If Only Our Husbands Could Read Our Minds

If you’ll excuse a little transparent/humor relief on my end…

Do you ever just feel sorry for your husband? For weeks you’re the chipper little thing he married (maybe   And then one day…

He walks in from work and you’re irritated.  It takes him a little while to notice because when he asked, “What’s wrong?“  You said, “Nothing.“  But he does eventually realize you lied.

You know why you’re upset, but he doesn’t know why.  (I may embarrass myself here revealing I’m the only female disposed to this ailment.)

Because the thing is, you were fine when he left work.  So you watch his face while his brain searches frantically for the “what did I do?” (Everything would be fine if he would only learn to read my mind.)

(It’s usually something like, you’re having a really bad day and when he calls home at lunch and asks “You having a good day?”  you reply with all the pity you can muster, “Yeah…*heavy sigh* “  And he says, “Great.  Love you honey–talk to you later.” By the time he gets home you’ve mentally checked off all the different ways he’s not “in tune” to your feelings, and this just tops it off.  He probably doesn’t love you anymore.)

At the moment, it’s big.  You feel justified.  You pull the “hurt” card.  And by the time you finish explaining his lack of sensitivity, you sound pretty convincing.

He’s shocked that you actually convinced him that he has done something he had no idea he did.  And now it seems real to him, though he’s puzzled about how it all happened so quickly, right under his nose and he missed it.

So he apologizes, because really, he just loves you and wants you to be happy.

Later, when you’ve come to yourself again, you shake you head in disbelief that this man loves you day in and day out.  And actually seems to forget these escapades!  And then you apologize, though it requires you to tear down that beautiful sob story that became so real.

I don’t know.  Let’s see…we struggle through PMS, we waddle through pregnancy (I am pathetic right now), pain through childbirth, we suffer through menopause–yeah, it must be God’s way of balancing it all out.

Bless them, those dear husbands of ours.

Tongue Piercing Rant ;-)

No, I don’t understand them, but that’s not my point…

Whatever happened to customer service companies actually establishing a dress/behavior code that employees were required to follow?  I’m guessing we are such a lawsuit-crazed society that everyone is afraid of telling someone else they can or can’t do something?  Even if they’re paying them?

Because I was just trying to order lunch for my family…in a hurry, etc.  Maybe it was a new barbell–I don’t really care.  I could not understand my cashier. 

“Wouth you lith the wegulath or larth?”

(Confused look)…”I beg your pardon?”

Then I realized it was not a natural speech impediment, but a tongue-barbell-induced one.

And before you beat me up for being so narrow-minded…I’m not suggesting the young man can’t have a tongue ring.  If he wants to burden his friends with the translation of his healing tongue–be my guest (he’s probably text-messaging them anyway).

But for the love of all that is chocolate, can he assemble the sandwiches?  Is there not an employer worth his salt enough to say “no tongue rings for the cashiers”?

Sorry.  It’s a blog.  It’s where I unload.

My 5-Year Old Thinks She’s Engaged…Thanks, Tom Sawyer

Avi: “Am I engaged?”

Me: “Um, no…what are you talking about?”

Avi: “Well, I kiss and hug a lot.”

Me: “Who do you kiss and hug?”

Avi: “You.”

Me: “Oh” (relieved smile)

Apparently Tom Sawyer has been teaching the kids a thing or two about “getting engaged” (“you say ‘I love you’ then kiss and you’re engaged”).

It made for an interesting family discussion

But on a more serious note about engagement, I wanted to share this brief heart-felt word from a Dad we met last year–Tommy Waller–whose first son is about to get married…parents, take heart and stay the course.

“This morning Brayden packed up all his belongings and left his home of 23 years. Here we are one week before the wedding and he had to go.

She’s Fighting on My Turf

Pip says, (in her best French accent)…
“So you think you’re going to post again, yes? Well, mademoiselle, let’s see if you are willing to negotiate some terms…”

Money, Money, Money Money!

Ode to The Virus

4th Victim…

Male. 4 years-old.

Blond hair, blue eyes.

Last seen at 1 a.m. vomiting from the couch while his mother tries to catch it with trash can…repeat every 30 minutes.