Tag Archives: marriage

Cognizant Rupture

Do you remember that episode of Friends (of course you do) when Joey was writing a letter of recommendation to the adoption agency for Monica and Chandler, and Ross showed him how to use the thesaurus (so he’d sound smarter)?

I felt like that was what was happening as I was reading the now-famous “Conscious Uncoupling” break-up “announcement” from Brad Pitt’s ex-girlfriend with the idiotic lifestyle blog who was in that one movie I liked. You know. The one where Kevin Spacey cut her head off?


It’s your dignity, Gwyn.

The more I attempted to read her ridiculous letter, the more I thought, she DID use the thesaurus!! Because, I mean, see for yourself if you haven’t read it yet:

It is with hearts full of sadness that we have decided to separate. We have been working hard for well over a year, some of it together, some of it separated, to see what might have been possible between us, and we have come to the conclusion that while we love each other very much we will remain separate. We are, however, and always will be a family, and in many ways we are closer than we have ever been. We are parents first and foremost, to two incredibly wonderful children and we ask for their and our space and privacy to be respected at this difficult time. We have always conducted our relationship privately, and we hope that as we consciously uncouple and coparent, we will be able to continue in the same manner.


Gwyneth & Chris

Then they used a happy photo of themselves, to show that they are still UNITED (I assume). I don’t want to use it without permission, so….

~visual approximation~

~visual approximation~

Pretty close.


Conscious uncoupling? I’m sorry, but isn’t that what happens when, you know, the sex is over?

I decided to try it Joey’s way. And you know what? I think I out-Gwyneth Paltrow’d Gwyneth Paltrow. I present…..

Cognizant Rupture

It is with blood pumping organs in animate beings full of despondency that we have decided to cleave. We have been laboring dense for well over an orbital period of the Earth moving around the sun, some of it en masses, some of it partitioned, to see what might have been duck soup between us, and our own selves have come to the culmination that while we adulate each other copious amounts we will remain sovereign. We are, per contra, and always will be a genealogy network, and in multitudinous ways we are proximate than we have ever been. We are fountainheads early and A-1, to two incredibly staggering progeny and we ask for their and our unlimited three-dimensional realm and concealment to be venerated at this enigmatical epoch. We have always regulated our liaison clandestinely, and we hope that as we cognizantly rupture and cofountainhead, we will be able to loiter in the same idiosyncrasy.

Grandiloquent & Cha-CHING!

~ocular alikeness~

~ocular alikeness~

Nailed it!

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UB40, Jimmy, UB40

That’s right. He be 40.

Y’all, I am married to an OLD MAN!

You know how every once in a while, you start a story with “20 years ago…” Well, when Jim does that,  HE’S TALKING ABOUT HIS 20’s!!!!!!!!!!!


I couldn’t come up with any new or crafty 40-year-old sayings.

Over the hill? Lame.

Good Lordy, Jim’s 40? That just reminds me of the couple down the street growing up, and he put a giant sign reading that in the yard, expecting to surprise her with the best birthday ever, and she handed him divorce papers. No.

Life begins at 40? Okay, thanks for spitting on our past time together, sorry it wasn’t really “living.”

The 40-Year-Old Virgin? Dude. No. We have kids. Don’t mean to spoil the illusion, but we totally have done it.

See what I mean?

Now, y’all know I have been known, once or twice, to poke a little fun at the man. The reason I do it is because he is a good sport. He poses for pictures knowing I am going to share them here or with SOme other online location. He does it, because he’s awesome.

Let’s take a look:

Young awesome Jim

Young awesome Jim

I love 'Merica Jim

I love ‘Merica Jim

Fashion forward Jim

Fashion forward Jim

Fatherly, teach the boys how to use this iPhone so they stop bothering us with all their talking Jim

Fatherly, teach the boys how to use this iPhone so they stop bothering us with all their talking Jim

Athletic Jim

Athletic Jim

Musical Jim

Musical Jim

I believe I can fly Jim

I believe I can fly Jim

Pink eye Jim

Pink eye Jim

White Sox fan Jim

White Sox fan Jim

Dark Side Jim

Dark Side Jim

Susie Homemaker Jim

Susie Homemaker Jim

Check out my hose Jim

Check out my hose Jim

Blackhawks win the Cup Jim (and Lucky Banana)

Blackhawks win the Cup Jim (and Lucky Banana)

40 year old Jim

40-year-old Jim

See? What’s not to love, yo?

But in the interest of embarrassing my husband further, can I just say, I’m the luckiest damn girl alive.

This man. This man who puts up with my endless arguing. This man who has never once even considered using the word “stepson.” This man who works his ass off to give us what we need. This man who spoils us because he likes to. This man who puts others first. This man who tells me he loves me every day.

This man chose me.

To quote Jimmy, “Suck it, Bitches.”

He’s 40. He’s pretty awesome. And he’s mine.


Happy Birthday, Pookie Bear. Here’s to 40 more, and then some!


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Almost Golden

So it happened in Chicago in the Austin neighborhood. Late-40’s, early-50’s, mid-50’s, late-50’s…. beats me. But at some point, it happened. My Mom lived on Lorel Avenue. My Dad lived somewhere nearby, no idea what street even though I have been told a million times. It was maybe across the alley.

At some point, they met.

And as it turns out, that’s all I know about my parents courtship. It occurred to me recently (yesterday) that while I have heard endless stories of their youth, I have no idea when they started dating, when they fell in looooovvveee, when they got engaged, how he proposed, nothing. I know none of it.

All I know is that they got married 49 years ago today, October 13, 1962.

I asked my mother the questions above. She decided that NOW is the time to be mysterious:

We met right after he moved in, but he was too old for me at the time. I thought he was cute. I am sure he would say getting married was my idea. He asked my dad and then bought me a ring for Christmas. Nothing blog worthy here…..well maybe we had a few secrets. I’ll leave it in a letter to be read after I die. Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom. Not even LOVE. Thanks. Like, thanks for asking!

Nice try — they ain’t getting off that easy.

The 50th anniversary is the Golden Anniversary. The 49th has no traditional specification, though a random website told me that in modern times, the theme for 49 glorious years is luxury. So I am giving my parents the luxury of starring in my blog.

And to this day, my mother will in fact tell a stranger that she HAD to get married. She always waits for the look or the gasp or the “well good for you for admitting it” before she spouts out, “Yeah, we HAD to get married if we wanted to have sex.”

Oh, those crazy kids.

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September 27, 1973

Love is love.

But real love — TRUE love — is when you find a 20-year-old photo of your loved one, realize you cannot get it out of the frame as some sort of wetness has sealed it in, take a photo of it with your cell phone,  and then post it on the internet to celebrate their birthday.

Happy birthday Pookie Bear.

And I’m sure somewhere, in space, the light reflection from your Sally Jesse Raphael sized, circa 1991 glasses is still shooting through the atmosphere.

Love you!


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This MAY be the best month ever!

I’ve been absent this month. And Lord knows it’s not because I have nothing to say. Ask my husband. The talk is non-stop out of my mouth, particularly when we are having an argument and he wishes I would just shut up already.

But my absence here at my ultra fabulous blog is not for lack of anything to tell to you — my adoring fans. It is because I am clearly having the BEST MONTH EVER.

Let’s start by getting the bad parts out of the way. I’m still a fat fat fatty. I’m not getting any younger. And I still have to wash my face with anti-acne soap then follow it up by slathering on the anti-aging cream. Why, Lord? For real? My face goes in a cycle of month-long splotchery, clears for a day, then starts again. And I am pretty sure you could step into my pores. I think if I have any words of wisdom to pass on to the younger generation, they would be USE SPF 15 MOISTURIZER. Every. Day.

But seriously, bad skin and a big butt aside, my month has been GREAT.

First — it got warm.

And when I say warm, I mean WARM. Like, it was hot one day. Which I LOVE.

Of course, it hasn’t stayed hot, but the presence of a handful of stifling days in May is always encouraging.

Then, it was Mother’s Day. And while I appreciate the World’s Coolest Mom t-shirt that Jim got me because it was the last thing available 12 hours before Mother’s Day at WalMart he truly appreciates me, it paled in comparison to THIS:


You’ll recognize this phone from the T-Mobile commercials with the girl so freakishly skinny you kind of wish someone would just give her a sandwich already. It’s one of those phones that came with the movie “Inception” on it, which is so incredibly unnecessary I cannot hide my giddiness. I haven’t even watched it yet. I just think it’s cool that it is there. Jim and I have now become those people we despise — the ones who play on their phones instead of talking to each other and “check in” everywhere on Facebook as if my old high school buddies give a crap where I am eating dinner. I have an endless array of mobile uploads on the face page already, and a game called Lightsaber that literally is just a lightsaber with sounds. I finally know what Angry Birds are. It’s SOOOOOO cool to be part of the hip crowd.

Then, there was this cuteness:

Good Lord the cute might actually kill me.

But before this, we had “touch a truck” day at preschool, where the kids got to climb up into garbage trucks and Bobcats and fire engines. Of course, I was only interested in the police car, and making my child do this:

Then this:

Because that’s just good parenting.

Of course then it was birthday time for Hank.

The child won’t eat cake, so I got him an ice cream cake. And since gluttony is my very favorite of the seven deadly sins, he got an ice cream cone too:

Not only did we stuff ourselves with ice cream, I think this is officially my favorite photo of the two of them ever (well, for now at least). We also took him to a White Sox game. And while Peavy had a great game and they won, it is the Sox. No need to assault your eyes with the photos from that game.

But wait, there’s more. I told you — best month ever!

Then it was time for our anniversary. Six years. Which is a record for Jim, way to go Pookie Bear!

*sidenote — I really call him Pookie Bear. Call him that some time. He’ll answer.

So we went to a restaurant called Grill Marx. We figured it was our kind of place, what being lefty liberal Obama lovers, anything with the word “Marx” in it must be good, right? Well let me tell you — it was:

This was called “Sombrero Chicken,” because it had a tortilla chip shaped like a sombrero in the middle of it And holy crap was it good. I didn’t think the garlic mashed potatoes would necessarily go well with it, but they were outstanding. This plus a bucket of beer and an appetizer called “drunken nachos” made for a truly outstanding anniversary dinner.

And as long as baseball has begun, we took a trip to see the Joliet Jackhammers. Only, seems the guy who owned the Jackhammers didn’t do important things like pay the rent. He even bounced a check to The Chicken after a visit late last summer. So he did the most fiscally responsible thing possible.. walked away from his debt like it was that girl he did after a night of partying only turns out she’s ugly, so the next day he pretends he never knew her. The Jackhammers were sold, but in their place…

The Joliet Slammers.

Same thing. Just a different team. And you know what’s awesome? Non-affiliated minor-league baseball tickets for $5 a piece on firework night:

New matching Slammers hats!



Of course, fireworks also meant a big flake of something flew directly into my eye. And when Jim stopped at the WalMart on the way home to get me some eye drops, the clerk told him, “Oh, man, those have gotten me out of a couple tickets!” Stay classy, stereotypical WalMart cashier!

Another piece of awesome for the month of May (up to this point, at least). The school project of all school projects. The volcano:

I never got to do a volcano, so I was super excited about Hank’s. We went for color. And apparently, dripping blood? I don’t really know what the child was doing here. Truth is, the end result looks a little bit rated-R for some reason. But we used up every piece of modeling clay, and it is awesome. I used a smaller Pepsi bottle to do a demonstration for the kids, and George almost tinkled himself he thought it was so awesome.

One last thing.

Cementing why May 2011 has been the best month ever, my husband came home with this:

And let me tell you something, am I ever on the edge of glory, indeed. Because Ms. Stephani here and Justin Timberlake on SNL made my day. Some of this album actually creeps me out. But I still love it. LOVE IT. Plus, I know what to get my Dad for Father’s Day.

I suppose some of these things seem incredibly lame to you. But I’ll tell you, combined, they made the best month. EVER.

I can’t help how I feel about it, though. I’m on the right track baby. I was born this way.


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I’m strictly a female female

You said it, Peggy Lee.

I enjoy being a girl.

Confession time: I’ve noticed recently that there is a part of me that I like to hide and pull out only when convenient: my XX chromosome. For a woman who grew up a slight tomboy with three older sisters, moved around, Mary Tyler Moore-d my way in the big city (New Orleans, not Minneapolis), refused to call home (because that’s what independent women do!), became a single mother and was at one point convinced that I absolutely could raise a son without a husband… I sure do turn to the “oh jeeze, I’m just a little old girl, what do I know” act whenever I don’t really want to do something.

Take today for example. Ding-dong, someone is at my home. And it’s like, 2:30 and I want to walk over to get Hank from school and I am not interested in whatever anyone has. So I open the door and Comcast guy is standing there.

“Well hello, ma’am, I’m Comcast guy, and I’m just visiting homes today to see if blah bleee da blurb bleebity blah blah blah.”

Now, I’m thinking, go away. Unless your Comcast offer comes with $10,000 cash and guaranteed safe liposuction rear-and-belly reducer and the Lego Deathstar (because I am not spending a house payment on that toy, no matter how much the boys want it), forget it! Go. Away. Now. But for some reason, I — Marney — the woman who is never short of creative words to let people in on what she is thinking — cannot just say it.

“Oh, you know, my husband, he takes care of all that!” I say. I may have even twirled my hair when I did it. And you know what? It worked. Off Comcast went to the next house while I slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door.

I did the same thing last week with the people who wanted us to use their lawn service. “Oh, jeeze, I don’t know WHAT my husband would want.” And the guy at Sears trying to sell me a refrigerator, when all I was doing was looking because ours works just fine and dandy: “Well, I doubt my husband would let me even have a new fridge.” LET? I really said that! Then there was the time the guy at the gym tried to talk me into getting a personal trainer: “Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I can do that, my husband takes care of the bills.” Uh…. no he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t even know where the checkbook is, let alone how much money is in it or what bill is due when. The list of things I am perfectly capable of doing yet still rarely do include:

  • killing a spider
  • carrying something heavy
  • anything involving electronics
  • hanging a picture
  • painting
  • changing the furnace filter
  • being the driver on an extended trip
  • settle a hotel bill
  • anything involving automobile maintenance, including changing wiper blades, getting a new battery or picking out new tires
  • killing spiders (worth a second mention, because I really am not afraid of spiders)

Remember — I am absolutely CAPABLE of these things. And there was a time when I wouldn’t just say, sure I can do that, but rather, I would INSIST that I do it. I remember when I was younger, thinking, I don’t need a man! I can do this all myself. And you know what? I think I could. For God’s sake, I managed to kill roaches that were flying at me in New Orleans with my bare hands, but I scream “Jiiiiiimmmmmmmm!” when a tiny little house spider is on the wall. I don’t know, just something about having a husband who will also do these things is so….


I use my husband’s perceived dominant XY as an excuse to cling to the perception that XX is meek and cute and just a GIRL. I fear that the sisterhood might reject me for it. I mean, all those years and all those fights for equal rights, and I won’t kill a damn spider! When the truth of it is, I LIKE chivalry. I like having someone who opens my doors and kills those pesky spiders. And it works to my advantage, as well. I can do things like look at a new car or browse the aisles at the Home Depot for paint samples or light fixtures, and when someone approaches me I’m all sing-songy and “ooohhhhhh, I’m just getting ideas” and they leave me the hell alone! Who doesn’t love that?

It’s not one way, either. There are plenty of things Jim can do that he just doesn’t: laundry, making beds, cooking. But I actually like doing those things, too. There are plenty of times when he can pull out the “oh my wife makes that decision” card to get out of making a choice. And not too long ago, realizing that I did indeed have to have a toilet that flushed, I fixed the snapped stopper in the tank. Even though we all know that’s man’s work.

I think I am overall a fairly strong person. But when it comes to using what the good Lord gave you….

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!


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Sock it to me

My husband is a good guy. You know, good provider, good father, occasionally listens to the things I have to say. All the qualifications for a likable dude. But he is absolutely inept at one particular thing, and it involves his stinky man feet, his socks, and the hamper. More specifically, when he pulls his socks off of his stinky man feet, he cannot, for any reason ever, manage to put them in the hamper.

No joke people.

It’s like he just takes them off and flings them. Nevermind that the rest of his clothing makes it INTO the clothes hamper. His socks are magnetically attracted to areas where they DO NOT BELONG.

Sometimes I don’t even realize it:

Look how sweet George is, asleep on the red sofa.

Wait, what's that under his pillow?

Oh, look at that, it's Jim's freaking socks. On the arm of the couch. Under a pillow. Right where they apparently belong. Jackass.

Sometimes, he’s oblivious to the fact that he does it, or that I have been carefully documenting it:

In both of these photos, Jim had no idea why I was pointing a camera at him, so he decided to ignore me. After I snapped each photo, I said, “Do you know why I took that?” Nope, he would reply. I’d point at the floor, at which point he’d take a look, shrug, and continue watching whatever was keeping his attention on the television. And no, your eyes are not decieving you. In the second picture, there are TWO pairs of his nasty socks on the floor.

If I told you I was stark naked when I took the photos, it would be a lie. But had I been, Jim’s expression would have been the same indifference — don’t bother me and my socks, woman, we’re watching the game.

Here, we see the same socks on the floor, but two different days.



Recently, though, this epidemic has reached absolutely unacceptable heights. Witness this:

In the endless battle of nature versus nurture, Jim is proving that nurture wins. Those are Hank’s shoes and socks.

Look people, I’ve tried. But the man is impossible. No matter how many times I beg and plead that he put his socks in the hamper (with the rest of his freaking dirty clothes), it does not happen. Worse, there is no amount of ill placed bras, granny panties, feminine hygiene products or dirty dishes that can make him see the other side of the issue. I CANNOT GET HIM BACK. Leaving his socks on the floor when company is coming is also not a deterrent! What’s a gal to do?

Please, if you can, help me. This sock takeover of my home may actually consume me, and I am telling you right here and now, I am not responsible for my actions.


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Dude… for real

Actual conversation this evening between myself and Mr. Wonderful:

Marney, at sink, washing dishes: “I’m having issues with you, dude.”

Jim: “What?”

Marney, holding up turkey baster, when there has been no turkey or other assorted meat in need of basting cooked in this house in months: “This. What the hell did you do with this?”

Jim: “Oh. Did you clean it good?”

Marney: “Did you use this on the toilet?”

Jim, furiously rinsing the baster under the running water: “I used it on the toilet.”

Marney: “THROW IT AWAY.”

Jim: “It wasn’t the pee water.”

Marney: *blink*

Jim, tossing baster in garbage can: “You need to get a new baster.”

Sweet mercy.


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Drinking problem

My husband and I have issues.

Over the past few months, we have been working super hard to drop our bear blubber. Because 1) we are simply too fat and 2) we are not actually bears who need to stockpile on a few layers of fat to make it through hibernation season. Hell, the fact is, all this extra cushion does NOT keep me any warmer in winter, no matter how much I try to use that as justification for the weight of a small child being attached to my ass. It’s kinda why it’s important to put polar bears on the endangered species list. How they do that, stay warm AND not develop diabetes is AMAZING — we need to study that. But that’s a different topic.

So to the gym we go. Or, as we call it, the exercise place. Because Jim is Jim, as opposed to gym, and my Jim-gym jokes get very tiring for him, and he began calling it “the exercise place” and he was relentless and I finally gave in. We lift three times a week, we do cardio at least four times a week. Sometimes we play racquetball and dammit is that funny. For real. Drop by the gym with your video camera and Bob Saget will be handing you a $10,000 check before you know it, it’s that entertaining. I once drilled the man right in the ear hole, which was almost as funny as the time I nailed myself in the face.

The result of this has been good. We generally watch what we eat, and we’re not over exercising, so the weight is coming off slowly but surely. Since Christmas, we have both dropped something in the area of 20 pounds. Yeeeee-hoooo! That is nice to see when you strip down completely naked because surely your clothes weight double-digits and  get on the scale.

But we all have our guilty pleasures. We all need our guilty pleasures. And for me and Mr. Wonderful, ours comes in liquid form:

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Time to make the donuts.

I use this image because Homer Simpson truly expresses how the fatty within emerges when Jim and I get our hands on a big, fat, delicious cup o’ Dunkin. Large. 1 cream. 2 Splenda. Oh. My. God.

Tonight, I went to the gym for cardio. We usually go together and drop the kids off at the daycare, but we couldn’t do that tonight because George only has one pair of shoes, and they were in the sink. Don’t ask. So I went first, ran for half an hour, then Jim went and did the death machine stair climber. Then, before returning home in time for the Blackhawks game, he stopped at Dunkin. He walked in the door with a cup in each hand and a big old smile on his face, and I kid you not I fell in love with him all over again! Seriously. Forget the selfless way he loves even the crappiest parts of me, or how he has to be reminded that he was not there when Hank was born because he has simply forgotten that he’s not the child’s biological father, or that he is patient even when I fill up his TiVo memory with episodes of “The Ghost Whisperer,” or that he managed to deliver the sweetest and most awkward marriage proposal ever in my parent’s driveway. It’s the Dunkin Donuts coffee in his hands. This is why he is awesome. 

It is truly the strangest thing ever. Tonight I referred to it as our “36-year-old beer,” because apparently we have reached an age where we do NOT grab a beer first thing when getting set to watch the big game. Of course — there IS beer in the fridge, and I’m sure we’ll both down one soon. It’s not like we’ve turned our backs on frothy-brewed deliciousness. But for whatever reason, there is a new liquid we cannot live without. And its name is Dunkin Donuts coffee.

My cup is currently empty. My coffee is in my belly. I might have to go grab my shoes and see if I can make HIM fall in love with ME all over again.


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Style is in the eye of the beholder…

Last summer I thought long and hard about starting a blog. I really wanted to. But I have a major confession I must make. The whole concept did not start as an effort to type out my daily rants and ravings over the awesomeness that is my children or the ridiculousness that is GleN Beck. No, my friends, I had one reason and one reason only why I wanted to start posting stuff online on a regular basis: I wanted to expose the clothing disaster that is my husband.

I have no style. For real. When I was a kid, I would throw on whatever pants and whatever shirt were closest to my reach, and present myself to my mother and say, “do I match?” Mom would give it a glance, the kind where she lifts up one eyebrow, and say, “You blend.” Now, I imagine what was going through her mind was, “For the love of God child, how the hell old are you that you cannot figure out that some colors go together and some do NOT? It’s not that hard. Red and Orange and Charcoal are not a good mix unless by some cruel chance they are your school colors and even then you look like a complete dumbass just with a jersey on. I have five kids. FIVE kids! I don’t have time for this shit. I’m not digging through your closet to find the actual pair of pants that match that monstrosity of a shirt and JESUS WOULD YOU BRUSH YOUR HAIR God I cannot wait until you are a little older so I can kick you into the kitchen and make “You blend” me a drink!” Seems like a reasonable train of thought.

Anyhow, I tell that story just to illustrate the fact that I am in no position to be critical of someone else’s wardrobe. But seriously, my husband would be better dressed if we let a blind monkey pick out his clothes.

*note – This only applies to his causal wardrobe. When the man goes to work, he morphs into a regular human being who can pair a nice shirt, a classy tie and a clean pair of pants together. But it’s clearly only a skill he has a grip on Monday through Friday, 8 a.m. until 6 p.m.

So when I wanted to blog, I was seriously planning on calling it, “Does My Husband Match.” I checked, and at least at that time, doesmyhusbandmatch.com was available! But, after consideration, and realizing I have MORE to say than to rant about Jim’s outfit choice, I realized that the topic might get tiresome for both readers and author.

But alas, it cannot be ignored.

Here is how March Madness is being watched tonight:

Trust me, he’s not lounging. If we were to suddenly decide to go out and grab some dinner and drinks, this is what he would wear. Brown comfy pants and all.

The Blackhawks jersey is my favorite part. In his defense, he said he was cold, and in hockey, a jersey is actually called a sweater. I only managed this snapshot. I unfortunately didn’t catch it when he put on his Notre Dame Snuggie.


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