Apparently, my size has misled my husband into thinking I should give a good massage

K hurt his back at work yesterday. I actually feel bad for him, he is wincing enough to have me convinced that he is really not faking. Which would not be such a stretch for him, considering we had planned to go and chop down a Christmas tree today. And Christmas is not one of K's favorite times of year.

Apparently, he is not a fan of hemorrhaging money. Except of course, when it comes to something he really wants. Like a Wii.

Anyway, this morning he said his back was really stiff and would I mind rubbing it for him?

So I started rubbing his back, doing my best imitation of a therapeutic massage. Because we are in this together. When he hurts, I hurt. In sickness and in health, and all that jazz.

I tried.

But apparently I give crappy massages. Because K has had so many sessions with a professional masseuse that he would really know what constitutes a crappy massage or a good massage. Right.

Apparently he was a bit disappointed in my skills as a masseuse. Apparently, I give wimpy massages "like I weigh a hundred pounds or something."

I think he was expecting a little bit more from a relative of the Michelin Man.

Cue the Montgomery Gentry music, 'cause This Is MY Town

Every year, the day before Thanksgiving, a local bar in my small town hosts its annual Turkey Testical Festival.

Yep, you read it right.

That would be a festival in honor of fried turkey balls.

Deep fried, that is.

And, I read somewhere that like 5000 people attend this thing.

5000 people?

Eating these?

Prepared like this?

I feel like at this point, I should write something funny.

But clearly, I am not at the top of my game when it comes to turkey ball humor.

Because the thought of eating a turkey's reproductive organs, frankly, makes me a little queasy.
Although, that seems too specific of a statement.

Let me broaden it to include all reproductive organs, of bird or mammal. Or reptile. Or fish. Or bug. Basically, anything that might be out there reproducing does not need to live in fear of me deciding I'd like to chop of its manhood to enjoy as a snack while I drink beer and listen to live music until 2am. Because I prefer peanuts with my beer. Or nachos.

So, even though I do not participate in the festival of the testicals, I do not mind the festive signage that pops up around my town every year.

In fact, the longer I live here, the more it feels like home.

Especially when my Thanksgiving company gets such a chuckle out of driving by these signs on their way to my house every year.

This is wrong. On so many levels. Like the fact that someone made a cartoon out of a turkey getting his balls chopped off. And I think it's funny. And the fact that I have to explain this 'joke' to my kids, because I giggle every time I drive by this sign. Because this picture is 9 feet tall and is in the center of my town. And I must drive by it no less than 7 times a day.

(Please excuse the sideways-ness of this picture. I hope you still get the idea. I've tried to fix it, but blogger hates me. And it's a holiday. And I have about 142 other things to be doing. Like cook a turkey.)

(And I don't even want to know what happened to his manhood, as long as it's not in one of those white bags I pulled out of my bird.)

(And I am writing about deep fried turkey testicals, so how picky can I really be?)

And on this day of giving thanks and being grateful for our blessings,

I am sure that someone, somewhere this morning, is very grateful that Miller bottles were $4.00.

ALL DAY!

My husband may or may not be that someone.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

1008

Dear K,

As I sit here in our backyard next to this beautiful fire you've built me, on this unseasonably warm October evening, I am reflecting on how remarkable you have made my life these past 16 years. I know in our college days spent apart, we each could churn out an old fashioned love letter in the blink of an eye. And I know those letters are somewhere in the basement, in a box marked with nothing more than the letter K. Much like the only word I would need to describe my life.

I am sitting under my warm quilt, not because of the cool autumn air, but more as protection from the mosquitoes. I look up and see a dark night sky, the stars are large and bright, I cannot name a constellation to save my life, but beautiful is the only word I need right now. My love letter writing skills have become quite rusty.

I can hear you and Fiona and Choppy's voices coming from the dark, warm water of the swimming pool. You three are talking and giggling and splashing, and I hear the whistle of a train off in the distance. An October evening this warm seems surreal. Choppy just calls over to me, "Mom, you were right about the stars." To which I respond, "They're gorgeous aren't they?" Our little ones are clean and cozy in their beds upstairs, tired from a day of fresh air and hard play. Around me, some houses are lit up, some dark, most watching the Bears play the Packers tonight. I know you have your Tivo paused and you will be back to the game shortly, but I appreciate how you take this time, tonight, to make this memory with your daughters. This warm Indian summer evening, on the eve of a day off from school, will seem a distant memory come March when it seems the warm weather will never arrive.

Each day, I appreciate something about you. And each day, I really suck at showing it. I think, for me, the comfort that comes with being together so many years means not fully showing you how appreciated you are each day. How grateful I am for you. You go off to work each morning, most days I am still in my pajamas, to provide for this family. Would I wake up so happy and leave the house with a kiss and kind words for you if I had to go off and work for the day knowing you were going to be sitting at home by the TV or the computer, or perhaps spending money at Target? I think we both know the answer to that .

I know the weight of the burdens you shoulder, the financial responsibilities that come with being the sole provider for our family. I could work. It would be easier. It sure would be more fun to go shopping. But you support me in my decision to stay home. Not to say that I don't get a snide comment from you every now and then about take out for dinner or no clean socks. I understand. I mean really, 'what do I do all day?' But for the most part, I know you appreciate that I am home everyday being a mom to our kids.

I know our wedding anniversary has just passed, but really tomorrow is our real anniversary. October 8, 1991. I know you get aggravated with me every year when I forget our wedding anniversary. I know we always have the great anniversary debate, Sept. 25 or 26? Was it 1994 or 1995? To most, it would sound crazy. How can two people not remember their wedding anniversary? But we never argue about 10-08. It is our day. The day we made a commitment to each other. The day we knew we loved each other. The day we first kissed each other. The day I knew I would spend the rest of my life with you. I love that it is our unspoken number. We may not have a song, but we have a number.

With tomorrow marking 16 years of loving each other I want to remind you how much I truly love you. I know there are times when we fight and argue and on occasion it has crossed our minds to throw in the towel on us. But we never have. You've always believed we are worth fighting for, even when I was too lazy. You make me feel loved like no other. You are the person that knows my true self, the one that I can be honest with. You are the person that passes no judgement. You are my partner, my support and my rock. I don't mean rock in a corny way, though it is kind of , isn't it? My rock. I mean, you are the strongest person I know. Physically and emotionally. For me, you are the one that makes it all better. When I need support with the kids, you are backing me up. When I cannot bear to be criticized by my mother again, you encourage me to just let it roll off my back and remind me that 'she is your Mother,' in the most loving way. When I am mad or upset or ready to fly off the handle and say things I'll regret, you encourage me to calm down and see the bigger picture. You are the calm to my chaos. You are the level head to my impulsiveness. You are the voice of reason to my spontaneity. You are terrible at saying 'I told you so.' And you are the laughter that fills my soul.

No one makes me laugh like you do. Hysterically. Every day. Your laughter is contagious and your humor is infinite. And sometimes, you make me so mad. Can't I ever just be grouchy or crabby? Everyone is entitled to a bad day. Do I always need you trying to make me laugh?


I do.


I am not the person you started dating 16 years ago. I no longer have the body of that young cheerleader, or the energy of my old self either. My hair is usually in a pony tail and I go without make up more days than not. I go too long between pedicures, I throw on yoga pants and a tshirt and consider myself 'ready.' Some days you come home from work after being gone 10 hours, and I have not even showered. The grey hairs are showing, and the wrinkles have begun to appear. Things have sagged and dimpled and expanded. And yet, you still hug me and kiss me and tell me you love me. You make me feel beautiful and loved and cherished. You make me feel wanted. And there is a big difference between feeling wanted and being needed. You give me alone time, and time with my friends. Time to shop and scrap and take a nap.

Now, just because I'm giving you some over due respect, don't let it go to your head. You can still be the biggest jerk I know. You swear too much. You watch too much TV, too many sports. You rarely miss poker night. You like to buy yourself too many toys, and you can be rude and crude. And gross. You never want to go anywhere or do anything. You change into your comfy shorts every time you walk into the house and you wear your new gym shoes when you mow the lawn. You know that drives me nuts. You've had to hire a landscaper for approximately .000000021 acres of land and yet I've had to let my beloved cleaning lady go. Because really, 'what do I do all day?'

But for all that you do K, the good and the bad, there is no one else for me. You are my best friend. You show our kids more love and support and encouragement than I have ever known in my life, and they reflect the best in you.

I know you think I've probably forgotten, but happy 1008 babe. Love you.

12 Reasons I Will Keep K Around For Another 12 Years

Yesterday was our 12th wedding anniversary.

I remember a time when an anniversary, say the 1st or 2nd, even the 3rd one, was something that meant a nice dinner, a gift that wasn't an appliance and something that is unheard of in our current lifestyle; A MOVIE!

Then, sometime during the 3rd and 4th year of wedded bliss, we had a baby. And then, because she was cute, we had another. And another, and another. And like K always says...We should've just stopped with a dog. And then maybe we wouldn't be eating anniversary dinners at a place called Big Sammy's.

This year our anniversary was spent at Urgent Care with Gracie, dinner was grabbed quickly on the way home, and K fell asleep on the couch while we watched Private Practice.

This is the life a bride to be can only dream of.

Back off ladies, 'cause it's all mine.

So, I thought maybe to mark this special occasion, I would come up with a romantic, heartfelt, meaningful letter for my beloved.



But, I have laundry to do and prescriptions to pick up at Walgreens and I am out of Dove bars so I have important things to do today, people. There is no time for a sappy stroll down memory lane. Sappy-ness went right out the window somewhere around kid number 3.

So I have compiled a list of 12 reasons that I look forward to the next 12 years with my husband. And maybe when we've been married 2 dozen years, we can go out to dinner for something other than hot dogs. Don't get me wrong, this is Chicago baby, and I love me some hot dogs, but really. It is a sad day when you pick your dining out choices based on how fast you can get in and out and the sheer quantity of french fries a place includes in their combo meals because you have hungry mouths to feed. And you are tired of spending 27 bucks every time you have fast food.

And yes, this really is my life, so STOP LAUGHING.


Drumroll, please....

• If I didn't have to pick up K's socks from in front of the couch every morning when I woke up, then my days would really start off badly.
• If I didn't have to answer the question "Where Is fill in the blank here with anthing K is too lazy to look for?" about 471 times a week, I would seriously wonder what my purpose in life was.
• I enjoy making homemade, from scratch dinners for my family and when asking K how he likes it, "It's fine" makes all my slaving over a hot stove while refereeing the kids fights and trying to get homework done all while making sure that they are not sneaking snacks out of the pantry, worth it. I love to cook and have things turn out "fine."
• I do like having someone clean out my car for me.
• I appreciate someone who can make themselves a sandwich not 3 hours after I've slaved over the above mentioned home cooked meal. Nothing like adding insult to injury.
• If I wasn't married, I would have the whole bed to myself. But, I'm not bitter.
• I wouldn't laugh nearly as much, because K makes me laugh every single day. And I love that.
• I could not handle these 4 monsters children on my own, so really, I am stuck with him.
• He "gets" me, and that says alot.
• He still married me, even after he met my mother, and that says a lot, too.
• He buys me appliances. And really, nothing says I Love You More Every Year like a food saver/vaccum thingy.
• He pays hard earned money so I can go see Tim McGraw every time he is in town.
• He loves me.

Okay, so I know that is really thirteen reasons why I will stick it out in this crazy life for another 12 years. But I like to break the rules, sometimes.

And I also was really having trouble counting the bullets on my screen.

And, I'm in love.