everything you need to know about our relationship




Pastor - I'm recycling your video card.

Happy Anniversary. Living with you makes every day just as happy as the day you found 13 pairs of pants at Goodwill.


cookie monster

So I was reading a blog.

It belongs to a mommy who started planning months in advance for her toddler's birthday party.

I felt all smug. Who needs months and months to plan for a toddler party? I have thrown together some fantastic soirees in much shorter time.

Then I realized I was guilty of spending months and months and months getting ready for a little girl's party.

My own.

As far back as January when I was at the Mexican market, I saw this fantastic princess cake for a Quinceanera. I made a mental note that I wanted that cake for my birthday (seriously don't try to go get it - it's approximately the size of a Volkswagen Bug).

I've thought about my need for candy necklaces and bracelets, but this may not have as much to do with my birthday as my secret plan of having strings of sugar around my neck and wrists to get the Pastor to nibble on me.

I've dropped some not-so-subtle hints that maybe it was time for Mom to finish recuperating from her knee replacement surgery and get busy making me some oatmeal cookies.

I've thought about my pre-birthday diet - the key word being thought - how I want to look amazing for my special day. Or, more likely, how I want to make sure I have plenty of room to gorge on cake and Mexican food.

I apologize to you, random blogger. And I offer you this warning: be careful of how elaborate you make her parties now. You may create a monster.



Today I was just a typical mommy - running errands. While I was in the bank filling out my deposit slip, my darling angel ran around the lobby, through the maze you have to go through to get to a teller window, and went through all the suckers until he found a red one. He took a few licks off a sucker and then started to search for a place to stick the sticky mess, with a helpful teller shadowing him to make sure it ended up in the garbage. After the bank, it was to home where I made us lunch and he went down for his afternoon nap!

Only this wasn't a toddler, it was my husband.

The P is on sabbatical. I'm not really sure what that word means, but I think it might be Latin or something for "annoy your wife."

I am literally wolfing down an entire Godiva chocolate bar as I write this. Stressed much? He's always been like a tasmanian devil the way he tornadoes through the house and leaves piles here and piles there. Now it's even worse. There are books everywhere, and trust me they are books no one wants to read.

And he's so helpful.

Maybe a little too helpful. It was nice to have his company on this beautiful errand running day, but he feels the need to (when he hasn't lost all patience and turned into an unruly toddler at the bank) give me helpful hints on how I can be much more efficient on everything I do. In fact, he was just standing over my shoulder as I write this giving my helpful hints on this post. He didn't want me to include the part on orange juice (below). He said that doesn't mean he didn't say it, but for some reason he thought the post was better without that tidbit.

Maybe I need to stick a how-to-listen-to-your-wife book in one of these piles or perhaps download one to his Kindle. Hmmmm.

Anyway, while I have spent the last five years trying to find as many ways as I can to make things take as long as possible (there's a lot of hours in the day) he thinks I should be faster and more efficient, so I'll have more time to do what, I'm not sure.

Then there's the issue of the household budget.

The P's got these elaborate schemes to fly here and there. While I appreciate the lovely trips, I also like the idea of having luxurious items in my fridge, like I don't know, orange juice. Yes, not only am I a very bad girl for my daily Starbucks, I'm also completely decadent for having luxurious oj in the fridge. I will admit I like the fancy kind where someone has taken care of getting rid of all the pulp for me. I don't like pulp.

On the plus side, I never thought I'd be so happy to go to the gym. My safe place. My girl's only gym where I can go "work out" for hours.

I may seem a teeny bit cranky. I'm not, it's just that I didn't have my coffee - and juice - this morning.


I hate you Skype.

Videochatting with the out of town Pastor.

Could he see me when I had the Sephora candy colored eyes? No. (N8 said it looked like my eye makeup had been done by a preschooler with a box of crayons, but I don't care. I know it looked good.)

Could he see me when I had on my false eyelashes? No.

My big earrings? My big bumped up hair? No. No.

But when I just woke up? Of course. Let's just say I'm not a natural beauty.

I remember before Mrs. Jetson videochatted she could spray her makeup and hair on instantly.

Where's that technology?