Category Archives: Chronicles of Marriage

No Pain, No Gain (or Hell as We Call It)

In an attempt to keep myself healthy and fit, I started seeing a naturopathic doctor (N.D.) who specializes in a more holistic approach to wellness. I guess you can also say that I was getting tired of prescription drug-pushing western medicine doctors. I figured that if I have the ability to drive a car while simultaneously curling my eyelashes, applying eyeliner and lipstick, texting, and eating a breakfast sandwich, I must also have the ability to heal myself naturally.

I’ve gotten all these great vitamins to take to stay healthy. They are natural supplements made up of ingredients like stuff that tastes like crap arabic gum, beet root, and some random animal parts… but I swear to you, they work.

Nothing like starting the day with some A-F Betafood. And yes, these are for me, not for my pet fish.

The other day, the hubby had a stomach ache, and the Tums tablets weren’t working. So, I came to the rescue and gave him a few of my natural digestive supplements:

Me: “Take the pills. I swear you’ll feel much better.”

Mike: “I don’t want to take that crap.”

Me: “Just take them, and stop being a baby.”

Mike (taking a couple pills out of my hand and smelling them): “Ugh! They smell like an outhouse on a tuna boat.”

Me: “Oh quit whining, and take them already.”

Mike (chewing the pills slowly): “These are nasty! What are these supposed to be?!”

Me: “I don’t know. Some natural stuff. Like kale and cow thyroid glands. Just drink some water to wash it down.”

Mike: “These are seriously disgusting. It’s like I’m eating horse manure out of an ashtray.”

Me: “You’ve done worse.”

Mike (pointing to the bottle of pills): “I’m never eating those again.”

Me: “Fine. I’ll be the only one who stays healthy in this house from taking these vitamins.”

Mike (with one eyebrow raised): “Mmm hmm… says the woman who washes down her vitamins with beer.”


Mike: “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Well played, husband. Well played. I just hope my N.D. isn’t reading this blog post right now, or I’m in big trouble.



Filed under Chronicles of Marriage

It’s My Birthday, and I’ll Cry if I Want To

Aaah birthday… we meet again.

Hey birthday, after I’m done beating up this copy machine, you’re next!

Birth·day noun (ˈbərth-ˌdā)—definition: an event to commemorate not doing anything particularly noteworthy in the past 12 months since the last birthday, and now being one step closer to death.


Or something like that.

In my family, as in many others, birthday tradition dictated that the birthday boy or girl got to have the cake of their choice and make a birthday wish while blowing out a candle. My parents always had an overabundant supply of cake mix and candles on hand for birthdays, including those annoying trick candles that continued to relight themselves after being blown out.

I really hated those stupid candles. Even with my face right next to the cake, forcing my breath to a maximum velocity, I could never trump those things. My family and friends also tried to help me blow them out to no avail. As far as I was concerned, blowing out trick birthday candles could have qualified as an Olympic sport.

We ended up having to throw the candles in a cup of water to keep them from relighting, and people didn’t even want to eat the cake anymore since the frosting was undoubtedly covered in a smorgasbord of spit and other projectiles.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have gotten an Eggo waffle with a votive candle or a cigarette in it for my birthday instead, accompanied by a disappointing last minute gift such as a can of Campbell’s Soup wrapped in newspaper.

Aaaw, how thoughtful! You shouldn’t have!


In retrospect, I’ve been very fortunate and thankful that my family made such a big deal out of birthdays.

The other night, as my birthday evening was winding down, I realized that I had yet to blow out a candle and eat cake. In anticipation of my birthday grand finale and years of tradition, I asked the hubby “Ooo, what kind of cake did you get me?!”

He looked at me with a bewildered, deer in the headlights kind of look and replied: “Yeeah. I kinda forgot the cake this time, but there’s a half a tomato in the fridge.”

I threw my hands up in the air, waved them dramatically, and exclaimed: “Wha- what?! Are you for real?! You’re putting my candle in a week-old Roma tomato?!”

And so the night went cakeless.

Don’t worry. Although he forgot the cake, the hubby did present me with a candle in a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s along with concert tickets to see Lady Antebellum, Thompson Square and Darius Rucker, thereby redeeming himself and saving all of us from having to split a moldy tomato.


Filed under Chronicles of Marriage

I Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Driver’s Test

By Haljackey (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Me (to the hubby while driving): “My driver’s license expires soon, and they won’t let me renew it by mail.”

Mike: “I know. It’s a new security procedure. You need to go in and take a written test.”

Me (rolling my eyes): “What?! But, I know how to drive.”

Mike: “I understand. You still need to take the test. By the way, you just sped up to beat that light, and it was already turning red. I suggest you study.”

Me: “Why do I need to study? How hard can a stupid driver’s license test be? Everybody speeds up to beat the red light.”

Mike: “Okay smarty, what did that solid, white line mean that you just crossed in the intersection?”

Me: “I don’t know. It’s like a recommendation not to cross.”

Mike: “You just crossed it while speeding.”

Me: “I don’t like boundaries. I’m more of a color-outside-of-the-lines type of driver.”

Mike: “You’re going to fail.”

Me: “You can cross it with caution. I do it all the time.”

Mike: “Explain that to the police when they pull you over for reckless driving.”

Me: “They won’t even care about my reckless driving when they see that I have an expired license. I’ll just throw a donut out the car window as a distraction. When they go running after it, I’ll make a quick getaway.”

Mike (shaking his head): “I’ll start getting some cash together for your bail money.”


Law, shmaw. I don’t need no stinkin’ driver’s test.

What I do need is an appropriate response to a 7×7 blogger award that I just got from Addie over at Betwixt and Between.

Here goes: thank you, Addie, you kick ass. I want you to know that it took me all night to come up with that. You also don’t need to take any driver’s tests if you don’t want to. You’re welcome.


The things I have been asked to do as a recipient of this award are:

1. Share something about myself that no one (in the blogging community) knows. I asked the hubby to help me with this one, and he said, “Nobody knows you’re nice. Tell them that. Ha ha.” Punk.

2. Link up to 7 posts of mine that I feel worthy of the pre-determined 7×7 blogger award categories. Fortunately, “Most Gag-Reflex Inducing Piece” wasn’t one of the categories (phew), so things can only go up from here.

3. Pay it forward. The 7×7 blogger award is a hot potato, so I need to pass it on to 7 other wonderful bloggers (my pleasure!):


Filed under Chronicles of Marriage

Men and Monogrammed Towels

It’s official. Men like my husband will never be the target market for monogrammed towels.

Forget aesthetics or novelty. They simply don’t appreciate the significance of a monogrammed towel. What they do care about is the functional aspects of a towel, which is why lovely monogrammed towels are regularly put back on towel racks like this:

Or this:

Or this:

Or even this:

I’m starting to think these towels were a really bad investment.


Filed under Chronicles of Marriage

Weather You Like It or Not

I have the pleasure of living in warm and sunny weather most of the time. Unfortunately, this past week, I experienced nothing but torrential rain and thunderstorms.

Believe me, it wasn't as cool as the depiction in the DC comic books.

During a brief breaking point in the downpours, and out of desperation for some sunlight and outdoor stimulation, I decided to go out into the lawn and do some gardening (I know, it wasn’t my finest moment).

Standing in sheets of mud, while a slight drizzle came down over me, I used a gardening hoe to dig up some weeds.

After a while, the rain got heavier, and the sound of thunder boomed overhead. My neighbors stared at me through their windows with looks of disbelief, as if I was a complete lunatic, and they were witnessing the final escapades of a soon-to-be mental patient.

I decided to call it quits before someone reported me. The fear of raising a metal gardening hoe into the air and being struck by lightning was another compelling reason to cease operations.

When I got back into the house, soaking wet from the storm, the hubby quipped: “Done already? Geez, are you gonna melt in a little rain?”

I annoyingly said back to him: “Excuse me, there is thunder and lightning out there. I was swinging a metal tool in the air. I don’t think it’s safe.”

He replied: “It has a wooden handle. You’ll be fine.”

I rolled my eyes at him, and his speculative faith in a simple wooden handle, and I exclaimed: “You gotta be kidding me!”

Bolts of electricity can travel at over 100,000 miles per hour, and they can get as hot as 30,000 degrees Celsius. If something like that came down and hit the top of my gardening hoe (a mere 8-inch by 6-inch metal rectangle), I don’t think I’d be “fine.” I’d probably experience a massive heart attack while simultaneously getting charred to a smoking crisp. Or, at minimum, I’d be knocked on my ass and suffer serious electrical burns.

Yes, kind of like this illustration by Tim Harries.

The point is, never tell your partner it’s okay to go outside in a storm, unless you want to deal with their wrath in addition to nature’s fury never assume you’ll be “fine” standing outside in severe weather, unless you’re Superman. Even well-trained scientists, who test the electrical properties of lightning and lightning theories, take precautions.


Filed under Chronicles of Marriage