(Still) married with children

Chuck and I celebrated our tenth anniversary last weekend. Ten freaken years. That's a lot of dirty socks under the bed. I mean, love notes on the fridge.

Ahem.

My mother offered to babysit so we could go away for the weekend. Isn't she amazing? Seventy-two and still as sprite as ever. Remind me to send her something.

After belaboring options (could we really fly to Bermuda and leave my mother with three kids? Should we just rent an RV, park behind a gas station and catch up on sleep?), we settled on Salem, Mass., a walkable, low-key, and bewitching—har, har—city.

If you've never been, I can't recommend it enough. We ate a seafood dinner on the water, shopped, drank way too many Moscow Mules, poked around a flea market, stayed in the cozy guest house of the Hawthorne Hotel (the shower was in the closet!)...

... slept late, ate dinner at 11 p.m. (to soak up all those Moscow Mules) and of course, because Chuck is a somewhat retired ghostbuster we went on a Haunted Footsteps Ghost Tour.  It was seriously spooky. And look at what I caught on camera!

Myah, nothing but a cemetery—but it was still spooky. In fact, after Chuck and I sneaked behind that abandoned building in the background to swap spit (thank you, Moscow Mules) and heard twigs cracking underfoot right next to us, we raced back to catch the tour. (Fine, only I raced.) When I told the tour leader about our possible paranormal experience, he congratulated us on possibly having an encounter.

With a skunk.

Love that ghostly wit.

Chuck and I arrived back home in Connecticut refreshed, albeit slightly hungover, and lighter (but not translucent or surrounded by orbs, those are important distinctions). Which brings me to the point of this post. It actually isn't to hawk all things Salem (I'd go back in a heartbeat), but to acknowledge something that, in my opinion, is rarely said: Children can be a marriage killer if you let them.

That might sound harsh, but it needs to be said. If you forget who you are as a person, and you forget who your spouse is as a person, and you forget who you were as a couple—you know, those two crazy kids who once upon a time got horizontal—you can easily slip into the precarious dimension of zombie co-parenting. You know the dimension. The one where you let the day-to-day grind of child responsibility hack away at your souls? Where you take out your grindly frustrations on your partner?

Yes, you can go there—it's kind of impossible not to—but you can't stay there if you want your marriage to make it.

Until last weekend, I'd forgotten how much fun Chuck and I had had before we spawned. We must have logged 10,000 miles walking around cities, arm-in-arm, half in the bag. Those are some of my most favorite memories. And duh, those are the memories that made me say "I do" in the first place.

So yes, happy anniversary Chuck. Our getaway beats the shit out of our third anniversary and its  granny vaginas; our fourth anniversary, when we did something with bananas; our fifth anniversary, when I whittled you gingerbread cookies; and all the other anniversaries I apparently forgot to blog about.

I love you. And yes, if you need to start ghostbusting again you have my blessing.*

* I don't really mean that but in the spirit (HAH!) of this post I thought I should make it look like I'm a supportive spouse.

I'm hoping for bed head, ironically enough

I got my hair cut. The act seems so stupidly easy, doesn't it? But no, add a few children to your life and suddenly haircuts occur as frequently as say, the moon eclipses the sun. 

Because the cuts are so infrequent and because I look so disheveled in between said cuts, I have high expectations of the trip itself, and of course the damn cut. I do want to see a hairdresser who is going to massage my head during the shampoo. I don't want to see a hairdresser who is going to talk my face off. I do want to read trash magazines. I don't want to get sheared in the face because the hairdresser is yapping away to her co-worker.

And if I fall asleep at any time, I don't want to be woken up.

Even though I know what I'm looking for, it's been hard to find a hairdresser I like in Mulletville Lite or its environs. This is a rural community. Most people go to the farm for their eggs and their trim.... and their extra-marital affair. It's true: farmers are busy in this town.

Since I couldn't find a hairdresser I liked here, I drove an hour to Mystic, which is home to an aging population of rich white people. Hey, a bouffant is preferable to a mullet! Besides, it's kind of the closest thing southeastern Connecticut has to an urban hotspot.

All I wanted was a trim. My locks were past my shoulders.

"Please don't cut them off entirely," I begged the hairdresser. "My anniversary is this weekend. My husband likes my long hair."

She promised she wouldn't hack it all off. The bitch promised! But of course I left looking like the Dutch Boy. Once again. Even worse, she flat-ironed the shit out of it. It was thin. It was non-existent. I looked like the Dutch Boy in his sixties! I was a prepubescent, geriatric conundrum. 

When she saw my crestfallen face, she tried to cheer me up with free product. Usually that works. This time, however, I felt a little dirty as she fingered the container and extolled the product's virtues.


 

"I love this stuff!" she gushed. "You spray it on and scrunch or poof or whatever look you're going for..."

The whole time she spoke, all I could think was Ew, she is giving me a penis bottle. Every time I go into the bathroom it's going to gawk at me. I'm going to have nightmares about it trying to poke me. I don't want a penis bottle. What if I drop it and accidentally slip and fall on it? Will I get pregnant?

"This stuff is great! Blabbity blah blah fabulous! It's on the house! You'll love it!"

So here I am, two days away from my wedding anniversary. We're going away for the weekend. It's supposed to be romantic. Full of flair. And yet, I look like the Dutch Boy and I'm traumatized by the sight of penises.

Thank God traditional materials for your sixth anniversary are candy and iron. Sugar cubes and an iron skillet will save us. They have to.

She's baaaaaaack

Happy blog anniversary to me! I can't believe it's been three years.

Three whole years.

On this gray, rainy day in February I find myself having come somewhat full circle from the place I was when I started blogging. Life is funny that way.

In 2008 I was a new mom, and I was overwhelmed. A little lonely. Very tired. Frumpy. Feeling like I was living Groundhog Day. A lot of those feelings have resurfaced with the new kid, Diddly, except this time there's a three-year-old tugging at my leg and we're in the middle of moving from Mulletville.

Minor details, right?

For my anniversary I'm posting a link to an old post. Chuck always said he didn't quite get the post, but as Junior and I played his old toy guitar for Diddly yesterday and I "met" Donna all over again I realized that it's one of my favorites.

The neighborhood bar

I also want to say thank you for reading (some of you since the beginning!) and for making this blog a place I love to come back to. Seriously, thank you.

The other toddler in my life

Happy blog anniversary to meeeee

Happy blog anniversary to meeeee

It's beh-hin two yeear-hears

Oh good-hoood-ness meeee.

Last year at this time I revealed my secret identity. This year, I'm giving away a $25 Starbucks gift card, which I personally bought myself—for you.

All you have to do is leave me a comment. This giveaway is open to U.S. residents only, since I have to pay postage. Leave your comment by Friday, February 19, 9 p.m., EST. Unlike the giveaway for a tungsten ring, which was a complete hoax by this company, someone will actually get the damn card.

Thanks for reading.

If my grandmother read my blog she'd probably disown me

So my third wedding anniversary—the year of leather gifts—is over.

All I have to say is, I never knew leather could be so wonderful. Chuck bought me a leather bikini, which he hid in a leather suitcase. I gave him a leather recliner and rubbed his feet through his leather slippers. We wore leather jumpsuits to dinner. After dinner, we raised our glasses of champagne to the smell of dead cow. After that I whipped Chuck with a leather belt then rubbed leather moisturizer on his berry red ass.

Yes, oh God, yes, it was so leathery good.

Actually, as much as I abhor animal cruelty, I can’t be a total hypocrite and ridicule all things leather. I do own leather shoes and purses. But after reading this, I’ve decided to change my ways. No more leather goods.

From now on, I will only buy products made of granny vaginas.

Think about it: there sure are a lot of them.

Ok, ok, I know, that was gross. But what do you expect? I’m tired. So damn tired. Chuck and I didn’t actually make it out the door last night until 8:30 because my father was two hours late to baby-sit Junior. And the service at the restaurant was soooooo slow...

Soooooooo sloooooooooow...

...perhaps because everyone was busy trying to console the man sitting at the table next to us. He had just lost his wife or friend or someone. People kept stopping by to offer their condolences, to which he’d snap, “How do you think I’m doing?”

At one point I wanted to yell, “How do you think I’m doing? We ordered an hour ago and I haven’t seen a damn bread crumb!”

I did, however, see many vodka and cranberries. Which is why when we left the restaurant and ran into a man walking one of these



my drunken canine exuberance got the better of me. I leaned down to bearhug the dog and fell onto him. Not like splat; more like oof, I’m wobbly, I didn't mean to ride your dog. I couldn’t help it! He was so fluffy and smushy I wanted to steal him!

The owner took it well. He looked at me like I was a piece of shit and said, “Come, Fred-ear-eek.”

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Poor Chuck. The whole ride home that’s all I kept asking:

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Then I fell asleep. There may have been the tinniest, most miniscule hint of drool.

May have.

And that is Le Evening du Dead Boeuf.

(Is it just me, or is the leather anniversary version more exciting? Or did you, um, stop reading after the whole granny vagina thing?)

Forget "I love you." Today it's "I leather you."

Today is my three year wedding anniversary with Chuck. This year is the leather anniversary.

Mmmm, nothing says, "You still rock my world" like skinned animals.

In case you're interested, I thought I'd share the story of how we met. It goes like this:

In 1997, a boy named Pete had a crush on me. As we all know, crushes are often one way streets. I could never love Pete. His fingers resembled mini Jimmy Dean sausage links and he ate steak in a way that…let’s just say I could envision him at a steak house in 25 years with a gut that rivaled Mount Everest.

Pete is the boy I was with the night I met Chuck. And he knew Chuck liked me so he kept his stumpy hand across my chair all night so Chuck couldn’t move any closer to talk to me. Even more, when Chuck asked him for my number, he said no. So Chuck found out where he lived, went to his apartment under the guise of renting the spare bedroom and while Pete was in the bathroom, Chuck stole my number from his Rolodex (this was when the Rolodex was en vogue).

Chuck liked me that much.

Unfortunately, I had just graduated from college and ended a long-term relationship with some flaky eyebrows so I was on a bit of a man bender. A dating-five-guys bender.

When Chuck called the house (this was before cell phones, remember?), my brother left me the message: Chuck called. Who the hell is Chuck? Slut.

Little brothers are such gems, aren't they?

But he raises a good question, who the hell is Chuck?

I'll tell you: Chuck is incredibly patient, kind, loving and loyal. Chuck would give you the shirt off his back even if it was -30 degrees and he was freezing and he knew you were flying to Florida and didn't need his shirt. He's the kind of guy whose buddies get misty when they've had too much to drink and say, "That Chuck. He's such a great guy." He's a a party animal and ridiculously passive aggressive, but I love him to pieces. He's a hell of a good father. He still brings me flowers. He needs Odor Eaters.

I love him.

Happy leather year, Chuck.

Thanks for the unfollow, jackass. It's all your fault

Whew.

We’re coming up on the five year anniversary of Frogs in my formula. I find that somewhat astounding, if I do say so myself.

Five years worth of writing.

Five busy, crazy, joyful, tearful years. It seems like everything under the sun has happened. I had pimples. I had children. I had a job, then I didn’t have a job, then I did. My husband Chuck had a job, then he didn’t, then he did. He chased ghosts. We moved. We had fleas. We had a hurricane. My parents moved. My cat died. I burned dinner. I hated my birthday. I drank too much. The list goes on and on.

I’ll never forget the first time I hit “publish” on this blog. For someone who’d just graduated from grad school with a degree in writing, hitting that button was akin to flipping all the big publishing houses the bird. I didn’t need them to put myself out there. I didn't need anyone but Blogger.

I was free to let it all hang out.

As I quickly discovered, there’s a downside to letting it all hang out, especially when your husband gushes openly about your blog. Way too many people (both friends and acquaintances) found out who I was. It made blogging really damn hard—still does. Even more pressing than “If I make up a name for him/her will he/she still know I am talking about him/her?” is “Do I want him/her to know that about me?”

Way too often the answer is "Hell no."

Blogging come back to life for me last year, after the birth of my second son. I had all new material. Spit-up. Breastfeeding. Sleep deprivation. Hot stuff.

But—shocker—managing two children is a huge time suck, even with things like TV, naps and babysitters. Children have a second sense about time: They know when you want to do something for yourself, and they choose that moment to vomit or poop or catch their finger in the door.

If there's one thing I've learned, to parent is to constantly swim against the current.

I'm not sure what I'm saying exactly about this blog. The mere thought of breaking up with it is enough to give me a panic attack. I love the bloggers I've met because of this blog. Love. But let's be honest, lately the posts have been strung together like a chicken running around with its head cut off.

And what the fuck? Could Follower #296 quit following me then unfollowing? Quit dicking me around.

Sigh.

Life is a little out of sync right now, and until it comes back into focus I need to take a little vacation from blogging. Who knows, it might just mean posting once a week. I do know that I'd hate for this blog to become a wasteland. Not after five years.

We can make it, baby!

We can.

Goodnight.

I won't lie: I was such a good kisser I sometimes got free Brie

So UnMom told me I must have been a tortured teenager and that’s why she tagged me with the “seven things” teenager edition. Pimples and Golden Anniversary and boys? This is so much more fun than pink slip prattle.

Here we go. Ahem.

1. When I was a sophomore, my first real boyfriend tried to impress me by pretending to be a flame thrower— with a ticky torch. He burned his face and had to be rushed to the ER. When I went to see him he said, “Look away, I’m hideous!” I still laugh when I think about that.

2. I was a cashier at Stop and Shop, and I made out with way too many guys from Dairy.

3. When I was 17 I took someone’s virginity, and I was terribly mean to him afterward.

4. I totally deserved a better sex talk than the one I got. My dad said, “There’s sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Don’t do drugs.” (See #2 and #3.)

5. The person I fought with the most (she once left me on the side of the road) was my Maid of Honor three years ago, and I love her to death.

6. I was in the French Honor Society. I also played the clarinet and the bassoon in band. Hel-lo.

7. I hated my senior prom date. His name was Walt, he had thinning hair, and he popped his zits in the rearview mirror. (No, he wasn’t someone’s cousin; he was a friend of my best friend and it was either him or Ethan from band.)

Ah, high school.

So now I get to tag a bunch of other people, except I'm going to change the meme, because I like to copy UnMom. I still want to know 7 things about these people, but I want to know 7 things about them that very first month they were a new mom. Because I was a schizoid freak and I'd like to know that I wasn't the only woman who hucked the breast pump at her husband and then cackled when he cried.

Mwahahahaaha.

Random Mom

Go Graham Go
Diapers and Wine

Pukers and nose jobs and beer, oh my!

I’m finally sober.

I think.

I’m betting that the two people who puked aren’t. Maybe the girl who threw up at 8:30 p.m. Probably not the girl who was down on all fours in front of the toilet at 11.

I want to personally thank them for making my 15th high school reunion last night so memorable. There’s nothing quite like seeing one of the popular girls—one who looks like she does Pantene/ Crest White Strips / pilates commercials—hugging the bowl in her designer jeans as her friend brings her a puke bucket. I wish I hadn’t seen her wiping up her own mess and apologizing for being in the way. It kind of made her likeable.

Kind of.

The other puker? She sent out an email this morning saying how sorry she was for ruining everyone’s reunion. I wanted to write back, Oh honey, you enhanced it. Someone beat me to it.

Our class president had traded her striped tights and hot pink hair tips for a sunny disposition, a cardigan and jeans. She thoughtfully made name tags using our senior year yearbook picture. I actually had forgotten what mine looked like because many of my wonderful friends wrote “pearl necklace” all over it, to the point where my face was buried under ink. (That wasn’t my nickname gutter dwellers, I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing pearls that day and having an uncanny number of perverts for friends.)

Eric Rothbaum did not keep his sexy blonde curls; he was sporting a shaved head. And a gut. The boy I first kissed in eighth grade was also bald. I didn’t get close enough to his mouth to tell whether his nickname “wet sock” was still appropriate (as far as first kisses go, I so deserve a refund). His wife had too much to drink and started a fight with his best friend. Why do people bring their spouses to these events? The bar looked like a doctor’s waiting room: all those men, bored as hell, yawning as their wives reminisced about their favorite cheerleading poses.

(For the record, I was not a cheerleader. High school is tough enough without getting mooed at at football games. Besides, I was too busy shotgunning Golden Anniversary beers behind the band entrance before us marching band folk took to the field. Come on, you think I’m hot, don’t you?)

The food at the reunion looked wonderful but overdrinking and not eating worked so well for me at my wedding reception, I thought I’d give it another whirl. Apparently a lot of other people did that too because conversations morphed from polite inquiries—“Tell me more about your advanced accounting degree”—to loud postulations and pointing: “That wasn’t a deviated septum! That was a fucking nose job. And she’s still fat and ugly!”

Yes, things started to feel so familiar, I almost forgot 15 years had gone by. Until it was time to leave and a group of people said they were going to the casino—the one right next door to Mulletville.

Rip!

I’ve grown so accustomed to Mulletville being my unmagical kingdom I actually forgot that people come here on purpose. People from the outside world. People who knew the former me but don’t know Junior or Chuck or My Grown Up Life. When my brain tried to meld the two it exploded. Again.

Thankfully the puke bucket was still handy.

P.S. I rocked the Dutch Boy. Oooohh yeeeahhh.

I have high hopes for tonight's banana extravaganza

Happy Anniversary, Chuck. Four years ago tomorrow you made an honest woman out of me, which was no easy feat.



Last year, we celebrated our love with leather—mmm, leather—this year it's supposed to be fruit or flowers.

I don't know who's making these official lists, but if I want to commemorate my love for you with bananas and Shasta Daisies, by hell I'm going to do it.

I'm looking forward to our evening out tonight (no, not at Squirt's). I hope I don't throw up during dinner and that I can stay up past 8:30 p.m. I know you do, too. After all these years together, it's nice to know that even if I do puke and pass out, you'll be there for me.

Just like on our first date.

Thanks for being the kind, patient man you are. Thanks for being such a great father. Thanks, too, for helping out more around the house. That day you vacuumed without me asking you to was, like, one of the highlights of my life.

Seriously, I made it my Facebook status.

I know you're still kind of bummed that I haven't legally changed my name, but until people stop saying "Are you serious? That's really your last name?" to you, I'm going to have my reservations. Still, I'm wavering.

(Before I was just pretending to.)

Here's hoping for many more years together.

I love you.

I Just Called To Say I Whittled You Something

Here's the thing: Even before I got married, marriage seemed like a sadistic endeavor. No one that's married seems particularly happy; in fact, marriage seems to suck the joy out of life and the life out of people.

Child of divorce? Who, me?

Amazingly, Chuck and I are celebrating our five year wedding anniversary this week! Can you believe it? Five freaken years of wedded bliss.

Ahem.

Two years ago, when tradition demanded I give him leather, I surprised him with chaps and a riding whip. Last year, when fruit or flowers were in order I gave him a banana negligee and a potted plant.

This year, for numero cinq, I was supposed to come up with a gift that's...

wood.

Wood? Wood? Blech.

Wood sucks, but it gave me an idea. Pencils are wooden, right? And you'd use a wooden pencil to take a quiz, right? Right! What better way to express my love and devotion to Chuck than to have him take a 10-question quiz about our marriage right here on this blog?

With a little prodding and tasing, Chuck agreed, though he wouldn't let me edit his answers before posting them so with all likelihood you and I are reading this post at the same time. Gulp. Here goes.

1. What's your favorite thing about me?
Your birthday suit

2. What's your least favorite thing about me?
Your newt on your leg YUCK

3. I obviously wear the pants in this relationship. What type of pants-wearer am I? (a) Fascist dictator (b) Brilliant matriarch (c) I'm too scared to answer
c I'm too scared to answer

4. Does this blog make me look fat?
Just when you blog about me.

5. Did you ever think you'd be so lucky as to end up with such an amazing, smart, beautiful, funny, hot wife?
Yes, I would expect nothing less for myself

6. Why don't you clean more?
That's what visiting mother inlaws are for

7. What's your favorite memory of your wife?
Spraying Solarcaine on your back in the men's room at the bar on our first date, you took your shirt off and I got a look at the goods.

8. Did you really mean "till death do us part" or is "mid-life crisis" more accurate?
Till death do us part

9. Besides sex, what's the one thing that would make our marriage stronger?
Sex

10. Write something really, really wonderful and sweet:
Thank you for loving me, our two beautiful children, and this wonderful life we have carved out for ourselves. I love you more than I ever have and am incredibly grateful, as well as lucky, to have you in my life. 5 years down only 45 more to go

Pencils down.

I love you, Chuck.

The banana blow-out

So, Chuck and I had a lovely anniversary dinner at Mohegan Sun's Tuscany. Even with my limited cooking ability I could have made a better fettuccine with bacon and green peas (salt shaker, anyone?), and the waitress forgot about us for an hour, but that's neither here nor there. I was dining with my amour.

Aw.

And he sat through the whole dinner and didn't need crayons or juice with a straw and he didn't want to sit on my lap and stick his fingers in my food!

There was a banana foster thingamabob on the dessert menu, but Chuck told me he doesn't actually like bananas.

That kind of soured the edible banana negligee I had waiting at home (next post: how to make lingerie with fruit. You heard it here first!).

I guess there's always next year. The traditional gift is wood. Wooden underwear? A wooden trapeze? The possibilities are endless.

One of the best parts of the night was that I could let me bump hang free. I suck it in all day at work and cover it up with jean jackets and large purses (I've also been walking like a hunchback), so it felt nice to let it flap in the wind. Seriously, I felt like a freak with an extra appendage who was finally able to dangle it in public, without my co-workers pointing and exclaiming, "She's pregnant again?!"

I'm telling my boss on Monday.

Gulp.

Happy weekend.