck ya! What am I suppose to do? Hold it in my whole life?"

My heart raced with passion.

Then after a few months, we knew we loved each other very much.

We were at the park, it was late.

I was pushing him on the swing. Yes, I was pushing him.

We were laughing and talking, then complete silence.

He slowly swung over my head and farted.

"Whoops," was all he said.

I stared laughing so hard.

He stopped swinging.

I asked him right then and there, "You really love me, don't you?"



We were married soon after.

To this day, we can pass gas in front of each other.

Some days, I wish I hadn't been so open.

But the alternative is to walk around in constant pain--literally.

That could have huge repercussions, physically and emotionally.

So even though less would be great, having a "fartless marriage" would leave out some crucial elements.

For instance:

Trust: I know that no matter how bad the day is, he still loves me.

Stress relief: nothing's worse than holding it in.

Maturity: you know they understand that everyone does it. Just because you fart, it doesn't make you less than. It makes you HUMAN.

So as couples, we need to stop hiding behind the "sexless" marriage plague and start talking about REAL issues.

Glad I CAN on this blog.

This blog is dedicated to Kim Ryan who thinks farting is the funniest thing in the world!

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

No Pants! Time to be a Feminist

I hate to scare you.

I really do.

But there is someone out there with a voodoo dryer right now.

And he is attacking our washroom.

We have been cursed.

We have gone through 3 dryers in the last year.

Long story, no one cares. So here's the point.

So my hubby is putting in the third dryer.

The clothes are "done" and they're not dry.

"We have a problem!" my hubby yells from down stairs."The clothes are still not dry."

"Okay. Fix it," I yell back.

"Ooookkkkaaaay." His voice is slightly annoyed at my obvious genius.

But apparently, it's not obvious enough!

The dryer is still not working.

So my female mind begins to take over. Mostly because I've run out of Glade Plug-ins and my house smells like week old laundry. No, not like, it IS week old laundry, halfway dried.

So last night was his second night of attempting to fix it.

He announces, "It's a piece of crap. I tried to fix it. It blows the breaker every time!"

"I have an idea! Why don't you call our friend who's an electrician and ask him. I bet he might know what's up?" ('cause you don't, and my pants smell.)

"Well, I think I have an idea of what it is. It's hooked up wrong. I'll get it."

"Okay, I hope you like women with stinky pants," I added in.

"I'll fix it."

"Okay, I hope you know that clothes began to mold after a few days."

"I know."

"Okay, I hope you know that tomorrow I'm out of underwear."


I knew I could get him somehow.

However, not enough to convince him to call for help.

So this morning, I wake up, and try to find clothes. Go to the laundry room, climb over the mountain of stinky-ness (soon to be the mountain of mold) and try to find something to wear.

Think. Think. Think.

What to do?

Resent him, call him and yell, or do the unthinkable.

Call for help when he's at work?

Can I? Should I?

You bet!

So I'm going to insult my hubby's manliness. I'm going to call for help.

Why? How could I? What type of monster am I?

Well, to be honest, a stinky one.

I can't sit around and wait for him to become a certified electrician. I'm not dragging my clothes to a laundry mat. I live out in the middle of nowhere, my kids will probably vandalize the place, and my blog will turn into crime confession rather than relationship issues.

That's not good.

Laundry mats are powerful places, I know.

But here is the lesson I've learned.

I can wait, be annoyed, smell like a dead animal, and nag him.

Or I can stop being a victim of his ego. Call for help and when he gets annoyed, let him know that I didn't marry him because of his handyman abilities. If that were true, we would have divorced years ago (might leave that part out).

I will remind him he has other good qualities, none of which include fixing things.

I'm sure he will understand.

If not, at least he'll smell good.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

I Can't Spell... Another Reason I Married My Husband

I'm a smart person.

Just thought I'd remind you before I start telling you about how dumb I can be.
Despite the fact that I'm intelligent, creative, good-looking (okay slight exaggeration), and humble (no exaggeration), I have one weakness.

Yes, just one.


But I was redeemed by a handsome prince who was a walking spelling bee contestant.

My husband.

And he loves the fact that I ask him how to spell everything in the world.

But why? What's the truth behind his NEED to be asked how to spell?

I didn't know the whole story until after we were married, so usually our interactions were unhealthy. For example:

I would try to spell something, he would laugh, and I would be like, "Okay, how to do YOU spell it." (Jerk face.)

He would proudly cock his head to the side and spell it like he was IN a freaking spelling bee.

Then he'd repeat the word after he spelled it and smile proudly.

"Gold star's in the mail," I would think to myself.

Then one day, we had a BREAK THROUGH in our relationship.

Our marriage was solidified by ONE simple question.

"Why the heck do you get all cocky when I ask you how to spell a word?" I asked.

He paused for a moment. His eyes got all intense. Yes. He was remembering something and it wasn't pleasant.

"It all started in the fourth grade."

Oh boy, we need a therapist here right away! I wish there was some three-digit number you could call to get therapist intervention to come to your house in these revealing moments.

No number. Had to listen.

"It was down to me and Bender."

Curse Bender forever and ever! (Whaaallllaaa), evil spell dispensed.

"Okay, who names their kid Bender?" I interrupted.

He gave me THE LOOK and I shut up.

"So it was down to the wire on this spelling bee. It was my chance to become the spelling bee champion. Giving me power to rule and reign the elementary school and help my self-esteem development from that moment throughout the eternities. (Okay I took a little bit of artistic exaggeration for that part.)

"I was ask to spell the word ascot. I was desperate for help. I spelled it 'A-S-K-E-T.' "

Yeah. That sounds right to me.

Then he spelled it for me the CORRECT way.

"It's A-S-C-O-T."
Good to know. Now I can sleep.

"What the crap is an ascot?" I ask--cot him. (Hehe. Sorry, my mom's humor is coming out.)

"It's a scarf."

Wow. Impressive. I had no idea what an ascot was and I'm 29.

"I never entered another spelling bee after that," he added in a dead-like tone.

Wow. Not impressive.

So every time I ask him to spell something, he gets it right, (partially because I can only spell on a third grade level, but I don't ever remind him of that especially since he's been so traumatized).

And then he feels sooo good inside. This boosts his ego, still wounded from the fourth grade, and I don't have to worry about clicking on spell check every five seconds.

His ego and my weakness balance each other out.

That's how most relationships work on various levels.

Don't worry, Honey, you will always be the "Spelling Bee" champion in our house.

Now that's love.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

My hubby's on a DIET, and I have PMS

So my hubby comes to me yesterday and says, "I have got to do something about my weight."


"I want to sign up for one of those programs where they pre-wrap all of your meals and then you don't even have to think about it."

You mean like when I cook you dinner? I didn't say a word, but my mind starts racing...

"You mean the prepackaged stuff that's so disgusting that when you think about eating it your stomach curls up and all of the sudden you are full? Why didn't I think of that? Seriously, the food tastes like crap, but since it's full of vitamins we somehow think it's okay to eat? Ya know, I should dehydrate all my meals, crush a package of vitamins in them, and sell them on eBay..."

Then he interrupted my thoughts with, "And it only costs four hundred dollars per month!"


Is the word "only " suppose to make me think, "Wow! Four hundred dollars. Is that all? I mean when you put the word "only" next to it, it sounds affordable. Alone...well it's a car payment, but with "only" next to it...pocket change!"

So my husband continued with his infomercial on this diet food, and I started stressing out. What did I do? I reacted the way any PMS-ing women would! I got a prepackaged ice cream cone out of the freezer (while he was talking to me) unwrapped it, and started eating it in front of him.

When the sugar kicked in, and I finally felt better, I interrupted his infomercial. "No."
Then I had the nerve to start in on him, while I was eating my ice cream cone. "Eating is an emotional issue!" I said as I lick my pre-made ice cream cone. "Prepackaged food is not going to make it better!" I had to take a second, my chocolate topping was starting to melt.
And then my mind started getting smarter (probably from all the preservatives in the ice cream). "Maybe you should get counseling about your food issues first."

Looking back (on yesterday), I realize that I am once again a little weird to live with.

We ended the night with a bag of "prepackaged" microwave popcorn and our favorite TV show.

We decided to discuss the "prepackaged food crap" another time.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Why Dr. Laura Schlessinger Needs Therapy

Okay, eventually I would like to be a therapist who helps empower other women. So I turn to my first instinct, Dr. Laura Schlessinger. What a mistake! The first book I chose was, "10 Stupid Things Couples do to Mess up Their Relationships."

The title of this book should be, "10 Stupid Couples I like to Work With."

I would have read it!

I hate to ruin it for those of you who have never read it, but in a nutshell, it sucks.

Sorry, I just told you the whole book.

This is the part that gets me the most. She is speaking of a husband who likes to check out other women in public, in front of his wife. Yes, he's a moron. The wife is wondering if she should address it or let it go.

Address it.

Good choice, Dr. Laura!

But what really upset me was Dr. Laura's advice on HOW to address it. Are you ready for this?

"If your husband is checking out another woman, you need to yell as loud as you can,
'You're right honey! She is good looking.' "

Yeah. Right!

And then who looks more like an idiot--you or your husband? I'll tell you.


So to redeem wives who are stuck with a husband who is chronically checking out other women in public, here is my two cents of advice. You say to your husband, "Excuse me. You are being disrespectful. I am leaving."

Then you get in your car and drive home. You leave your husband at the store/restaurant/ wherever the crap you are, and make him figure out how in the world he is going to get home.

When he calls--which he may--don't answer.

If you're going to answer anyway, you simply say, "I'm sorry, I will not be with someone who is disrespectful. If you choose to be that way, I will not be there. I'm not victim and I won't be treated like a piece of meat." Then you hang up.

He will learn how to treat you.

You will feel empowered and better about yourself. Your marriage will probably improve.

And Dr. Laura listeners will be stuck with crappy husbands who like to be humiliated in public.
So the next time you are in a store and you hear a lady yell, "You're right, Honey! She is good looking!"
Take pity. They are another victim of Dr. Laura's self righteous, poor advice.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Life is a Balancing Act

In case you are wondering... I can't do it all! I know, unfortunately I'm just as surprised as you are. I work, I am at home with my kids, I'm part of a leadership position in my church, my father-in-law is going through chemo (which is absolute case you've never been through it), and today I got chastised by some hypocrite.

I can't do it anymore.

And you know what's even more pathetic, 80% of my pain is me! I place such high expectations on myself. Then I end up feeling guilty for not meeting all of those expectations.

Where do these expectations come from, and why am I so loyal to them?

I ran a 5k yesterday and finished at 29 minutes. My goal was 30minutes!
Five minutes after the race, when I got done breathing for dear life, and the feeling in my legs began to come back, I turned to my hubby and said, "I'm so proud. Next year my goal is 21 minutes."

Where did I get the number 21 minutes? I have no clue. I just make up these ideas and think, "Yeah, that's good. That's the new rule."

If someone else would have said, "Good job, next time make it 21 minutes."

I would have rubbed their face in my sweaty arm pit and thought, "Moron."

But somehow, I say it to myself and think, "Wow! Great idea!"

I have a lot to learn....

Friday, July 24, 2009

Flowers VS Cold Hard Cash!

Okay, so it's the age old dilemma of wives--I want to be loved and cherished. So I nag and hint and manipulate to inspire him to "surprise" me with something meaningful.

Well, my husband loves to buy me flowers just whenever. By the way, he never buys them when I actually really deserve them. I have birthed three children from my womb, only to find a kiss and hug at the end of my labor. Which is not a good time for any type of "touching" since I felt like a mid size SUV has just been delivered out my front end. By the fourth, I decided I deserved to ask for what I wanted.

"I want flowers!" I demanded with my stomach hanging over my pants.


"Flowers! I need flowers at the hospital. This is my fourth kid and you have never bought me flowers!"

"I brought you Wendy's and a shake."

Close enough.

So I give birth to my fourth child, a son, and my hubby not only buys me flowers, he buys me pajamas (which were light pink and completely see through), lotion, and striped panties for chubby chicks.

He is so excited, and when he is not looking, I look at all the tags.

I know.

I'm scum.

But I can't help it. My mind starts calculating (probably incorrectly) all the costs. Then it's like a automatic shopping machine. I cant help it. I start wondering, "If I exchange this, I could get..."

And so the pattern continues with all the "surprises" he gets me. If I were him, I wouldn't buy me a pack of gum. What's the point? I would probably take it back.

"Umm...yes, I need to return this pack of gum. How much was it?"

So, I've learned not to nag or manipulate for surprises unless I can keep my mouth shut and enjoy the moment.

It's people like me that wrap their own presents under the tree, put a tag on it to themselves, and then ask themselves the stupid question, "Why isn't Christmas as fun as it was when I was kid? Where's the magic?"

That's because when you were a kid, you didn't ask Santa if he could take back his present and get you something else that you really liked.

You enjoyed what was given to you and loved it because it was a gift.

My point--I am a hypocrite who is telling women, if you want to be happy, enjoy the flowers and chubby chick panties. More importantly, enjoy the fact your hubby still gives you gifts. That in and of itself is a sweet part of being married.

Thursday, July 23, 2009


My husband sent me a text me from work today, and I quote, "In the bathroom now, thought I would text you. Things are good here, just a little stinky..."
A little?
I replied with some smart aleck remark when he added, "On a seriously funnier note, I just ripped the butt out of my pants. About an 8 inch hole. Not getting up until it's time to go... Haven't I done this before?"
Three times to be exact.
I told him to stop doing toe touches for everyone in the office. No matter how good he is, they won't give him a raise. (He does awesome toe touches...but that's another story.)
Then he informs me that he won't be coming home between now and buying a new pair of pants. I had to ask where the heck he plans on going so I'm never in THAT store WITH HIM again.

Oh, never mind, you'll fit right in.
So as I blog, my husband is at Wal-Mart with a "hole" (more like a crater) in his pants, eight inches long.
"You realize that's longer than your butt crack, right?" I try not to patronize him, but, HELLO!

I asked him if he had any safety pins.
"No, but I have some paper clips I think I can use..."
Even better. Now he's at Wal-Mart with paper clips up his butt.
Good luck with that, Honey.
Sometimes as wives, it's better to just laugh than worry about our hubbies seemingly strange ideas!