Friday, February 15, 2013

Yoda Man!

After the husband's amazing Valentine's Day gift, some of you might be wondering what I did for him.

Please, folks, this blog is PG-13. I can't disclose that information.

I'm kidding! This blog is more like PG-40.

Anywho, I can tell you that I gave me him some cologne that I he really love likes. (Trust me: this will benefit me him in the long run).

I also baked him some cookies. But not just any ol' ordinary cookies. I baked these bad boys:

That's "Yoda ONE for me", not "Yoda EYE for me". Painting with toothpicks and food coloring is hard.

This is what happens when geeks fall in love. We talk nerdy to each other.

The best part? I didn't even steal this idea from Pinterest (or as the husband calls it, pin-interest. His new obsession with that site is a post for another day). Nope. This came from my own warped little brain and some super fun Star Wars cookie cutters from Williams-Sonoma.

I also considered "You're the Obi Wan for me" with the X-wing fighter cookie, but those cookies look a bit, umm. Hmm. Well. Like this:

I'm obviously saving those for my birthday.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Men, This is How You Do It

Remember when I said the husband owed me the most awesome Valentine's Day gift ever?

He delivered.

Pack up your blood-bank skanks and courvoisier, Leon Phelps. There's a new ladies man in town.

Like most dudes, the husband was stressed about the demands of a highly romantic holiday. Back when we were friends, he would message me on Valentine's Day to tell me how much he hated the unrealistic expectations of a "manufactured, commercial holiday." But now he's married, and his wife loves National Buy Your Woman Candy Day. Plus, I found that mix tape he made for the old girlfriend.

Earlier this week, sweat popping out on his brow, he eventually confided that he had no idea what to get me. He began to suggest some nice, expensive gifts.

"Honey," I said, "You're overthinking it. I want something simple -- something from the heart."

Yeah, I know. I only added more pressure (once again: I found that mix tape). But the good news is that he listened. I love it when men listen. It must be how astronomers feel during those 100-year meteor shower events.

Friends, this is what I discovered on my kitchen counter first thing this morning: A handmade Valentine's Day book. It's perfection. Sweet, smart and funny, it embodies the very traits that drew me to its creator.

Confession: I have this photo framed on my desk.

Twang? Me? Y'all surely don't believe that?

My favorite lingerie is a thick fleece purple robe. Shut up. You're just jealous.

Yes, that's me with a gun. A Republican married a Democrat in an election year. I had to concede something.


Not that he needs them at this point, but big-time bonus points for the UP ending

Listen up, fellas. This is how you win at Valentine's Day. Hell, this is how you win at LIFE. As if this weren't enough, he also brought me long johns from my favorite bakery this morning. Long johns! And right this minute, he's in the kitchen whipping up homemade lasagna. Sure, he's cussing like a sailor and yelling about measuring cups, but that's not the point.

It might be a manufactured, commercial holiday, but my Valentine did it exactly right. I'm reminded today that I am lucky.

And someone's about to get that way...

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Scenes from a Marriage: Why I Deserve an Awesome Valentine's Day Gift

[The setting: In the husband's car, driving to meet friends across the river for dinner. Mark is flipping through radio stations, but we can't find a station we both enjoy. I open his console to search his CD collection.]

Me: Look at all of these cassettes! I haven't seen cassettes in forever. I still can't believe you actually have a cassette player in your car.
Husband: Ha. I know. Maybe we should listen to one?
Me: What all do you have in here?  [picks out random cassette and opens it to read contents]. Ah, it looks like you made this tape. Let's see.. Eric Clapton 'You Look Wonderful Tonight'; Phil Collins 'Against All Odds'; Jeff Healy 'Angel Eyes'... Oh. My. God. This is a mix tape. You made this as a mix tape for someone!
Husband: Hahahahaha. Maybe I did. Put it in and let's listen to it.
Me: Sure. [pops in cassette] Seal? Kiss from a Rose? Dude, you had it baaaaad.
Husband: This is more than a mix tape. This is a love-you-all-night-long tape [takes my hand]. Let's listen and enjoy.

We continue to drive down the road to the '90's romantic musical styling of Genesis, Mazzy Star, Hootie and the Blowfish. Mark reminisced about his law school days, while I gave him grief for his love-sick mix tape.

All was fine and dandy, until....until...


Carly's Simon's "Nobody Does it Better" suddenly filled the car.

Me: WHAT THE FUDGE?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Dude, you also have sent ME this song.

Husband: What? I did? Noooo, I didn't. Did I?

Me: Oh, yes. You did. And you can't do that. You cannot send the song "Nobody Does it Better" to more than one person in a lifetime. The whole point of the song is that NOBODY does it better!

Husband: Uh... Um... But honey, nobody does it better than you. And that's the truth.

Me: Nice try, Casanova. Valentine's Day is next week, and by gosh, you'd better top this mix tape. When it comes to Valentine's Day romance, nobody better do it better than you.

Husband: You know, maybe we shouldn't listen to this tape anymore [ejects cassette, probably wishing the eject button also applied to his passenger seat].

Me: Now I know why Carly Simon wrote bitter songs.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

I Like 'Em Big and Fat

Journals, that is.

What the heck did you think I was talking about? Donuts? Well, yes, that would work, too. I like the way you think.

I haven't been writing lately because I've been working on a huge merger. The husband and I decided to try this absolutely insane, ridiculous thing married people do that makes no sense whatsoever: we moved in together.

A Republican and a Democrat are now under one roof. It's sort of like Washington, except unlike Congress, we occasionally unite on certain issues. You know what I'm talkin' about, Willis. Donuts. (What else could it be? We're married now.)

The past few weeks, we've sustained ourselves on a diet of pastries, Red Velvet PopTarts (omg!) and wine while moving two houses back-to-back and deciding whose stuff most belongs at Goodwill. We're a mess of neon beer signs (his) and an insane number of frilly throw pillows (also his). We've fought over closet and dresser space (please keep your shoe-shine stuff out of my undies drawer, dude) and who gets the better nightstand (I won! I won!). It's crazy up in the hizzle.

The good news is that we've emptied enough boxes to see that yes, we actually have floors.

That brings me to the point of this post. And you thought I didn't have one.

While emptying a box in my new office, I discovered a dusty, big, fat journal from the mostly pre-Internet days, when people actually wrote their deepest, darkest secrets in diaries instead of sharing them on Facebook. Can you imagine? Needless to say, I spent the next couple of hours sprawled in a sunbeam, getting reacquainted with myself. Any excuse to get out of unpacking will do.

At one time, embarrassed by my own thoughts, I seriously considered throwing the journal away. Yesterday, I was so very glad that I had shoved it into a box in the attic instead. I learned quite a bit about where I am now and why I am here. If only I could talk to my younger self and reassure her. Still, I was thankful that she could talk to me.

I'll share page one with you. Somehow, I will resist the urge to edit that younger writer, who really liked exclamation points!!!

June, 6, 2000

Welcome home!

When I saw you on the shelf, the writer within stirred, and I once again yearned to keep a journal - a task I've failed miserably at in years past. But you, my friend, were different.

I spied you on the shelf, so big, so plump and juicy, begging for my secrets, my whimsy. But $23.95 for what is no more than a spiral-bound notebook? No! I couldn't! I wouldn't! I shant!

Oh, you tricky, flirtatious mass of recycled pulp! You wouldn't allow me to deny you. I found myself craving you, craving a daily dose of soul-spilling! I HAD TO HAVE YOU!

Finally, my friend, we are joined. I sit cross-legged on an old, iron bed, you on my lap, hoping to carry through this time around. You promised me you would be different. You would be "the ONE."

So let's embark on our journey of the trivial, the mundane, the passions, the tears, the joys, the nonsense, the blahs, the rahs.

Here's to us, friend. I know you are hungry, starving, begging to be fed, to be full.

Perhaps 'tis no coincidence: we are to fill each other.



You know what I think, looking back at that first page?

I think I wasn't getting a lot of action in June, 2000. Seriously. It's like journal porn.

All that big, plump, juicy talk of being filled makes me yearn for something else:


Please bring some and meet me at Goodwill. I need some help unloading those beer signs.