Tag Archives: marriage

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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Coolest job ever

I find myself lately being completely engrossed with pop culture. Now, I have no idea if the things I seem to like are actually COOL pieces of pop culture, or if they are just popular nonsense that get lots of airtime. For example, I know that there is nothing cool about, say, Paris Hilton. Or, for that matter, Perez Hilton (seriously, he not smart or witty, he’s just kind of an ass). I thought maybe I had struck cool gold when I discovered my love for Lady Gaga, but some say I have missed the mark. Of course, they are wrong, but I digress.

Jim and I can both fall victim to these bizarre pieces of pop culture. These things that come from nowhere, with no credibility, with no reason for becoming popular, in ways that simply make no sense. And we cannot take our eyes off of them.

Enter Khloe Kardashian.


Well, hey there Khloe! Good to see you and your obscenely tall frame and your non-Kardashian nose.

Until recently, Jim and I had no idea who the Kardashians were, or why anyone would want to keep up with them. They were simply fun fodder for The Soup. Then an awesome thing happened. We were watching an episode of The Soup, and when it ended, neither of us could find the remote. Rather than get up and walk across the room to change the TV, we succumbed to the next show airing on E! network. And that show was Kourtney and Khloe take Miami. Holy awesome awesomeness, it was so so so so bad. So bad it was good. So bad it hurt. It hurt so bad, and we loved it.

Here’s what I know about the Kardashians. Their father, the late Robert Kardashian, Sr.,  was one of OJ’s lawyers. They are rich. They are some type of socialites, like the currently un-cool Paris Hilton. They definately model, though I’m not sure they would be considered “models.” Their mother is named Kris, and she is married to Bruce Jenner, with whom she had two more daughters who she also gave “K” names to who are on the fast track for their own reality show, but their last name is Jenner so it has to be something cute and quippy with a “J” instead of a “K.” Like, Jihad with the Jenners, though I doubt that will fly. That’s all I know. I do not know why the Kardashians have a reality show, but I can say that about everybody with a reality show. So that’s not much.

Now, lots of people, if they were to choose a Kardashian, would choose Kim or Kourtney. I mean, Kim was famous first, for, as Joel McHale explains, having a big ass and a sex tape. And she is really pretty:


This is her Wikipedia picture, and dare I say it, she’s smouldering!

And then there is the incredibly tiny and adorable Kourtney Kardashian:


Of course, of the countless pictures of her, I chose one where she is wearing entirely too much eye makeup. But I think you get the picture. She is cute as a button. And pregnant! And not married! Oh, a reality show baby born out of wedlock and in the heart of sweeps. AWESOME!

But forget those girls. I chose the youngest daughter. The impossibly tall Khloe.


Look at that! She’ standing, like, a FOOT behind her sisters. Holy cow. I mean, I would not be surprised if she has a complex that makes her scream “GET IT YOURSELF” when someone asks her to reach up for something on a high shelf.

Now, I have not watched this show enough to know if Khloe has gotten less airtime than her sisters, or if she is the picked on one, or if she is less “celebrated” for her lack of a big ass and a sex tape or a pre-marital baby. But this weekend, they did a big show where she married Lamar Odom, an LA Laker who she had known for a month. And Jim and I could NOT TEAR OURSELVES AWAY FROM THE TV. The best part — they got married on Sept. 27… Jim’s birthday. IT. IS. A. SIGN!!!


Do you think part of the reason she married him is because he is taller than her?


Meh, who cares. They’re in LOVE, and they have the awesome ratings to prove it!

Jim feels shame. I feel none. You are my new favorite socialite Khloe. And that is the coolest job ever.


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Mars vs. Venus

Yesterday I was watching a little of my favorite 24-hour pretty much lefty but hey, at least they don’t claim to be “fair and balanced” news outlet, MSNBC. I like this station. I like their commentators. I like that they lean my way. I loves me some Contessa Brewer. And frankly, Mika Brzezinski is starting to catch my eye these days too. She’s got really great hair.

Anyway, it was 11-ish, so it was time for Dr. Nancy.

For this part, I am going off on a tangent… stay with me.

Dr. Nancy’s name is Dr. Nancy Snyderman. She is a board certified surgeon who specializes in otolaryngology, which is a word I cannot even pronounce, but means she’s an ear, nose and throat doc. She went to medical school at the University of Nebraska, and is currently on staff at the University of Pennsylvania. Plus, she is a on-air broadcaster, which frankly, is way harder than it looks. She is, by all means, accomplished. Yet she goes by the name “Dr. Nancy.”

Why the hell do broadcast doctors, be they MDs or PhDs, do this? Dr. Oz. Dr. Phil. Dr. Laura. Do these people have some aversion to their last name? I mean, it works for Dr. Ruth — but she is an adorable tiny little four-foot-seven German native who lost her parents to the concentration camps, yet is about the happiest-go-lucky person ever who talks about sex. She broke the mold people.

The use of Dr. Firstname reminds me of Sleepless in Seattle, when young Jonah wants his father, Sam, to talk to Dr. Marcia on a radio show. “Talk to her, dad. She’s a doctor,” Jonah says. “Of what? Her first name could be Doctor,” replies Sam. That sums up how I feel about it.

We have only one Doctor in our family, my cousin Jennifer has a PhD. And I am pretty sure that if I call her Dr. Jenny, she would probably take her baby out of his stroller so she could beat me with said stroller. Last names, people. Last names.

So anyway. I was watching Dr. Snyderman, and she was discussing whether men should have a place in the delivery room. To my knowledge, my father witnessed zero of his 5 children’s births. I did not deliver my children naturally, I had to have c-sections. Amy was there the first time, Jim nearly passed out the second time because he saw a little blood hit the floor. He never actually SAW anything gross. But I was so doped up both times that I can’t even remember someone else being in the room. My friend Nancy (not to be confused with the good TV doctor) told me just about the worst horror story ever involving the birth of her daughter and her husband holding one of her legs. Kayla said her husband watched the whole thing. I remember my sister Carrie talking about wanting to punch her husband in the face because he made the mistake of eating some sort of stinky snack before getting a little to close to her to tell her to “PUSH!”

So, is there a place in the delivery room for men? Dr. Snyderman made a legitimate comment about the men who get woozy at the sight of the birth, like my husband did (good thing he wasn’t really watching and he was sitting down — he would have dropped like a sack of potatoes had it been a regular birth). She said when the doctors need to check on the passed out man on the floor, it doesn’t go over too well with Mom.

“Men never faint after they’ve had sex,” Dr. Snyderman said. “They just faint for the delivery.”

Good. Point. Doc.

So what’s the answer? Do men help or hinder the birth process? Do we, as women, really need them there? I suppose the answer is that it is different for each couple, but really, the will of the woman should definitely win out on this one. I don’t know that doctors attending to a swooning Dad has ever actually put Mom or Baby’s life in danger. But still, why risk it? I do know that if it were me, and I was having the child the regular way rather than have it taken out against its will like I did, I want Dad to be as far away as possible, possibly on the other side of a sound proof wall.

What say the women and men of the blog world?

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October 13, 1962

I just wanted to take this opportunity to say HAPPY ANNIVERSARY Mom and Dad! And, you know, thanks for getting married so that you could get it on so that I could exist. Live long and prosper.


Aren’t they a couple of lookers? 47 glorious years… and counting.


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My husband and my sister: The Affair

My husband and my sister are having an affair. That’s right, you read that correctly. My HUSBAND. And my SISTER. AN AFFAIR. And they’re all about rubbing it in my face. For theirs is an affair that I can only peek into, hard as I try to drive a wedge between them. Seems my husband and my sister are having an affair — over sports.

“Your sister sent me an e-mail,” he says to me. “She wants to come over Saturday to watch the Notre Dame game.”

“Ok,” I say.

A few hours later:

“Your sister will be here at 11 on Saturday.”

“But the game is at, like, 2:30,” I say.

“Yeah… but the Hawks are on at 11,” he says.

College football and hockey? I cannot compete with that.

While they were off in their affair-world, I went all Magnum PI on them and snapped this piece of photographic evidence:


Can you even believe the nerve of them, right there on my fine Value City Furniture sectional? Oh, the humanity! To make matters worse, I, for some reason, created a whole delicious snack tray for them to enjoy on their date:


Look at that! Fresh veggies chopped and sliced by my own little arthritic fingers. And yes, that’s pita chips AND pita bread. The fact that my homemade black bean humus actually looks like a soft-serve poop didn’t stop them from enjoying every little bite either. What did I do? It’s like I’m part of the problem. And if that wasn’t enough, they had to watch baseball, despite the fact that both their teams had been eliminated weeks ago.

There were rattled off stats and names of people I will never remember. There were memories of wins and losses gone by. There were discussions of the upcoming hockey season and the nonstop badmouthing of Blackhawk goalie Cristobal Huet, and all I could add to the conversation was “what a funny first name he has!” I don’t think they even heard my enormously funny wisecrack! If I’m not wrong, there were a handful of fistbumps.

It’s not just the games either. They send eachother text messages ALL THE FREAKING TIME about whatever team is playing whatever game at whatever time. And it’s not like I’m some sports novice. I pay attention. I can follow a baseball or football game better than a whole lot of other women I know. Hockey — meh, no one is perfect. But am I good enough? No. He has to go searching for companionship elsewhere… but he sticks to my own family tree. Like, two limbs over.

What do I do? How do I stop this?

I know this much. Kayla is no longer invited to my house during college football season. I cannot handle making another trayful of snacks so my husband can enter a three-way with my sister and one of my closest friends.


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