Happy anniversary, boo.

untitledhusband and I went out last weekend to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Never one to be overly romantic, he kept with tradition by not opening doors, taking my arm or even waiting for me as he sprinted across the movie theater parking lot to make the previews.

But alas, he made up for it all later, while we were at the restaurant. Quietly and without judgment, he pulled the table towards himself, so I could slide my large bod into the booth gracefully — just as he does every time we go out to eat. A simple gesture, yes. But it says so much. Red roses, diamonds, chocolates — you can keep them all, because I cannot think of anything more romantic than this.

On second thought, maybe I’ll hold onto those chocolates…


I thought I’d post untitledhusband’s work-from-home schedule, much to his dismay. He’s of the paranoid ilk, and seems to think someone from work will find out just what he’s up to on those work-from-home days. This is puzzling — even though he does a lot of “multi-tasking” when working from home, he still gets more work done there than at work.

8 a.m. Turn on computer (and loud email and IM notification chime).
8:02-10 a.m. Surf the Internets.
10-10:30 a.m. Wash a load of grundies (This sometimes takes longer, because as of late, he has been spending more time laundering the skid marks out.)
10:30-11 a.m. Fret about said skid marks.
11-11:30 a.m. Download music from iTunes.
11:30-11:45 Cut toenails, examining clippings for signs of disease and/or fungus and/or foreign debris.
11:45-Noon Cut dog’s toenails. Collect the nasty little peppercorns and toss in the trash.
Noon-2:30 p.m. Watch “Ocean’s 11” for the 20th time.
2:30-3:30 p.m. Work out.
3:30-4:00 p.m. Shower and get dressed.
4-5 p.m. Work.

Bellyflopping in the gene pool.

I love my husband’s family. Don’t get me wrong. But I cannot figure out how he managed to sop up half their cumulative IQ all by himself. These people are the most generous, sweet, god-fearing people you will ever meet — not that fearing god makes one sweet and generous. But sometimes I have to wonder if we’re not dealing with a touch of dain bramage.

The last time we were home, we made the mistake of busting out the board game “Cranium.” We would’ve had better luck making a mental connection if we had walked into a Wal-Mart and started speaking Latin to the door greeter.

There is this part of the game called “Humdinger” in which one person must hum a song, and the other team members must guess the title. Here is an abridged sampling of the numerous cards they had to return to the deck, because NO ONE on the team knew the songs: “Coming to America” by Neil Diamond, “Open Arms” by Journey, and “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles. I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be forced to surrender your U.S. citizenship if you don’t know that first song? “They’re coming to America. TODAY!” I am ashamed to admit how many rush hours that little ditty has gotten me through. Put me behind the wheel of my earthfucker after a long day at the Evil Empire and I AM the fucking Jazz Singer.

To be honest, I am surprised the family lineage ever made it here from the old country. I mean, it would’ve required someone knowing how to get through the turnstiles on Ellis Island — a bona fide MENSA test for this lot. Now, if they would’ve had some church hymn Humdingers in the deck, they would’ve smoked our asses like a Swisher Sweet.

The one good part about playing board games with the whole fam damnly is that we get the opportunity to observe the intelligence (or lack thereof) of untitledhusband’s youngest brother’s girlfriend du jour. To qualify for the position, it appears that said girl’s jugs must be larger than her head (or at least a medium-sized honeydew). To their credit, these girls have all amazed me with one thing — their ability to remain standing upright regardless of the laws of physics. Ugh. For about one millisecond, I pity them. Then I remember that their monsterous milkers are accompanied by size 2 jeans.

But alas, it all evens out somewhere, people. All the brain power in the world cannot save me from the humiliation of having to rummage through the underwear table at Lane Bryant, looking for a pair that will both cover my ass and refrain from binding after a spin in the “hotter than hellfire” dryer cycle (the only heat setting impatient untitledhusband will use when doing laundry). For while I’m doing this, you can be sure that sista-girl is rockin’ out in Hot Topic, trying to decide between the leopard-print thong and the beaded halter top. Oh well. I know I could never sleep at night if I couldn’t hum the chorus to “Baker Street.”


My hubby, if he knows anything, it’s how to put down the Diet Coke. To the tune of 24 stomach-eating cans a week. As a result, it’s not uncommon for him to tear the house off its moors with one of his primevil burps. It happens so often, in fact, that our 2 year-old son has taken to acknowledging these sonic acts of gastrointestinal anarchy by simply saying, “Nice.”

I’m not sure whether to laugh (it is funny, no?) or to be appalled that Little Lord Fauntleroy isn’t summoning the proper answer, as so clearly spelled out in the lift-the-flap book on manners I so responsibly bought for him at T.J. Maxx. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking. “Why not teach your brute of a HUSBAND some manners?” Well, folks, that train has left the station. At this point in my life, I only take on the battles I know I can win.

All strategy aside, I see that I am losing ground as I write. It’s becoming clear that my son has inheirited this debilitating crudeness gene. The other night, the little guy farted. Respectable mother that I am, I said, “Now what do you say?” He replied, “Ta-daaaaa!” Ta-da, indeed.