Dear Evening Rachael,

I know we've never met, seeing as how I run with the early-hours crowd and you hang out alone at night, so allow me to introduce myself.

I am Morning Rachael. We inhabit the same body, but that's about all we have in common.

You see, I rise early and am in charge of getting our body out of bed to face the day. I take care of hubs, four kids and a house that has an over flowing laundry room and lots of junk food that you can't resist eating that keeps you at a sugar-induced high at 4 in the afternoon.

I ingest a healthy breakfast of several glasses of some carbonated beverage, all carefully designed to keep our body going throughout the day, making sure we have enough energy to do what we need to do.

I do this, all of this, even though I live a fairly miserable existence. When I am forced to awaken at 10 a.m., I am groggy and tired and pretty much hate the fact that I have to get up. My only happy thought is: "Don't worry, Morning Rachael. You will be able to get back into this bed in a mere 16-17 hours. Just fight through the day, and you can return to your pillow and blanket."

But see, the thing is, Evening Rachael, you've been robbing me of my sole consolation prize lately. You, frankly, have been functioning so selfishly that, when I arise, I can't even muster up the courage to count down the hours until I get into bed again.

For Lord knows what reason, you get a second wind when you take over at around 8 p.m., Evening Rachael. While I've been dragging us through the day, miserable, tired and wishing/hoping/dreaming of a good night's sleep, you get the ridiculous idea that your time, the night time, is prime time.

You read blogs. You watch movies. You eat snacks. You cuddle with the hubs. You hang with the kids. You start projects that you never finish. You read books. You sift through magazines. You eat, again!

You do everything but take a hot shower and put us to bed!

Why, Evening Rachael, why?

Why do you think it's a good idea to "just read one more chapter," or "scan over my Sony Reader one more time, real quick," or watch "just one more episode of The Office marathon. What's 22 minutes, plus commercials?"

I'll tell you what it is, Evening Rachael. That's 22 minutes out of our sleep time! That's 22 minutes I need if I'm going to continue to get our rumpus out of bed again in what often becomes less than six hours!

Where does your energy come from, Evening Rachael? How can you stay awake till 3am when I so clearly can't function in the morning?

Oh, wait, I know. It's all the crud you insist on ingesting at around 7:30 p.m!

Sure. Popcorn is high in fiber, but must you eat the whole bowl? And don't think I didn't see the huge bowl of chicken salad you ate last night. And yes, I also saw that scoop of vanilla ice cream the chocolate syrup was so "cleverly" hiding. It's like you don't even care about all the careful consideration I gave every morsel I put in our mouth earlier that day. You will blow it all away for a night-time apple-cinnamon muffin!

Evening Rachael, listen to me. Put down the late-night Chex Mix and listen to me.

I've had enough. I can no longer function after you go off on your constant late-night solo parties with your books, blogs, and DVDs.

We have to sleep a little.

Now, wait a minute. I'm not asking for the moon. I'm not even asking for nine hours of sleep. I'll take eight, or heck, I'll take five.

Please, just remember me when you get your second wind and get inspired to do all the things you didn't have time to do during the day because you were to busy facebooking. Think about your pillow and blanket.

Think about your dog. Yes, the dog is on my side. See him staring at you from the hallway, looking back and forth between you and the bedroom? He knows it's time for bed! Why don't you?

I appreciate you taking the time to read this, Evening Rachael. I know your time is short, what with all the blogs and books you want to read. I'm sorry if I was too blunt; I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I just ask that you take this into consideration the next time your Sony Reader calls to you.

Until we meet again (you know, when Afternoon Rachael decides to take one of the two naps she takes every year).

He Had You at 'Sup

Events in my life have prompted me to ponder the age-old question: Can people change? And more importantly, should you count on it?

I've always thought (mostly in the background but occasionally in the perceptive forefront of my mind) that what you see is what you get with most people, so you shouldn't expect much change (aside from the superficial points of clothing, style, art/music, etc, in which case horzions can be broadened), lest you become very disappointed.

Obviously, this theory is very rarely applied when in the process of selecting a potential boyfriend. I am currently standing on the sidelines watching friends and even the daughters of my friends whining and complaining about their boyfrieds and in some circumstances, baby daddy. (eeekkk... why has it gotten so chick to have a worthless "baby daddy" now?) It's ridiculous. Buy a Coach bag if you want something expensive to lug around on your shoulder. It doesn't cry and stays small and cute forever!

But anyhoo... ladies, let me break it down for you from someone who has been there/ done that. This is how you look, from someone older wiser:

"Hi I'm a fixer. I will be everything you need me to be and more and I will fix your Wounded-Bird-Boy soul. Because I am the only one that can save you. And I will. Just like in the movies. And although I know scores of other girls have tried, I will be the one who triumphs, and we will live happily ever after."

Right. That never works. Here's what actually happens, or some variation

Your eyes meet across a crowded party/bar/club/soup-kitchen-where-you-are-volunteering-and-he-is-eating. He looks troubled/funny/smart. You love that. He looks brooding/dreamy/sarcastic. You love that too. He ditches whatever skank is currently making your mistake and comes toward you. You love his cocky (and COKEy, let's not be naive) but shy attitude. He has you at "'Sup."

You are a free spirit, just like him. Suddenly, corporate America, bills, family, and other responsibilities cease to exist. There is no one else in the world like the two of you. You are the wild children, the Pied Pipers of talented (enter in whatever artistic medium he's currently pursuing at this minute) leading the other aspiring artists/musicians/rappers/actors/comedians/writers and you'll change the world, without compromising any of your lofty but unresearched and unsupported ideals. Or making any money.

Occasionally, Wounded-Bird-Boy will fall into the depths of dispair, where life isn't worth living anymore and he cannot bring himself to pick up a guitar/paintbrush/pencil/restaurant-check. But he sure can pick up that bong/mirror/beer. You will do everything you can to bring him out of his funk. Shopping sprees (with your debit card, no less), idealistic promises focusing on his goals (Goals? Yeah, you used to have those. Now your goals are his goals!), gifts you can't afford, reassurances that you will not insist he get counseling/a-real-job/a-clue/a-life/-the-eff-out.

Eventually, when you cannot feign interest in his ridiculous video-games/friends/quasi-career/level-of-poverty/complete-disinterest-in-you anymore, you'll wake up and look around your probably small and untidy apartment and wonder what happened to the good old days when the lovin was great and you were heady with desire for Wounded-Bird-Boy, when his talent impressed you, when the brooding/sarcasm/deeply-concealed-intelligence was enough.

You'll wish for the early days when you'd make plans and promises to each other, the days when he knew he had to say amazing things to keep you, the days he cared about your feelings and made you feel special, like you were the one he chose out of the crowd because you dazzled him, not the one he knew would care for him the best.

He has always known what you just realized. He knows about smoke and mirrors. He's done this before. He knows how to get you and how to keep you. At least for awhile. He also knows when to let go, because he probably has a #2 (probably not the best idea to flatter yourself thinking you were #1, but we'll go with it) waiting in the wings. So he tells you he can't hold you back any longer, and he wants more for you than what he can give. And he sends you packing (emotionally, that is) with some rockin' "goodbye, but lets still be friends cause I really do care about you" talk. And in some unfortunate circumstances, a baby (or two) on your hip.

And when your heart shuts the door and stands on the stoop, you think "Yeah, I'd so do that again."

So you date a few more just like him. But you are a little bit wiser, and are just along for the ride, cuz you knew he wasn't going to change. His type never do.

My point is this: I think, on some level, people can change, but they have to really want to, and BEYOND THAT, they have to know what about them needs to. And most people just can't see it.

But if you insist on "fixing him", YOU will be the one that changes. And not usually for the better.

So when it comes to relationships, save your money for a Move-In Ready As Is, rather than a Fixer-Upper. It might take some compromise, but at least you'll know what you're getting.

Feminist? I Think Not

I love being a girl. I love makeup, clothes, the color pink, stiletto heels, and not having to worry about getting my junk caught in pants zippers.

Superficial? Sure. But anyone who says that men and women should be equal in every way should have their heads examined. Here's my main issue with the feminism soapbox (and it is often a soapbox, ladies and gentlemen, be not confused): Too often, it's misconstrued as anti-man, rather than pro-woman.

Before you either cheer or wish me death, hear me out.

Do I think that women are as smart as men? Absolutely. Do I think women can do anything that men can do? Absolutely not. And why would they want to?

You know what total equality is? It's signing up for Selective Service at 18. It's the end of "women and children first." It's real push-ups and shorter maternity leave. And most certainly, it's not happening any time soon. And you can be sure it will NEVER happen at my house!

In many aspects of this world, men come out ahead, just as they have for the last...I dunno, trillion years. And while, to a career gal (which I was for the better part of my adult life) that is pretty crummy. However, there are many advantages to being a woman that are sadly overlooked.

My husband has, since our very first encounter, opened doors for me (car, house, whatever.) He opens doors and then shuts them after I am comfortably inside. He is teaching my boys to do the same. I never pay for drinks, and I always have a seat. My husband and his friends are the epitome of the Chivalry Club, circa 1950. They will carry you down the street if you ask them to, go to blows over you in 1.5 seconds (and he has, oh he sure has) and never, ever, would they let the lady pick up the tab.

Archaic? Maybe. Barbaric? Depends. And are all men like that? Of course not. But damnit, why are some girls so hell-bent on letting chivalry die? At the tender age of... well, anyhoo... I'm old enough to know that being a girl has some advantages, no matter your race or sexual orientation.

I'm still pro-woman. However, I'm not willing to sacrifice femininity for feminism. So even if I made more money than my husband (which I don't, but hypothetically) I'll still let him take out the trash. And kill spiders.

Besides, who would want to carry this:

When they could carry this:

**Did I mention I really, really reallyreallyreally want this purse?

And wear these:

When they could wear these:

**Why, yes, those are mine. You think they are lovely? Thanks.

So ladies? Work it. And men? Don't worry, there's still plenty of things that are all yours. After all, it's you guys who get drafted and have to pee standing up. Suckers.

Reality TV Heaven!

Yep. Thats was me last night. In complete and total Reality T.V. bliss. It was pretty much the best night ever because of two things: I'm Pregnant And _______ & Teen Mom.

In case you havent ever watched I'M Pregnant and _________ , get with the program (literally!) This show comes on Discovery Health and is pretty much the best show ever. Ever week the powers that be (or more like the exes at Discovery) fill in the black with some wacky subject such as "homeless" or "Bi-polar" or "starving myself til I pass out." Last week it was "I'm Pregnant and Having a Dwarf" which filled me with glee because I love a good reality show about dope fiends and midgets. Throw pregnancy in the mix and it will almost push me over the edge.

So last night, "I'm Pregnant and a Drug Dealer" started at 8pm and "Teen Mom" follwed immediately after. Since these two shows were both coming on and I was still obligated to feed hubs and the minions that live here, I bought frozen pizzas and was done with it. At 7:45 I made sure hubs was settled into his man cave and let my two little ones eat pizza in the living room while watching Disney XD (they loved it!)

The drug dealer show was just fabulous, but the real action happened on Teen Mom. Oh my goodness the drama. Oh the drama! Whew! It was good stuff and I hate to admit it, but I watched it AGAIN when it re-played at 11 P.M.

But then something peculiar happened. Inspiration hit, and here I am!

While watching a clip of MTV's Engaged and Underage, I realized that I missed my chance. I could've been on this show when I had my first wedding. Damn it!

We would've been the greatest Engaged and Underage couple ever. We had all of the qualifications.

Ridiculously young and naive? Check!

Facing doubts from our well-meaning families? Check!

Dubious means of supporting ourselves? Check!

Numerous break-up type fights? Check!

What we thought was a "grown up" wedding? Check!

Adamant refusal to acknowledge the potential disaster of the situation? Check!

Tears and hurt feelings abound? Check!

I can't believe I missed out on that situation. Granted we were technically of legal age when we actaully said "I DO" (although, just barely.)

If you watch the show, you know you can go to MTV online to see how the couples are doing post-honeymoon. I'd like to nominate the idea of a show that catches up with them a couple years later to see who is still together.

We could take bets.

(Not that I'm pessimistic or anything.)

(Although, I am a big proponent of the starter-husband. Seriously. A must have for every young girl who wants to get it right eventually. Yes, a little awkward post-divorce, but you're a pro the second time around.)

(AND it's fun to joke with Hubs about how I turn 'em and burn 'em. Keeps him on his toes.)

Le sigh. I guess I'll just have to wait for another opportunity to be on TV.

Maybe Hubs and I could be on Family Feud! Or Deal or No Deal!

Sucks for you, MTV!!

You have no idea what you missed!

Jon and Kate plus Hate

First of all, it's entirely possible that everyone else in the world has already jumbled up the name of this show and called it what I used as this post title. But I don't care, because it makes me feel clever.)

(And duh, that's the whole premise behind this blog of mine, so I'm just going to go with it.)

(On with the show.)

Even if you never watched Jon & Kate Plus Eight, you might be living under a rock if you haven't seen them splashed all over the tabloids as of late.

J&K+8 was a show about a young couple who have a set of twins and a set of sextuplets, just trying to cope with life in the big bad world and having it all taped for us couch-lounging, freedom-having, highchair-free-zoned people relaxing in our lazy households and never spending one minute worrying about how much it costs to buy eight pairs of sneakers every month.

If you watched the show, you've seen Kate stressed to the max, trying to keep her brood in line and her easy-going hubby Jon focused. You've also seen her go completely batshit crazy when he forgot to use a coupon, take out the trash, or expediently dress a toddler.

(And when I say "batshit crazy", I mean "you'd better hide under a table because her head might literally explode.")

Now, the point of this post is not to judge her. (well maybe just a little.) Seriously. I cannot imagine what it is like to raise double the amount of children I already have, not to mention the fact that I've never had a camera crew in my home documenting all of my shame and distributing it to the masses.

(Hey Hubs, if we had a reality show, would you stop leaving your clothes on the floor of our bedroom? No? So that means I don't have to take my pajamas off before 5pm? Sweet.)

I didn't watch the show that much. For the most part, I thought it was a little redundant. Although, the sextuplets are adorable and I love them. I appreciate Jon and Kate's constant fighting and believe it makes for some good reality TV, but since the show does not include midgets or dope fiends, I have other shows to watch. Better ones.

But, and here is the clincher. Life is a little different these days for JK+8 since their show skyrocketed in popularity. They're very exposed, but they've been able to offer their children TONS of opportunities that they'd never have access to if they didn't have their show.

The drawback to all of this is the haters. There are ALWAYS complete strangers willing to tell you exactly what you're doing wrong in your life and offer their completely unsolicited helpful suggestions.

Was Kate uptight? Sure. Does Jon need to get with the program? Probably. Should Kate have belittled him on national television? No. Is Jon treated unfairly? Sometimes.

Really, though, that's none of our business, and even though it was a common thread throughout the show, it was really supposed to be about the KIDS.

Now they are divorced. The cheating rumors ran rampant. Kate was supposedly sleeping with her bodyguard. Jon had an affair with a young elementary school teacher. Are these things true? Maybe, maybe not. The bottom line is: it is not easy to be married. It is not easy to raise a family. Even with all of the money in the world.

They have a reality show, so some people say they asked for it. The attention. The whole "there's no bad publicity" thing. You have to be prepared for whatever comes. Ignore it, don't take it personally, weather the storm.

I don't know what will happen with Jon & Kate. I feel sorry for them, and their kids, if there was no truth to the rumors that became the downfall of this family. And even sorrier if there is.

If we've learned anything from Brangelina, it's that it's REALLY EFFING HARD to have a foreshadowed and extremely public breakup. And if we've learned anything from Mel Gibson or Christian Bale, it's that you should never let a camera record you completely losing your mind.

(Also, I've learned from P!nk that I'm still a rock star and Christina Aguilera taught me that I am beautiful no matter what they say. But those are stories for another day.)

(Not to mention that Tyra taught me I was dead inside unless I could smile with my eyes. Still, another day.)

If they had lived closer to me I would have offered to babysit their kids one day so they could have "alone time." They probably needed it.

(And when I say "offer to babysit", I mean hire a professional and then accompany him/her and bestow ice cream and kisses to the children like a fairy godmother while she/he had to do all of the effort-y stuff like disciplining.)

Ah, who am I kidding? If I lived closer to them I'd send Hubs over there to observe and then when he came back I'd be like "SEE HOW EASY YOUR LIFE IS?"

It's Outta There

Part of growing up is moving out of your parents house and embarking on a life of your own.

It's a really exciting time in a young girl's life because it means you can do things YOUR way. Women are nesters. We like to have our own decor, our own methods of storage, and our own kitchens.

(Even if we don't cook in them.)

I moved out of my mom's house when I was barely 18 years old. Since then, I've lived with Trish, the ex, hubs, and lots of kids.

I've never lived alone. Although, I have managed to, in my day, own a pink couch, have a picture of Audrey Hepburn hang above my bathtub, and refuse to empty the dishwasher. So, really, I'm doing pretty well, all things considered.

However, when you live with someone else, there's compromise. Pink couch gives way to brown/ earth tones. My stuffed animal collection found it's home in the closet, and hubs framed sports car glossy prints & employee of the month/year/millenium/whatever awards are proudly displayed in the man cave.

(He's under the false impression that there will someday be a picture of a shiny Corvette in our living room. Naive, silly, sweet man. That will SO never happen.)

Having lived in the same home for the past seven years, stuff can quickly accumulate in my home and I must purge it on fairly regular basis. Every year I faithfully throw out have good intentions to do MAJOR closet organization with every intention of donating bags and bags of stuff to Goodwill. It never happens.

I think the majority of women have things in their closet that they haven't worn in 5+ years. We keep things in there for a couple reasons.

#1) We're hoping we'll fit into it again. (These items are usually pants, or that amazing strapless shirt that you spent too much on and only fits you once a year when you have the stomach flu.)

#2) We know we won't ever fit into it again but we like to be reminded that we used to be able to wear it. (I recently got rid of a pair of jeans that I wore the summer between 8th and 9th grade. Never mind they were acid wash Girbauds!)

Whatever the reasons for keeping your unwearable clothes, I don't begrudge anyone for having a stack of them. It's good to have goals.

But seriously? Those Girbauds HAD to go. They were from a time before hips (and multiple babies) and they were giving me a complex.

My husband doesn't feel the same way about cleaning his closets. In fact, he doesn't like to get rid of anything of his. When I asked him to get rid of a few things so I could have a little extra room for my recently purchased summer items I picked up for a great price, no less, he freaked out. It went like this:

ME: (deep in our extra closet, unearthing who knows what) Do you need this sweatshirt? You have another blue one just like it. I've never even seen you wear this.

HUBS: (alarmed) What? What are you doing? Stop touching my stuff!

ME: (cheerfully) I'm getting ready to donate stuff to people that don't have clothes! This closet is full of clothes we never wear.

HUBS: That's my stuff!

**comes into closet to investigate**

ME: (patiently) I know. But in the three years we've been together, I've never seen you wear any of this stuff...so I thought...

HUBS: Damn it, Rachael! That's a perfectly good sweatshirt!

ME: Right! Someone without clothes will love it!

HUBS: It's MINE!

ME: (now realizing he's freaking out, and not being able to resist egging him on) Okay, so I'll put it in the donation pile.

HUBS: No! Hang that back up!

ME: (innocently) But why? You don't wear it.

HUBS: (bellowing) GET RID OF YOUR OWN STUFF!

ME: I'll just add this jacket too. And I'm pretty sure this shirt doesn't fit you.

HUBS: NOOOO! Harry (His grandma's 70ish husband) gave that to me!

I'm not sure why Hubs has such a hard time getting rid of stuff that he barely even knows he has. I mean, the man definetely doesnt want for anything, I can tell you that. He's not completely spoiled, but he certainly isn't deprived either. Besides, he has a wife that loves to shop and will, on occassion, buy him clothes. (We should all be so lucky.)

I mean, the man has nice things. He's not forced to eat Spaghetti-0s out of the can because we can't afford food and we are not forced to pay our mortgage with already over-extended credit card. He loves to buy gifts for people and is always generous with his money and his time.

But for some reason, he has a hard time parting with possessions. It's like he doesn't think he'll ever get another sweatshirt. Or that he doesn't have 10 hanging in his closet already. It's weird.

Since I am a helper, and I like to help Hubs get over his ailments and idiosyncrasies, I ruthlessly badger him until he caves and lets me do whatever it was that I was planning on doing before he got all bajiggity. See? Helping.

I think the main problem is that Hubs has failed to learn what every woman is born knowing:

If you get rid of stuff, you have room to buy more.

And according to my calculations, Christmas is only 151 days away.

I Nominate Hubs!

With the network shows gearing up in full force for the fall season, it is once again illustrated just how different Hubs' and my taste in TV really is.

We agree on a very tiny percentage of our overall programming.

(That may or may not be because I watch shows mainly consisting of rich, unrealistic teenagers and gay farmers. Allegedly.)

Our small amount of common ground is made up of family guy (because it comes on late and I am too tired to complain) and The Office. One of the other shows we manage to watch together on lazy Sunday evenings is "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." (as long as it's not one of those 2 hour marathons that cuts into The Real L Word, cause I certainly can't miss that!)

However, we watch for different reasons. I watch for the heartwarming stories and the ideas for home decor. Hubs watches for the demolition, the renovation techniques, and the opportunity for non-stop verbal abuse of one Mr. Ty Pennington.

The root of this is jealousy. Hubs has stated on MANY occasions that he wants Ty's job. So, in typical male fashion, he expresses his envy with attacks on poor Ty's character, wardrobe, and workmanship.

You must admit, Ty has it pretty good. He gets paid to build awesome things for deserving people. He's a handyman with a heart. He carries that show. His job matters. There is no Extreme Makeover: Home Edition without Ty Pennington.

Hubs has a pipe dream to overthrow Ty's reign. While I am usually supportive of my husband's hopes and dreams (you know, within reason), I cannot say that I fully agree with the idea that he could do the job better than Ty. And here's why.

Top Five Reasons Why Hubs is No Ty Pennington:

1) Ty is friendly.

Hubs? Not so much. He's a little prickly on the outside. He is polite and kind, but reserved until you get to know him. He's not the sort of guy a perfect stranger would run up to and bear-hug. I make fun of him all the time for thinking things are "ridiculous" and "getting a little out of hand." (Particularly when it involves me leaving the house without fixing him a snack.) His favorite expression is "What the heck is going on around here" when he is forced to dig through the clean clothes basket to find a tank top that he feels should already be folded and put away in his drawer. Did I mention he fancies sticking his lower jaw out in a bulldog-esque grimace when he's irritated, and his normal facial expression resides somewhere between "bemused" and "I don't like you."

2) Ty is not afraid to act silly.

There is absolutely no way that Hubs would do the on-the-job clowning and hamming it up that is Ty's TV persona. Hubs does not dance around (unless he is trying to get my attention in the comfort of our own home when no one else is looking... oh wow, I feel a new blog coming on, with his "hand dances" as the topic.) Also, hubs does not wear funny outfits. He does not do cartoon-ish voices. At best, he baby-talks on occasion, but we will keep that to ourselves because, trust me, if I filmed that and put it on national television, well, you'd be more likely to see Hubs starring on an episode of America's Most Wanted instead.

*This is as close to "dressing up" as hubs is gonna get. (And it's only because OSHA requires him to.)

*And here you see Ty Pennington goofing around and being funny at work.

3) Ty is a heartthrob.

This is up for debate, obviously. I happen to find Ty Pennington very handsome. Of course, I also think that Hubs is one fine male specimen, but in a completely different way. Hubs does not artfully spike his hair, he runs his hand thru it and it stands wherever he wants, but I can assure you, hubs does not use mousse, or agonize over his hair, or think about it once he leaves the bathroom. Hubs does not accessorize with large amounts of man-jewelry. He does not spray tan. And, after a long day's work, Hubs ACTUALLY LOOKS DIRTY. VERY dirty.

*OK, who am I kidding, hubs is a freakin heart throb, I must say. But this pic wasn't taken while he was busy building something. He really isn't all that friendly when he's working.

4) Ty is a team player.

While Ty might be the team LEADER, he very much appreciates the input and efforts of his design team. He lets them do their separate projects, and lavishes praise on the final products. Hubs is the typical do-it-yourself-er. He likes to work alone, and takes pride in what he does. (Plus, I also think he likes to be able to guilt trip me about how I don't help him.) But, hubs has also been foreman of very large construction sites for many years and well, plainly put, hes an alpha male and is, at times, bossy. (Oh who am I kidding, hubs is always bossy.) He gives orders, he doesn't take them, or compromise, or ask for anyone's input. And if he was expected to play paddy-cake with his inferiors by asking their opinion he would most def think things were "ridiculous", "getting out of hand" and wonder "what the heck is going on around here." Just sayin.

*hubs getting things done at work and looking all scary boss while he's at it!

5) Ty could sell lumber to a beaver.

Extreme Makeover operates largely due to retail sponsorship. Home goods stores and companies donate to the cause in exchange for a tiny bit of advertising time during the build. Ty fully supports this and plugs different businesses left and right with ease. Hubs would have HUGE boots to fill and NUMEROUS asses to kiss. I don't know if he's up for the additional challenge. Oh no. Hubs is better left whipping out the company credit card and paying for his supplies, cause he is not gonna chase some wall paper exec around town with a little umbrella (sans Bentley Farnsworth.)

*Ty the butt kisser

My husband is a handy dude. Make no mistake. I will never go homeless or cold because I think hubs could build a house in a week. And he can make just about anything light up and turn on (no pun intended.) And I have full confidence. It's everything ELSE that goes along with the job that I'm worried about.

So, if anyone would be interested in an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition episode where there is no Ty Pennington, no design team, and no blatant advertising, Hubs would be the perfect host.

Just so long as you're aware of what you'd be watching: a show about a big dirty sweaty guy who builds you a beautiful house while running around yelling at people and being scowly.

I'd tune in for sure. He gets pretty creative with the profanities.

The Price of Fame

So it goes, folks, so it goes....

I logged into Blogger Friday thinking maybe I'd have 1 or 2 hits on my day old post about how "Stupid People Upset Me."

I had 96. I kid you not.

So I think to myself "What the....? This must be a mistake." But no, my friends, it wasn't. And I couldn't figure out how I suddenly became so popular (aside from the possibility of my witty and adorable bloggy-ness FINALLY getting the recognition it deserved in some sort of light-up-the-bat-signal kind of way.)

Then I glanced at my cell phone (still on silent and plugged into the wall from the night before) blinking furiously that I had new messages (both voice and text.)

Hmmmm.... should I be concerned?

Now, I have no delusions about the fact that anyone can randomly click on my blog and read it. But, that many? Wow. So after pondering this for a few minutes and scratching my head I checked my voice mail. Ughhh oh.

Color me surprised.

At this point, I learn that fame sometimes deals you a tough hand. It's not for everyone, the spotlight. No sir. Not for the faint of heart. Sometimes, people want to flatter them self and, in the process, get a little too convinced you are blogging about them. Oh, and then they call your ex husband. And cuss at him. And tell him he needs to (and I quote) "MAKE YOUR EX WIFE STOP WRITING BLOGS!"

*gasp shock horror*

So there you have it. Apparently my blog caused my ex husband to get cussed out by a woman whom he has never met. A woman he has never met but has apparently developed a fondness for him. Ok, now the 96 clicks is making a little more sense. Keep in mind the ex is not by any means interested in my blog and probably never would have known it existed had his sister this woman's friend not seen it and emailed it to the elusive woman, whom in turn brought his attention to it, but boy did she ever. Apparently she was hopping mad and the ex had to pay for it. And I must admit, I was enjoying it to no end. Random readers and scorned women, I think you are fabulous and you are solely to blame for my narcissist personality, oh yes, you sure are.

But here is the thing that I must make clear... Never, in the 35 years the ex has been alive, has he been able to keep me from doing something. Oh no. He's tried, oh has he ever, but succeeded in putting a muzzle on me? IT. WILL. NEVER. HAPPEN. Bless his heart. But, the ex accepts this. And laughs when someone asks him too. And shakes his head. And calls me and says "Girl, what am I gonna do wit ya mouth. It gets me in more trouble than a lil bit." And then he hangs up and does something really productive, like loading up his laundry for Chloe' to wash in my machine when I'm not looking.

However, the story gets better, oh, its the gift that keeps on giving.

Apparently, the woman whom the ex has never met, but apparently has developed a fondness for him, also decided she would tattle to hubs. Yes, you heard right. Did hubs get hit up on his facebook? Why yes, yes he did. Here is an expert that he so kindly forwarded to me:

"I don't know what is going on but your wife is so utterly obsessed with blogging about me"

(bla, bla, bla, silly stuff, bla, bla, bla,)

"it has gotten to the point where she is posting my name all over the net. I would appreciate it if you take care of this matter for me. Thank you and have a blessed day."

Huh? Let me go back and read "Stupid People Upset Me." In fact, lets all do so....

Here's the link so you don't have to go search my blog....

**side note: Pay special attention to #5 at the bottom of the blog, because I feel like that is more than likely what riled her into a frenzy. Just a hunch, mind you, but I'm going with it....

http://inmyhiheels.blogspot.com/2010/07/stupid-people-upset-me.html


Do I ever mention anyone by name or even a specific person? No, no I do not. Apparently someone has a guilty conscience and took offense. Should I be blamed? No, no I should not.

So hubs responds and tells this woman he is not sure what she is talking about but sees nothing that mentions her. Did she give up there? Oh no. Theres more. Here goes some of the highlights of her next response to hubs (also a man whom she has never met and who, has no desire to receive messages from):

**excuse the spelling, by the way, because this yahoo's spelling is ALL OVER THE PLACE....

"Trust me she just erased it. I don't go on her page at all I was notified by phone calls about them. I have the blog in my mail just can't forward it at the moment. Anyways thanks for talking to her about it and I am sure that although she denied it..."

(bla, bla, yawn, more bla, bla)

"Sad I had to reach out to you yet I don't know her but she has made me her daily bread. As for reading anyones pages I don't do any of that if she wouldn't have ever posted my name no one would've ever known She is tahking time on the net to try to cause problems and my children as well as family and coworkerd read it. Thanks for having a talk with her. Have a blessed day. I appreciate it."

(More Bla, bla, this is getting redundant, bla bla, silly girl that doesn't like my blog, bla, bla )

"Thank you and have a nice day. I don't look at her page and could care less. You guys have a nice life and goodluck. As for Mike I could care less because I don't know him either. Take care and goodbye. Once again thanks"

Hmmmm.... erased my blog? Nope. Its still there.

Made her my daily bread? What does that even mean? I mean, it kinda sounds like something you would hear at church. It also makes me a little hungry for something starchy. But yea, ummm, unless you come bearing expensive gifts for me or look like Johnny Depp, I'm not interested in making you the focus of my day.

She could care less about Mike and doesn't know him?" Hmmm.... now that's a tricky one, but since I only have one ex... hmmmm.... so confusing, this lady.

Anyhoo....

Raise your hand if you think hubs "had a talk with me" and/or has any desire to entertain this woman's low self esteem?

Nope. Didn't happen. Did he ask if I was writing about her? Yep. Did he glance over my blog? Sure did. Did he walk off mumbling under his breath about stupid women and why she was contacting him (all the while opening up a new bag of pistachios and settling in his recliner to watch some stupid nascar documentary?) Yes, yes he did.

So hear is the lowdown people, I fancy myself a writer. (In my own way. I'm no Sylvia Plath, I realize.) I am my own editor. (Aside from spellcheck, which at times I could just kiss. Especially after a couple glasses of wine on Drunk Mondays.) I am my own publisher. And the Internet is my bookstore. Library? Whatever.

Point is? Don't like reading my blog? You can stop anytime. Everyone else? Hope you like what you read. I do it for free.

Oh, and I do it for me. If you don't like it, call my ex husband and complain. I'm sure that will get you far.

Sometimes

Once upon a time, oh in say 2008, I stumbled upon a poem a long ago ex-girlfriend of hubs wrote about him AFTER he was married to me. Some of you may remember me ranting and fuming about it for hours days after. Well, being the savvy wife-who-never-forgets-a-thing kinda girl that I am, I stumbled upon this literary trainwreck she called a poem in some long forgotten computer file of mine I had of-so-cleverly named "nonsense from Ugly Betty" (Yea, yea, I know.)

Anyhoo...

While her "poem" titled "Sometimes" was all about losing that one perfect man that no other will ever measure up to (obviously she was seeing hubs thru rose tinted glasses, cause let me tell you, he's not oh-so-perfect like she seems to think. Have I ever mentioned that putting dirty laundry in the hamper goes against everything hubs stands for?) The poem painfully lurks along whining about how she probably can not go on (LIES! Shes still around) because she handed her fragile heart to hubs only to have him toss it aside for yours truly. (Did I mention I met him FOUR YEARS after he unceremoniously dumped her like a bad habit for catching her in a state of undress with another man?) Moving right along...

Her sentences that don't rhyme poem made me start to think. No, not about how hubs is perfect, *giggling to myself about that one** but about what I would write if I decided to make a blog entitled "Sometimes" using sentences that didn't rhyme. Here goes....

"Sometimes"

Sometimes, I wait days before I fold my clean laundry.

Sometimes, I order take-out instead of going to the grocery store.

Sometimes, I dream about telling certain people what I really think of them to their face.

And instead I put it in a blog that they may or may not read.

But I'm not stopping there.

Sometimes, I go to bed hungry. Because hubs made an off handed remark earlier in the day about my "big ole butt" right before slapping it.

Sometimes, or rather, quite often, I go shopping. Because it makes me feel better about a bad day.

And every now and again, I don't like my life. Because my kids drive me crazy and I daydream of being on an island. A deserted one.

Scared yet?

I am. A little.

But I'm still not done.

Sometimes More often than not, my purse is more cluttered than most diaper bags.

And sometimes I skip shaving my legs for days and have to sneak off and do it real quick when hubs comes home from work and can't seem to stop following me around the house looking for attention only a wife can give him.

And, I'm not even going to say "sometimes" on this one.... because I never vacuum under my furniture.

Actually, I don't vacuum. Ever. I pay two ladies that are far older than me and probably way more over worked and tired than I am to do it.

Sometimes, I feel like I am wrong for that.

I'm afraid of needles, not sometimes, but always.

Sometimes I have little patience.

I let hubs hang a really big T.V. in my bedroom, when I really wanted it to be a quiet sanctuary. And sometimes I wish I hadn't

Sometimes I wear ugly underwear, because the sexy lace ones just seem less than comfortable.

Sometimes I think married couples who brag about being "overly sexually active" are lying.

Sometimes my socks don't match and I could care less.

I don't know how to cook and sometimes I feel like I should make an effort to learn.

Sometimes I mentally balance my checkbook in church.

You still with me? Still wanna know what the heck is going on around here?

Here's the thing: I've been emboldened.

I've been bolstered by the seeming obscurity of the world wide web and doubt anyone is interested in what I say, so why not be open, brutal, nitty-gritty and sometimes-painfully honesty?

You see, blogging has created an outlet where I can just say what comes to my mind. And then I can turn off the computer and wander off to watch the Oxygen Channel.

And why not?

Sometimes, you just have to say what's on your mind, even if no one is home to hear you.

And guess what else.

Sometimes, I crave chicken wings and hot dogs more than I crave salads.

And sometimes, I wear old, ratty sweatpants to bed, even though my husband hates them.

And yet, I don't know if you all know that.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I cry when I find out one of you is pregnant, because I am so happy.

I don't know if you all know that sometimes, I spend a lot of money on cute designer clothes when I probably should put extra money on my student loans.

And sometimes, I look around and wonder how I got here. And if my kids will be screwed up because I divorced their dad.

Maybe I'm self-censoring. Maybe I'm playing my own version of "Keeping Up With The Joneses." And maybe I should just put my full-on reality out there for you all to see.

Because really, while I want my girlfriends to come to my blog and find laughs and love, I also want you all to come here and find truth.

My truth. All of our truths.

And not just because we all need to say them, but because sometimes, we all need to hear them.

We need to hear that we all are self-conscious; that we all drink too much coffee; that we all are too tired to humor our husbands sometimes.

Sometimes we need to hear it.

To know we're not alone. To know that in all honesty, there's nothing wrong with any of us. To know that any blog "rant" or "vent" will be accepted and forgiven if necessary.

Because we're all human.

And we're not perfect. And neither are our husbands, no matter what some obsolete ex-girlfriend might choose to believe.

Never Leave Hubs Home Alone

Last week my grandpa got sick and went into the hospital. Obviously I went to visit him (two days in a row) and hubs did not accompany me. Further, my brother is visiting from Virginia (where he is finishing up law school) and we have much alcohol to drink catching up to do at Chilis. Between these two happenings, I have been preoccupied with things other than seeing that hubs eats properly five times a day. (Imagine that!)

If hubs were one to keep track, (he is, oh let me tell you, he sure is) this is not the first time (recently) that I have ventured out of the house alone and left Hubs to his own devices, and let me tell you, it's wearing on him. He doesn't do "alone time" well.

I'm the kind of person who enjoys a little time to herself for introspective purposes, i.e. shopping without having to hide purchases in the trunk of the car (which he seems to find when he accompanys me to Target), unlimited Bravo channel watching, and Pei Wei dinners for one.

Hubs? Not so much. If I'm not around, he usually heads over to his mothers house to lament about how I'm gone again and no one loves him and he's neglected and discriminated against and potentially will never make a full recovery from this unprecedented magnitude of betrayal.

(Translation: He sulks around on her couch and watches TV. JUST LIKE HE COULD DO AT HOME.)

Also, time seems to stop or at least stand still while I'm gone. I know this because I come home and all of the lights are on and all of the cabinet doors in the kitchen are open, as though someone was in the middle of a well-lit ransack of our house and suddenly got called away to attend to something extremely important.

(Probably some random muscle car race on cable.)

It is because of this virtual space-time continuum problem that when I do finally arrive home hubs makes it impossible for me to sleep because at 12:15 am hubs has now remembered he did not eat while I was out and is now ravishingly food depraved. Unfortunately, a hot meal is not currently available to him and wasn't 5 hours earlier, either, since it in now apparant that food cannot be cooked while I am gone or even purchased from a drive-thru on the way home from his mother's.

And since hubs is spoiled above and beyond belief, he is struggling to comprehend a world where a midnight snack isn't readily available, thus leading him to toss and turn and mumble about how life is not fair and my evenings away from home are getting both "out of hand" and "quite ridiculous" in his opinion.

The reality of this is: the hubs ate 1/2 a bag of hot fries, a handful of pistachios, 2 peices of sliced cheese and 2 twinkies 3 hours ago and will eat again at 9 am when I am forced to drag myself out of bed to warm him up 2 Jimmy Dean sausage biscuts in an exhausted stupor because he kept me up half the night whining. Oh, and because he claims he is unsure how to work the microwave, what with all the buttons and such. (Did I mention he is an electician that has, in his day, WIRED MICROWAVE OVENS INTO HOMES AND BEEN PAID GOOD MONEY TO DO IT?)

Anyhoo...

On the flip side of all of this, I AM glad to be home. And I'm hoping that this week will bring new and exciting opportunities for me to leave the house and traumatize the hubs.

Goals, folks. IT'S ALL ABOUT GOALS.

So, I'm A Liar. Get Over It.

Any girl who says she does not lie to her husband once in awhile is completely full of crap.

(Seriously.)

I lie to Hubs on a daily basis. Not about anything important, of course.

(Usually.)

There's a lot of "Sure, that sounds great!" and "No, I'm not mad" and "It's fine, I'll do it myself"'s, but every once in awhile things get a little interesting and I'm forced to use a very small part of my brain in order to come up with some half-baked scheme that doesn't even sound true in my head.

I'm not exactly sure WHY I do it, because I put very little effort into it, and as a result, he always catches me. Or, nearly always.

HUBS: (coming into the bathroom while I'm in the shower) Hey! Are you using my razor?

ME: No!

HUBS: It's in your hand.

ME: Umm...I ran out of mine.

HUBS: (pulling a brand new pack out of the cabinet) Oh, really?

ME: Damn it.

***

I'm not sure exactly what possesses me to fib about things that are so inconsequential. I guess I just feel like it's easier than getting into the nitty gritty details of why I did or did not do whatever I'm lying about.

ME: *yawning* Just leave the dishes. I'll do them in the morning.

HUBS: (skeptically) Right.

ME: I will! First thing.

HUBS: No you won't.

ME: It really makes me upset that you have so little faith in me.

**day passes, Hubs comes home from work**

HUBS: So. The dishes?

ME: Damn it.

***

I would like to point out, for the record, that Hubs is also guilty of the occasional omission of truth. And his are far less convincing. Mainly because he can't keep a straight face even when he's not lying.

ME: Hey, can you get (some inane item) out of the garage for me?

HUBS: *silence* *crickets*

ME: Hello?

HUBS: I'm sorry, what? I didn't hear you.

ME: *frown* Yes you did.

HUBS: No, really. I didn't. Did you say something?

ME: *even bigger frown*

HUBS: What did you say about going to the garage?

ME: I thought you didn't hear me.

HUBS: Uhm.

***

Obviously, I don't condone lying to your spouse when it comes to IMPORTANT topics, like fidelity, debt, or your favorite American Idol contestants, but I will readily admit that I find it very useful to implement the "little white lie" into daily life, especially when dealing with unfortunate misplaced items that he saw you with last or the occasional forgotten chore.

In fact, I don't even like to call it "lying." I prefer to say "smoothing the marital plane."

As in "Are you kidding me? I LOVE watching 'How It's Made' with you! I don't find it mind numbing or useless AT ALL!"

Best. Wife. Ever.

How Could I Ever Forget?

You know how sometimes you'll see or or hear something that will stick with you for days?

You're not really sure why, there's just a part of it that lodges itself into the back of your throat, and recalling it will trigger a feeling you can't describe, like it's made up of one part uneasy, one part sad, one part disbelief.

You wish you could put your finger on it, on what EXACTLY that feeling is, and why you can't shake it. But you can't. And it can only fade gradually. And sometimes not at all.

I had that experience this week. When a Puff Daddy song came on. You know, the one he wrote when Biggie died. OK, that sounds corny when written down (or typed, whatever) but moving right along.

In 2005, I was twenty nine years old. I had a job I was bored with, a waitress-sized chip on my shoulder, and a husband I was less than happy with 99% of the time.

I stayed up late and drank way too much caffeine. I tried to have a devil-may-care attitude towards life, but in reality all I wanted was an end to the constant fighting at my house, complete and utter devotion from a man who loved me, and maybe a smaller car payment because I was tired of working overtime.

I measured time in days until the weekend, trying to keep the kids happy when I felt like I was spreading myself too thin, grabbing sleep when I could because insomnia was kicking my butt and scribbling furiously in my mental notebook about how miserable my life was, bla, bla, bla.

The soundtrack of life that year was any song on the radio that I could drown my "life is not fair" mantra with.

I remember that everything seemed so important, a parking ticket, a high electricity bill, a grouchy spouse.

I remember missing the phone call that afternoon. Then seeing the news break in while Judge Judy was on that a child had been hit by a car in Arlington. Then checking my voice mail and hearing my aunts voice. Then being shell-shocked in front of the television , holding my phone. And the T.V. resuming it's regularly scheduled program.

When something that seemed like life or death pales in comparison with ACTUAL life or death, you're forced to reevaluate. And you don't always like what you come up with.

I remember vowing to make better choices if God would let him live. I prayed as though there were some patron saint of belated resolutions, that if this were just a dream, I'd never use a four letter word again or throw a coffee mug at Mike's head. I'd never ever ditch church again.

Unimportant promises from a confused, almost 30, overworked and under-appreciative church-skipper don't add up to much in the grand scheme of things, but doing penance seemed the least that should be done for such a magnitude of loss.

I had that feeling that day, and for weeks afterwards. Choking, unbearable at times. Heavy pressure on my chest. The weight of the world never distributed so unevenly.

But thats what happens when someone you have known since their birth, someone you share grandparents with, and exchange notes with at church, someone that you laugh with at inappropriate jokes and expect to be there forever, dies. Particularly, when that someone is just a child. A child that was healthy the instant before he was hit by a truck while spending the afternoon in the sunshine on his bike.

Stupid People Upset Me

OK, so I'm not the smartest person in the world. I can accept that. However, I have a very low tolerance for stupid people. And clearly, because of this, I'm plagued by them.

I don't think that a society with a reasonable median intelligence is too much to ask, do you? I'm not even talking about education, just...humanity? Satisfactory level of social skills? Basic reading comprehension? Some spelling knowledge (or at the very least utilizing spell check before attempting to tell someone off on a social media website.) You know, maybe some average common sense and awareness?

Apparently it IS too much to ask for, because the majority of the population is severely lacking. At the very least, I expect people to have my competence level or greater. That's all. I'm not asking for everyone to be a rocket scientist!

Here is a list of things I cannot do, and therefore should not be expected of your average, everyday person.

1.Fill in all the states on a map of the U.S.-- Seriously, who needs to do that besides like...I dunno, geographers or something? Besides, I always forget one or two, like that pesky New Hampshire or illusive Indiana. Where the hell are those anyway?

2.Ride a bike. Unnecessary. Actually, I don't think people should bicycle. Period. Mainly because it's irritating to me when I'm driving and some Lance Armstrong wanna-be is tooling along on his ten speed, sightseeing like it's a Sunday afternoon.

3.Solve mathematical equations requiring more than a 10th grade algebra class in order to complete. Unless you are an engineer, this is most likely useless. Once again, I am basing my rant on the general population. See also: why graphing calculators can kick rocks.

That's all I can think of at the moment; I'm sure there are other things, because clearly I'm not completely perfect. Now, to counterbalance this rant, here are a couple things I expect of society...AT THE VERY LEAST.

1.DO NOT, under any circumstances, quibble with the store cashier regarding any amount under $1.00. Chances are, I am in line behind you, and therefore I will never get back the 10 minutes of my life you wasted by making the check-out guy re-evaluate whether or not you were overcharged for your 75 T.V. dinners.

2.Please keep your eyes on the road while driving. Although I am guilty of many driving indiscretions, taking a tour of my purse or staring in the complete opposite direction than the car is going are not among them (at least not usually.)

3.If your opinion on life is in any way racist, homophobic, bigoted, or just plain irritating, please keep it to yourself. If I cared what you thought, I'd ask. Or not. My kids are not 100% white and although you may not realize it, being racist then apologizing when you learn that little tid bit of information is too little too late as far as I'm concerned. Just sayin. Oh, and please don't reproduce and spawn evil little mini-yous, either. Thank you.

4.In public: If I don't know you, you don't know me, and I'm vigilantly avoiding eye contact, it might not be the best time to a) strike up a conversation about your personal life, with details that make me vomit in my mouth a little b) ask me for money c) start leering in a way that makes me look around nervously for the nearest law enforcement officer.

5. If you are a complete stranger to me but check my blog/facebook/myspace because you are interested in my ex-husband, then you are already a proven creeper and you should find something better to do. If you are a complete stranger wanting to date my ex-husband and you read something on my blog/facebook/myspace and it makes you mad, well, you shouldn't be reading it in the first place. But, if you do, don't call him and complain or I can assure you he will tell me and I will more than likely laugh at you on one of the aforementioned public internet sights for a long time into the future. Actually, I can guarantee you he will tell me and I will get great amusement out of it and probably taunt you for some time to make you madder. I'm immature like that. But most importantly, if you are a complete stranger stalking my personal corner of the internet and I say something to offend you, under no circumstances should you threaten to fight me or I will forever bring it up long after you have lived to regret saying it. I mean, really, 35 year old women threatening to fight complete strangers because of comments made on facebook is not cute. Really. Don't do it. Ever. Or forever be the punch line of a million jokes by a girl that is laughing too hard at you too be even remotely scared.

But I'm optimistic about the future. Really.


**This is my "I know tae-bo" look. Be warned.**

Opposites Really Do Attract

Every once in awhile, I remember that Hubs and I don't have all that much in common.

I'm sure you're shocked, but let me explain.

(Actually, if you've been reading this blog AT ALL, you're probably not even a little bit shocked. Hubs isn't big on pink. Or wearing pajamas until the 5:00 news comes on. That's 5pm not am. Just sayin.)

Here are the basics:

We are both white (Yup, I bagged a white guy!) We were both born and raised in Texas (minus a brief stint in OK for me.) We both love going out for dinner and we both think I am fabulous.

The similarities, which might seem substantial on paper, end there.

Hubs is an electrician. I've said before that I believe he has electricity coursing through his veins. His passions are all things lighting and neon and anything else that requires electricity. Seriously, he has changed out every bulb in our house to daybright white... even above the mirrror in my bathroom! Do I like that? Not so much.

Champagne gives him heartburn, while I could gulp an entire bottle and sleep like a baby. He likes to exercize. No, really, he enjoys it! He owns every tool that is sold at Home Depot and he loves being outdoors and puttering around in the garage. (Seriously. He does all sorts of weird stuff in that garage. Welding, random construction, home improvement projects, car repairs. I never know what to expect when I occasionally venture out there.)

He is not a reader, unless its a manual of some sort and he will read those directions from cover to cover. He likes rock, metal, and the occassional gangster rap. He mainly watches the Discovery Channel. He does not like sports unless his home team is winning, then he might just get some super bowl fever. It's hard for him to sleep in past 9 am. He knows a little bit about everything. He has a strong back and big hands. If it's fixable, he will fix it. He is happiest in board shorts and flip flops.

And me? Well...I'm an indoor girl.

(No one is surprised.)

I'm a voracious reader, easily reading a couple books a week. I like bars that have pricey appetizers and require you to put on a little mascara and heels. I watch a ridiculous amount of TV. I like to stay up till 3 am and then sleep until noon. I don't understand why people like to get dirty. It takes me 3 hours to get ready to go to a small gathering with friends.

I can quote Shakespeare and knit you a scarf (but don't ask me too, cause I have way too much internet surfing to do.) I love sitting by the lake or riding shotgun in a boat, but never under any circumstances will I touch a fish. Or bait. Nope. Not gonna happen. My favorite shoes have a three inch heel. I spend a ridiculous amount of time on my hair and what necklace goes with which purse. I consider fashion magazines and gossip blogs "research". I enjoy literary and pop culture references. I hate to clean and I can't cook at all. I love cheesy pop rock (think Britney.)
I love any movies or books with a gay man as the lead character.

I've had relationships before where the amount of common ground was much greater.

(I mean, you know, my old boyfriends didn't wear STILETTOS, but at least we had punk rock, pop culture, literature, and insomnia to bind us.)

(Oh, and rebellion. Let's not forget that.)

Obviously, those relationships didn't work out so well.

We do not have an abundance of similar tastes. We are hot-tempered and easily provoked and occasionally unforgiving.

(I guess we have more in common than previously stated.)

I think, as you get older, that shared interests in trivial things take a backseat to having the same vision for your future. We embrace our differences. We want a baby, but can't seem to slow down long enough to really focus on that. We love that life together is never boring. We are in it for the long haul, no matter what. I really believe that.

(Seriously. I got it right the second time around and I'm sticking to it.)

Fifty years from now? I see Hubs and I together, old as dirt, annoying each other just like we do now, perhaps having walker-races down the hallway and bitching about who used the last bit of denture glue.

(Hey, it's not everyone's idea of their ideal golden years, but it's mine, okay? JUST GO WITH IT.)

Not my finest moments

Sometimes I do stuff, that when thinking back on them, kinda make me feel embarassed for me. However, if you can't laugh at yourself, then who can you laugh at, ya know?

(Some might argue that this ENTIRE BLOG is composed of ridiculous stuff that I do, and to that I say: Probably.)

I'll just give you the most recent top four, because I believe that there should be a statute of limitations on these things. And because I can't remember anything that happened before last week.


Rachael's Top Four Most Recent Ridiculous/Embarrassing Moments:

1) I decided to be productive and therefore put a load of towels into the washing machine. As I took a step backwards the back of my knees bumped into the overflowing clothes basket behind me causing me to sit down directly into the basket, propelling my head backwards (hard) and smacking it on the garage door (of which the Hubs was behind spending time with "the other woman" in his man cave.) In complete horror I flung myself forward out of the basket (as quick as I could considering I had to unbury myself from the dirty laundry) then lunged myself forward onto my hands and knees and crawled across the laundry room floor, around the door and into the hallway in an attempt to avoid being seen when hubs opened the door thinking someone had knocked on it. I found myself chasing 2 aleve with a coke (which Im not suppossed to be drinking) 5 minutes later thanks to the blow to the head I took on the door!

2) I chased my tiny dog, George, around for ten minutes trying to give him a kiss. I even sang him a song in an attempt to lure him to me. Apparently, he is not wooed by Kelly Clarkson. Even Beatle looked disapproving, and he normally loves this type of thing.

3) I folded laundry and I started to put it away, but I left some of it, just like, socks, and a couple pairs of my underwear, on the couch. (I'm bad about doing this.) When I came home everything was gone, and in causal conversation, Hubs said that our neighbor had come over unannounced. I know that my underwear was on the couch but I don't want to ask Hubs if he shoved it under the couch cushion BEFORE or AFTER the neighbor walked in because I don't really want to know the answer. AT ALL.

4) I went to McDonald's, felt guilty about it, and then lied to the drive-thru lady and tried to convince her that it was for "my husband's lunch and that's why I need extra BBQ sauce" even though obviously she could care less and me lying wouldn't change the fact that I just shoved a 6-piece Chicken McNugget meal directly into my face. Her knowing look said she wasn't fooled.


What's the most embarrassing thing YOU'VE done lately?

Dear 17 Year Old Rachael

Hey, it's me. Us. At 34. Don't be scared.

A couple things, I guess, before I get started. In the coming year? Our senior year? The year we promised to have school spirit, and go to prom and have a fabulous final year. It didn't happen. You got pregnant. October 1, 1993 is going to kick you in the teeth and you will feel lost and confused and like everything is over. Don't beat yourself up. People will tell you not to keep your baby. Or to at least put him up for adoption. You never consider it. And it was the first grown-up decision we make. And the smartest one. Things get better. A million times better. And that little baby is going to grow up with you. And will make you so ridiculously proud and happy.

The whole college thing? I know you think we're going to T.C.U. to study law right out of high school. It's what we planned. And we already talked to the guidance counselor and visited the campus. It's also what we probably should've done. But we don't. And although it'll seem like things are falling apart right in front of your eyes, it all works out. For the best, even.

Oh by the way? You're a horrible driver. And you don't get better over the next 15 years.

I know you think you're fat right now, but it gets better. I mean, you get skinnier. Of course, you also waste some of the hottest years of your life on the wrong guy, but more on that later.

Prom? Nope. Don't get your hopes up. You have a baby that night. Well, actually he comes the following morning. But you were in active labor on prom night.

First year of college will be really hard. Actually, ALL of college will be really hard because you are working a full time job. And having more babies. And what should have taken 4 years, takes 5 1/2. But you do it.

Oh, your first love. Thought maybe I could skim right over him but I might as well tell you. It doesn't work out. You get more kids out of the deal. But you end up divorced after 14 years. And it hurts like a bitch. But you'll be okay. And you end up good friends. Really good friends. Better than when you were married.

You'll be okay.

On the upside: you have amazing friends. You and Trish have been friends for how long now? 21 years? And you have Jessica, and Pam, and Stacy and your brothers and sisters (Oh, yea, you like them now. Honestly, you really do enjoy their company.) And you have all these new and amazing people in your life that we don't even know right now. Plus, Leslie has Abby. Just wait til you meet her!

And your career evolves and takes you to all kinds of places. You work with children who are in foster care and their parents who want them back. And you help them. And you make a difference. So don't freak out about college too much, cuz not only do you go, you finish.

You will support yourself and be stronger than you ever realized, because even though Mom bugged us a lot (and occasionally still does), she taught us to stand up for our self and good old dad taught us to be self-sufficient and to get our education above all else, cause no one can ever take knowledge away.

Keep writing. You love it. You are fairly good at it. And people will pay you to do it. (How awesome is that!?!)

You'll love the little house you buy at 19 that's all ours, and the kids that keep you from being lonely, even though you'll wonder if 23 is too young to be a mommy of 2.

Oh, the places you'll go: Washington DC (three times with your brother) Salt Lake City & Colorado (skiing with Mike) Las Vegas, Mexico, Shreveport & Corpus Christi (with Eric) ...it'll be good times.

And you'll meet the Hubs. Yea, you may wonder who this "Eric" mentioned above is. He's the one that was always intended for you. You will be ridiculously happy and you will have yourself to thank for that. You will be educated and self sufficient and content with your life the first time he lays eyes on you. And everything will fall into place. Weird, huh?

I won't spoil the rest for you but I'll tell you this: I think the best is yet to come.

So be a good girl, 17 year old Rachael. Cuz I've seen the future, and I'm pretty sure we need to rest up.

**17 Year old us

A penny saved is one step closer to new tank tops.

So yesterday hubs and I decided to take a trip to Target, or as I like to call it: Store-Full-of-Things-I-Want-But-Don't-Really-Need.

(Seriously. Ya'll know what I'm talking about. Don't lie.)

Target is one of those dangerous places where it's easy to lose an hour or two. I usually can't walk under that neon bullseye sign without spending $100. A few staples, like toothpaste and toilet paper, a pair of pajama pants, some trail mix, a bag of whatever-holiday-is closest candy, an extension cord, a Wii game, a pair of flip flops, a set of pillowcases... it adds up fast.

When I go with Hubs, we try to moderate each other. Do I really NEED that purple patent leather wallet? (Yes.) Does he really NEED new socks? (No. Not if it means I don't get my wallet.) Does he NEED coffee? (No.) Does my baby puppy NEED a new sweater? (Of course.)

All kidding aside (you know, as much as I EVER put "all kidding aside"), hubs is trying to watch what my spending these days. Target is like the antithesis of that plan.

(Life goal #345 checked off. "Use 'antithesis' in a blog post.")

(And SERIOUSLY? Charging $15 for a plastic stick that YOU PEE ON AND THEN DISCARD is highway robbery. I'm buying a rabbit next time.)

(I mean, by the time I actually GET PREGNANT, we'll have spent all of the poor kid's college fund on PEE FILLED PLASTIC.)

(Just kidding. There's no college fund for the baby we may or may not conceive. lol)

Anyway, we managed to get out of Target for less than $125, which is practically a record, only to be accosted by donation-seekers right outside the door.

Tip for solicitors: Go ask for money outside of some place where people don't spend a lot. Like the Dollar Store. They'll be much more likely to give it to you if their whole shopping trip cost less than a latte.

(P.S. I donate to things all the time. I'm not completely without a heart. But unless your charity is accepting overpriced pregnancy tests in lieu of cash, I don't know what to tell you. Try me in a couple weeks.)

Anyhoo...

Hubs goes to put our huge bounty costing $125 few paltry items on which we spent a fortune into the trunk of the car, and something blue caught my eye. SOMETHING FROM A WEEK AGO THAT I HAD TOTALLY FORGOTTEN ABOUT. I immediately slid into the passenger's seat and looked out the window.

HUBS: (looking over the top of the car directly into the rearview mirror) Are there clothes in the trunk?

ME: Hmm? What?

HUBS: In your trunk. Is that a bag of new clothes?

ME: Uhm. No. Yes.

HUBS: *eyebrow raise*

ME: Just, like, a shirt. Or two. And-some-headbands-and-a-couple-of-those-strapless-cotton-bras-which-are-a-total-necessity.

HUBS: Uh huh.

The moral of my story is this: You can totally buy yourself $40 worth of new clothes when you're supposed to be saving money, and hide them in your trunk until you forget about them and your husband finds them, because he will have bought $60 worth of fishing bait two days before and will have no room to criticize.

(Plus, he will have no actual fish to show for it, while you will have two similar yet very different pink tanktops.)

However, you will immediately feel guilty about not donating to the solicitors' worthy cause.

But then you will look at your Target receipt and start yelling about how you just spent OVER $30 ON THINGS RELATED TO URINE, and then you'll just feel sorry for yourself.

Who knew that one shopping trip could be so very, very complicated?

Growing Old Up

There are days when I HATE being a responsible adult.

(I'm using the terms "responsible" and "adult" loosely. But still.)

Now that my life is on it's way to being over since I'm pushing thirty-five thirty, I'm basking in the lovely glow of my late twenties, there are ALL KINDS of things I want to do but I can't.

(I guess it's not so much "want to do RIGHT NOW", and more of "wish I still had the option", but it's annoying nonetheless.)

Today, for example, there were numerous things I considered and dismissed because I'm old, crotchety, and set in my ways too conscientious, and am aware of many new developments of alarming new behaviors that are at war in my head.

I will list them for you:

1) I saw some fabulous boots. I wanted them so bad that I was willing to sell my body all of my worldly possessions in order to get them. (Or put them on hubs credit card.) But I didn't. Because I probably would've felt guilty, and then I wouldn't enjoy them. (Plus, I would have gotten another lecture from hubs.)

2) I then spent the rest of the evening google searching the aforementioned boots hoping I'd find them for a great deal, or find something similar. I found this. (Le sigh. Le shudder. Le KNOCKOFF.) However, I'd already managed to halfway talk myself out of needing them, using words like "practical" and "comfortable". Then I sat on the couch and at some cheetos while watching reality T.V... oh and I petted my dog, George, for while.

3) Yesterday I almost ran a red light. But then I worried that a cop would see me. And then I worried about a potential red-light camera. And then I worried about what Hubs would say if either of the first two scenarios happened. By the time I finished worrying, I missed my opportunity and I sat at the red light and thought about how I could really go for a Slurpee. (But then I dismissed it as "too sugary.")

4) After dismissing the Slurpee, I thought about getting a vanilla coffee but it was after 4 PM so I was afraid I'd have a hard time getting to sleep. This is coming from the girl who used to drink a 2 liter of coke at midnight and go home and immediately fall into a coma, AND who does not go to sleep before 1 AM even NOW. Then I did a little happy dance in my seat because I remembered that I could swing into Starbucks for a double chocolatey chip frap from Starbucks if I made a left two lights up. Then I decided I was too tired to stop and I went home.

5) After I wrote #2, I googled "pet vs petted" to see if I was using it correctly. That means I have a lot of time on my hands and also that my OCD is selective because not only is "petted" potentially not even a word, according to the internet, but it will not be the first or the last grammatical error I make on this blog. If I were young and carefree, this would matter zero. (I'm not sure why but seriously, I spent 5 minutes trying to find out the correct word and then at the last minute changed it again. When you read this it could still be either one.)

6) After my super strenuous day of shopping, pointless worrying, and google searching, I watched Hubs paint a door and got really excited about it, telling anyone who would listen about how GREAT THE DOOR LOOKS and WHAT A DIFFERENCE IT MAKES. Five years ago I would've told myself to shut the hell up because no one cares about your HGTV-loving ass but today I waxed poetic for 20 minutes about gloss vs. eggshell. New high, or new low? (Or maybe I was just high off the fumes?) (If so, that's pretty young and carefree of me. I'm awesome.)

I know that being in your not quite half thirties is not old and that all of these scenarios are just elaborations on my already bizarre, amazingly interesting personality, but there are times when I hear something come out of my mouth and I don't recognize myself.

(You know, stuff like "You're right, Hubs, I'm sorry" and "No thanks, I have enough shoes/bath and body works frosting lotion/diamond rings/french fries.")

Then I go "WHO IS THAT GIRL?", followed by "Whoever she is, she has GREAT HAIR!"

And then I feel a little better.

I love the 80's

More specifically, I love the teen movies of the 80s.

Why, you ask? Because they were heavy on the angst and drama.

My marriage to Hubs, while great in numerous aspects, occasionally lacks the intensity and theatrics of my previous relationships. There is arguing, yes. (I mean, sometimes he forgets Im always right.) And there is passion, too. Admittedly, less intense than when we first started dating, but it's there.

But what there isn't? THE DRAMA.

There is no boom box playing a Peter Gabriel song outside my window at 3 in the morning.

I never coveted him from afar, wishing he'd break up with his girlfriend and notice I was alive, all the while having my family forget my birthday and being annoyed by a nerd who I'm forced to share a room with.

We never faced family and peer persecution because we were from opposite sides of town, resulting in a traumatic prom experience.

He never paid me to hang out with him and make him cool, and after the whole school found out and shunned him, I realized how much I really liked him.

We never started out as enemies, got to know each other, discovered everything we had in common, and fell in love after spending an afternoon in detention in the school library.

Bottom line is, real life isn't like that.

In real life, when you are in a good relationship, you don't break up five times, yell about how much you hate each other, sleep with your ex, and then get back together and live happily ever after.

In real life, it's not a good relationship if you have to play games and manipulate the other person into things.

(I mean, except when I manipulate Hubs into doing stuff for me, like laundry or other housework. But I am able to do that because he loves me.)

There comes a point where you tire of the games, of the uncertainty and of the instability with a man.

At least, I did.

There comes a point where you just want someone to be real with you. To tell you how they feel, and where you stand with them.

And there comes a point where even a girl who thrives on the drama wants to know that no matter how bad the argument or how angry the man, he's not going anywhere.

Maybe it's not as exciting as a movie, but it's real.

(Plus, who wants to be a teenager again? I mean, sure, 23 is looking pretty good right now, but 17? No thanks.)

(Except I'd really like to still get away with daily wear of glitter eyeliner. Oh well.)

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Beatle vs. the African American

Beatle is my baby. He is the youngest child and even when he is 40 I will more than likely call him to make sure he had a healthy dinner and to see if he needs me to come over and read him a bedtime story. My older kids say Beatle regresses to a toddler when I am around and I must say, if I wasn't in such denial, I would probably agree. He's mamas boy and not afraid to use that to his advantage anytime he is within eyesite of me.

And did I mention Beatle is the happiest child I have ever met? I mean, the kid is even happy when he has to wake up at an ungodly hour. He starts the day with a pep in his step and keeps a smile on his face all day.

So, the other day when he walked in with his arms folded over his chest and on the verge of a complete meltdown I knew something major had gone down in our normally harmonious little neighborhood. I immedietly ask in my "tell mommy all about your problems" voice what happened. His older brother, who lives to tell on his siblings (as well as myself, the neighbors and anyone else he can catch in a compromising position) immedietly launches in on an elaborate tale while Beatle begins whailing away with crocodile tears spewing from his eyes. After I kick Mikey out of the room I calm Beatle down enough to have the following give-and-take session:

Me: "Was someone being mean to you?"
Beatle: "Yes"
Me: "Who?"
Beatle: "This mean kid."
Me: "Well, what did he do?"
Beatle: "He called me a baby!" (Wow, imagine that! Im thinking to myself.)
Me: "Well what did you do to make him call you that?"
Beatle: "NOTHING!" (huge tears and sobs are overtaking his 7yr old body at this point.)
Me: "Well, what did you do when he called you that?"

Before Beatle can launch his defense I hear this statement yelled from the peanut gallery "Beatle said to him 'WELL AT LEAST I'M NOT AN AFRICAN AMERICAN!"

(Apparantly, Mikey never went to his room, but was instead hiding in the hallway around the corner relishing every juicy detail of Beatles verbal exchange and was just waiting to ice the cake at precisely the right time. )

**crickets chirping**

Wow. How am I going to respond to this one? Im trying not to laugh while mentally deciding exactly how to phrase what I need to say and all along secretly thanking the good Lord in Heaven that their father wasn't present to hear this one.

Me: "Well, Beatle, what do you think you are?"
Beatle: shrugs and looks totally confused.

In the meantime, his oldest brother, Marcus, has paused the playstation and is eating this whole conversation up.

Marcus: "Boy, YOU are African American!"
Beatle: Eyebrows together and arms crossed over his chest "HUH UGH! AM NOT!"
Me: "Yes, honey, you are half African American."
Beatle: (still looking confused and not quite sure how all this has turned around on him.)
Me: "Beatle, your daddy is African American."
Beatle: "HE IS?" (a look of total shock and disbelief on his face)
Marcus: "Yea, dummy, what did you think dad was?"
Beatle: (completely serious) "I thought he was just some black guy."

At this point, their is no way I can continue to participate in this conversation with a straight face.

I guess being 50% responsible for giving Beatle life, actively participating in the day to day raising of this child and attending every birthday, major holiday and milestone in Bealtes life, poor daddy has been reduced to "just some black guy" in Beatle's eyes.

Never in my life have I dialed a phone number quicker than I did at that moment to repeat that story to Beatles poor unsuspecting father. And I must say, he didnt enjoy the punch line nearly as much as the rest of us!!

**Beatle with some black guy

Dear Drug Pusher,

Well, hello there, my ever increasing and oh-so incorrigible e-mailing friends.

My name is Rachael. I'm a wife and mother. I have, in my 34 years 28 years of life, worked in the following fields: Child Protective Services, Arlington Police Dept & my fathers law firm. But you probably already know that, as you seem to enjoy sending me multiple e-mails a day, expressly to my personal e-mail account, although you have been known in the past, to visit me at any one of those above referenced work emails, as well.

You know the ones: The email accounts I used over the years for e-mailing social workers, parents of children in foster care, defense attorneys, and a random clerk or two of semi-important judges, my mother, my mother-in-law, hubs sick grandma....

Normally, my inbox is a place where I go to type off quick responses to those I love, or to read a borderline inappropriate joke, or to retrieve one of the million passwords I have forgotten for any number of social networking sites I log into.

I'm used to receiving subject lines like, "Your Wells Fargo online statement is ready for viewing" or "Hey, Rachael, I tried to call you, but you never answer." or "Greetings from Liberty University, would you like to donate to our chapel building fund?" (Gotta love the alma mater if you went to a Baptist University.)

Occasionally, when things get really wild, I might receive "Rachael, this is your mother. I saw what you uploaded to myspace. I hope your grandfather never sees this. You need to call me."

Frankly, I like it. I like the predictability, the comfort, and the simplicity, even, of signing on and seeing e-mails addressing my bank account or the reminder that I graduated from college or that I make poor choices that disappoint my mother on a regular basis.

But now, you - yes, you, you Internet Drug Pushers - you've gone and done it. You've hacked into the system and spammed an innocent mothers yahoo account. You are the reason I have 11,131 unread messages in my inbox.

And now, right next to "You have two new friend requests on facebook" I'm getting e-mails boasting about "Magic Pills for Men Like You."

And right above "Sameenah Hayes is registered at Target" lies "Order Vicodin Now! No Prescription Necessary."

Do I look like I know someone named Adena Fata? No, No I do not.

Look, it's not like I don't get a good chuckle out of seeing "Enlarge It" right below an e-mail labeled "This is your Prayer Angel, Pass along for good luck" from my mother-in-law. I'm human, after all. It's funny enough that you think this 30-something FEMALE is a candidate at all for a pen*le implant. Or that you attempt to sell me stimulants, laxatives, depressants, pain meds and herbal relaxants - all without a prescription. But when my inbox dings and an e-mail pops up labeled "Are you tired of being sexually unsatisfied? Order this to feel better." I start to get worried. When the ding also alerts my 10 year old little boy (who is reading pretty darn good these days) I get really unhappy.

And when sweet little Mikey reads aloud, "'Little Blue Pill to enhance your life? What is that, mommy?" I get downright furious. Because, yes, this is my e-mail account and I check it in the comfort of my living room. So yes, I see your e-mail labeled "***^^^^^^^^ V1agra^^^^****" and sometimes I have kids in the room

But know that I promptly delete it because a.) I'm not exactly about to buy a sex drug at all, let alone during daytime hours from my personal computer, and b.) I find your use of astericks and suspension points excessive and, frankly, grammatically unnecessary.

So, please, for the love of all things holy and appropriate, stop trying to sell me drugs over the Internet. Via my personal e-mail address. In front of my own children. Illegally. Because I'm not buying it. Or, rather, them. You can take those little blue pills and put them where the sun don't shine. Far, far away from my babies innocent eyes. In the place where all grammatically incorrect spam e-mails go to die.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

rAchell Fishr

The Other Woman

Earlier this year I decided to give into my husbands wants and needs completely. So, I told him he could do "It." I told him to go out and fulfill that desire every man has buried deep-down inside. Under all those layers of loyalty to one's wife and fiscal responsibility, every man has an itch. An itch they all desperately, hopelessly want to scratch. I told him to scratch it.

I told him he could hang a flat-screen T.V. in our bedroom.

This man had been jones-ing for one for months, heck, years. His love of technology and gadgets had lain dormant for far too long, all because his wife over here - Mrs. Frugal - wanted a warm coat, paid bills, and food on the table. So, because I love him with all my heart I gave in. Plus, I figured it would give him something to do in his favorite place on Earth - Best Buy - to buy the brackets, wires and what-nots that are essentials for one of these things.

In other words, I fell prey to his blue eyes beggy face. Besides, the man works hard, provides for us, and humors my need to buy expensive beauty products. And he knows his way around televisions, computers, and the ever-popular gaming console. So, I told him to go for it. To get out there and make all his big-screen dreams come true.

We'd already looked at several models, which I'd deemed "reasonable," ie not bigger than a small country. And I'd even come to terms with the fact that my husband and I were going have one in our bedroom before the year was up anyway. In other words, I was resigned. Meanwhile, the hubs was positively giddy with joy.

He wrangled up a buddy to help him pick up the flat-screen and off they went, while I fixed myself a snack and settled down in front of his old-school television - may she rest in peace - totally oblivious. But no sooner had I popped in Season 1 of every woman's favorite television series, SITC, when my husband came running into the house, fumbling, afraid he was about to be caught red-handed. He stopped abruptly when he met the wifely gaze of not just yours truly, but that of his buddies wife, as well. We are two smart girls who happen to know a thing or two about that "wild eyed" look husbands get.

"Hon, I got good news! We had no trouble getting the T.V into the back of Josh's truck" he yelled, hedging, buying time, before he dropped the other shoe. My look deepened, cuing him to speak quickly, lest I begin jumping around hysterically and screaming at him to "Take it out of my sight!" before I'd even seen it.

He spat out, hurriedly, "Before you get mad, just know that it's HD with picture-in-picture and...." By this point, I was positively on the verge of mania. But before I could protest, he was hauling in a flat-screen T.V. so big that I literally stopped breathing. It was monstrous. Plainly put, it was huge. And totally out of place in the romantic bedroom I had been envisioning in my mind since the day he asked me to marry him. I didn't know what to say; I didn't know what to think. So, I just sat there, silent, while my husband kept rambling on, using words that might as well have been Greek to me: High resolution. Crystal clear picture. Surround sound capabilities."

I about passed out from the shock. I wanted to scream, and, in that moment, realized the genius behind my husband's timing. He'd carted in a larger-than-I'd-ever-agree-to T.V. while I had a guest over who just happens to be a doctor and complete push over when it comes to her husband. To put it in laymans terms, I couldn't yell, for fear of looking like The Old Ball and Chain. And, thus, the new T.V. was ours. By default, mind you. But ours, nonetheless.

So, as the guys set up the new love of my husband's life, I fumed silently. But, by the time our friends had left I'd significantly calmed down. (What can I say? I might be quick to anger, but I'm also quick to forgive.)

Two weeks later, I've grown accustomed to the television that resembles a rather large growth resting on my bedroom wall. And don't tell my husband, but I even grew fond of watching A Baby Story on the large growth while I eat my lunch and rest my weary body from a long day of doing nothing. But then, as my afternoon reality shows are coming to an end my husband comes home. And, no sooner than I can ask him, "Do you want ice water with dinner?" does he sit down and grab the flashy new flat screen's remote...Or the controller to his precious gaming console, which, of course, is linked up to the precious flat-screen, too. The Other Woman, it seems, is linked in to his entire world: The Play Station. Fox 4 in HD. A DVD collection that lines up all his favorite shows and movies. And all of it is projected onto a 60-inch screen that always turns on when he wants it to and shuts up promptly when he hits mute.

If she could cook, I'd be threatened. And if she didn't display my TLC afternoon programming with such a picture perfect clarity that its almost frightening, I'd hate her. Lucky for the T.V., her screen is spot-on. And all mine for all but a few evening hours. Which, if I play my cards right (and cook a mean dinner,) I can commandeer for some primo chick-show viewing a few nights a week, too.

We're a perfect little family: Me, my husband, and The Other Woman.

In fact, last month when he decided to pimp out his garage, he felt the need to move the 60 inch into his man cave and put a 42 inch in our bedroom instead. I actually found myself feeling a little bummed and have even visited the other woman in there several times. Who knew polygamy could be so fun?

I'll admit, his flat-screen television obsession isn't half bad. And I'd rather live with one of those than an actual other woman. Luckily, I don't have to worry about that. He's so enamored with the T.V. that he doesn't have time for another woman. Plus, I think he kinda likes me. What? I let him buy the T.V., didn't I? What's not to love?


**hubsy entranced