Earlier this week I was trying to be the 9th caller in a radio contest, the prize of which was a fly-away to NYC to see John Mayer in a private concert.

I was intoxicated with the idea of a private John Mayer concert in NYC.  In no small part because I tend to turn to putty in the hands of John Mayer’s voice.  Not that his voice has hands.  But if it did, I might be inclined to let them get to at least second base.

So anyway.  I didn’t win.  And as I was pouting over the not winningness, my hero of a husband said something that prompted me to drop the tortilla I was busy frying and turn to him with the big doe eyes that I can’t help but put on when his sweet factor increases tenfold.

You want to know what he said?

He half mumbled, “probably saved our marriage.”

You know.  Because had I won the private concert, John Mayer would have been powerless against my beauty.  So much so that–once his eyes met mine–he’d have been unable to complete his set.  He’d have let his guitar fall to the ground and he’d have pulled me up on stage into a passionate embrace.  He’d have instantly dropped his latest A list movie star girlfriend and begged me to leave my husband and family and hit the open road with him.

Because, you know, I’m all that.  And a bag a’ chips.

Or.  Not.

The point, though, is that my husband thinks I am.  And he lets me know it.  Every single day.

The feeling is mutual by the way; I often wonder how I lucked into him.

A man who preemptively brings me a blanket because he knows I’ll need it.

A man who cuts the raw chicken every night because he knows it makes me squeamish.

A man who invents board games for our family weekend in the mountains.

A man who worked to acquire a taste for wine so that we could enjoy wine tasting events.  Together.

A man who fiercely defends his family when we need defending.

A man who works just as hard at home as he does on the job.

A man who brings me laughter, peace, security, friendship, and confidence.

A man who both grounds and frees me.  All at the same time.

So thankful, I am, for this man.

So in awe of him I remain.  So inspired by.  So in love with.

Happy birthday man of mine.

And PS. {Ain’t nobody turning this head of mine.  John Mayer included.}

Five years ago today I awoke to the sound of rain dancing on the rooftop.

I got in the car with my mom and we went to Trader Joe’s in search of the perfect Calla Lillies.

I had Mexican for lunch.  Including a giant blue margarita.

I naively handed over tiny silk flowers and a photo I’d printed off the internet to a hairdresser that I’d met the first time that very afternoon.

Five years ago today I was the bride in a sunset ceremony.

I held hands with my daughters, as they walked me down the aisle.

I melted when my husband-to-be was moved to tears as he attempted to recite the vows he’d written.

I gave my heart to my best friend.

Five years ago today I made the best decision I’ve made in a long, long time.

And today, five years later, I am so very thankful I did.

Happy Anniversary Naka.

Lovewa.

Best Friend.

All the time in the World.  Still.

I’m not having a good day.

My family is currently gathered in the kitchen making fun of me.

Jeff had the nerve to google “hissing dinosaur with flaps” in search of an image that he thought would perfectly suit me.

They think I’m a stress fest.

They’re wrong.

But we’re going to ignore their best impressions of a jeckyl (which I SO am not by the way).  And talk instead about the ten reasons why you should not agree to make a fancy fondant birthday cake a la Ace of Cakes for your son’s third birthday party.  Especially when you have absolutely zero experience in fancy fondant.

10. Marshmallow fondant is the most sticky substance known to man.

9. An entire jar of red gel food color will turn your white marshmallow fondant hot pink at best.

8.  You will be required to make not one.  Not two.  Not three.  But four.  Yes four batches of sticky marshmallow fondant to produce the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse cake of your preschooler’s dreams.

7.  Did I mention?  Marshmallow fondant really bites.

6.  All the powdered sugar this side of the Mason Dixon line will not suffice to make your marshmallow fondant less sticky.

5.  Pink hands.

4.  Pink hands that match your pink striped pajama top.

3.  Your family will swear up and down that your pink fondant truly matches Mickey’s shorts.

2.  It doesn’t.  Mickey wears red.  Not hot pink.

1.  By the time the party arrives…your hands will be rainbow.  Which might be festive for a rainbow bright party.  For a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse birthday party though?  Not so much.

Isn’t that a lovely shade of pink?  One might even call it rosey.  Not nearly as rosey as Jeff’s palms will be this time next week though. :)

Calling me a Dilophosaurus (don’t you dare google image it).  That oughta teach him.

Jeff has come up with some great ideas in his lifetime.  At least in the portion of it in which I’ve known him.  Ideas that we could totally market – if we were ambitious like that.

Our infamous game, for instance: a Jeff original.  Really, it was a collaborative effort – but mostly him.

Our Disney shirts?  Same thing.

His most ingenious idea yet though?  The Eggsacutor – a bumper mounted egg launcher that he insists should come as standard equipment on each and every vehicle in production today.

Drivers would have three eggs per month at his or her disposal.  With the simple push of a button, you could launch eggs at offending drivers – all from the comfort of your plush leather seats.

Presumably I need not explain the motivation for his brilliant idea.

I, for one, am a huge fan.  And you can play all high and mighty like you aren’t.  But I know better.  I mean, it’s a way more effective method than a honk of the horn.  A flip of the bird.  Angry gestures tossed at inconsiderate drivers via their rear-view mirrors.

Effective because, if your car was sprayed with egg after cutting off grandma in the beige Buick, well, you’d likely think twice before you pulled that again.

Right?  Right.

I already have a few people in mind.  You know.  For when the Eggsacutor becomes more than just a dream that dances through my husband’s road rage dreams.

Here’s my list:

-Anyone with an Obama bumper sticker.  Better yet – I’d launch the vomit from when I throw up in my mouth after seeing their sticker.
-Those with “Another Mama for Obama” stickers would get two.  Eggs that is.  One for Mama and one for bambino.
-Trucks with those über klassy ball sacks hanging from the trailer hitch.
-Anyone with a naked woman silhouette sticker.  Including those adorned with angel wings or devil’s horns.
-You know those people who proudly display stickers boasting that their child can kick my honor student’s @$$?  Uh-huh.  Them.  I’d have my honor student press the launch button.
-Guess who I’d save all three eggs up for though? The morons who have the nerve to drive around with “Short Bus” bumper stickers.  And yes.  Those do exist.  That’s all I have to say about that.

So spill it.  What kind of deserving driver would get your egg?

If you have a child with any degree of learning disability you most likely are familiar with the IEP.  An IEP is an individualized education plan.  It sets forth educational goals for the child.  It also outlines the services that the school will provide (speech, occupational, physical therapies, etc.).  Once each year we sit down with the school and–line by line–we write the IEP.  The therapists who provide services to the student are on hand to offer status updates and suggest goals for the upcoming year.

Every IEP meeting that I’ve ever been to starts out with helpful and encouraging updates as to Cassidy’s progress.  By the end of that second hour, though, things start to drone on.  And on.  And on.

The same could certainly be said for yesterday’s IEP.  Until, that is, one of the staff members brought up a concern that needed addressing.

You remember that little flatulence issue that Cassidy’s family suffers through?

The staff is all too familiar.

In the midst of the IEP we spent a good twenty minutes discussing possible solutions.

The discussion resulted in near hysterical laughter at one point as we explored the ramifications of Cassidy’s tummy turbulence.

For the most part, everyone refrained from labeling the issue at all, referring to it as a “stomach problem” or the expelling of air.

And then there was Jeff.

Who, not once, but TWICE said the “F” word during the discussion.

And yes, by the “F” word I’m referring to the four letter one.

The one that rhymes with heart.

Because if anyone is klassy, it is most certainly him.

As if his showing up thirty minutes late for the meeting wasn’t bad enough.

You know what else he was doing throughout the meeting?

Leaning his child-size chair back onto the two back legs.  An action that he gets onto the kids for doing at home.

By the end of that meeting something tells me that the staff learned a lot about where Cassidy’s behavior issues stem from.

I’m just sayin’.

I love playing games.  One of my favorite things to do is have another couple over for dinner and then stay up late into the evening playing board games or cards at the table, with bowls of candy scattered around to munch on.

I know.  We bring the house. down. with our mad par-tay skilz.

Ahem.

Ever since our best friends moved away last year we’re sort of hurtin’ in the game playing department.  We’re pretty much stuck playing two person games like Scrabble and Yahtzee.

There’s nothing wrong with Scrabble or Yahtzee.  I rather like them both.

Unless, that is, I have to play against my husband.

He’s a lucky guy.  And not just because he married me.  I mean he’s really, really lucky.  He rolls at least one Yahtzee pretty much every time we play.  And when we draw tiles to see who gets to make the first play in Scrabble his pick is almost always one of the first ten letters of the alphabet.  While mine is usually one of the last.

What’s worse is that he sort of gloats.  Which wouldn’t be bad if I wasn’t just a tad competitive.  But I happen to be.  Competitive, that is.  So you can understand how his double-fisted arms raised into the ‘touchdown’ sign, together with that ear-to-ear grin and singsongy “Yahtzee!” exclamation tends to set me off.

Just a little.

My competetiveness carries over into other things too.  Wii games.  Who can do more crunches.  Scores to those silly trivia quizzes I sometimes come across online.

But now, I’ve found a something else to beat him at.  Not that I’ve beaten him at any of those other things.  Ever.

I went to the doctor for a physical last week.  They took blood.  I called today and got my results.

Jeff went in last week too, only he hadn’t been fasting so his blood work had to wait.  He’s going in this Friday morning though.

You see where I’m going with this don’t you?

I’m out to get him in the cholesterol department.

I was  a little miffed today to find out that my LDL (bad cholesterol) was 108.  Dr. Oz says that an ideal number is one that is less than 100.  Damn those 8 points.  If I’d buttered only half my bread at dinner the night before I might have squeaked by.

My good cholesterol was 61.  Dr. Oz says an ideal number for that is one that is over 40, so I’m good on that account.

Really I’m good all the way around because my total cholesterol was 178 and anything under 200 is supposedly ideal.

I happen to be a bit of a perfectionist though so those eight LDL points are really on my nerves.

Anyway.  I know I shouldn’t even get into it with him because I’m bound to lose.  Nonetheless I’m looking forward to seeing his scores results.

I mean, he does sit at a desk all day.  And I’m the one who determines his serving sizes as I dish up his dinner.

Nothing wrong with leveling the playing field is there?

And yes.  I know I have issues.

Anybody care to predict who comes out ahead on this one?

I tend to be a glass half empty kind of girl. 

Have you noticed?

Pessimism has it’s advantages, believe it or not. 

Perhaps it would be more accurate to make that singular.  As in advantage, because really, I can only think of one. 

I told you I was  pessimist.

The one advantage is that pessimists are never disappointed; we can only be pleasantly surprised. Such was the case for me when Jeff and I started a running program last week.  He downloaded a podcast that works us, slowly but surely, up to running a 5K.

It’s not that I’ve never ran before.  Last year I actually surprised myself by finishing a 5K.  Whats more is that I had planned to power walk the course but Torri and I ended up running the majority of the way.  

I’ve lapsed since then though.

So when Jeff and I hit the pavement that first day I swore I was going to die.  It hurt.  My knees ached, my Achilles somethingorother hurt, my back was tight and the experience as a whole was pure. misery.  And I made sure Jeff knew about it believe you me.

I think my body just wasn’t made to run.  You know how you can’t do Tae Bo?  Well I can’t run.  It hurts.  It’s not supposed to hurt is it?  Fatigue I can deal with.  Pain I can’t.  I think I’m more a power walking kind of girl.  Or aerobics.  I can do aerobics.  It might be okay if we didn’t have to run these dang hills.  This can’t be good.  Anything that hurts this much just can’t be good.  I’m not a runner.  Can we go home now?  Tomorrow you can run while I Wii fit.  Do you hear what I’m telling you?  I’m not a runner.  You?  You might be a runner.  Me?  NOT A RUNNER!

In other words, he knew my stance.

But he pushed.  And I acquiesced.  Begrudgingly.

We’re into our second week now.  You probably won’t believe this because I can hardly believe it myself.  Honest to goodness though?  Turns out I may have been a tad dramatic. 

This is not to say that I’m a runner.  I most certainly am not.

I can run however.  In short intervals.  Or in long races, apparently, should the opportunity present itself.

I just forget these things. 

The rediscovery is definitely a pleasant surprise though.

See?  Pessimism isn’t all bad.

It really shouldn’t work between us.

He’s nonchalant, forgetful, and dawdling.

I’m tightly-wound, organized, and detailed.

He retreats when he’s angry.

I can’t function without a thorough discussion.

He knows the glass is half full.

I focus on what’s missing.

He squeezes toothpaste from the middle.

I insist that from the bottom is the only way.

He’s carnivorous.

Red meat makes me queasy.

He’s tall.

I’m not.

He snores.

I suffer through it.

He turns his nose up to wine.

I dream of romantic trips to Napa.

He believes love conquers all.

I say it’s not always enough.

You see?  It really shouldn’t work out between us.

He craves a hug at the end of his day.

I melt in his arms.  Every time.

He cracks jokes in church.

I cough to disguise my laughter.

He’s touchy feely and affectionate.

I’ve grown to like it.

He brings water to my bedside.

I’m a thirsty sleeper.

He tells me I was meant for him alone.

I know truer words were never spoken.

It really shouldn’t work out between us.

It absolutely. completely. unequivocally. does.

It does.

This post was inspired by the SWAK Valentine carnival hosted by Kristen {We Are That Family}.  Click your way over if you’re in the mood for a love story or two.

I’m contemplating starting potty training with Jayce.

He’ll be 2-and-a-half on the 14th.

In preparation I purchased my very first package of baby boy boxer briefs.  They are a size 4 and I have to say that even the frilliest lace bottomed girl panties don’t compare with the cuteness factor of these things.

I tried them on my little man and wouldn’t you know he is the spittin’ image of Marky Mark.  Only smaller.  And way cuter.

I’ve been really playing them up to Jayce, telling him that he won’t be able to wear them until he goes peeps on the toidy just like everyone else in the family.

And while I’m at it I diss on the diapers calling them stinky and yucky and ick, ick, ick.

Jayce seems to be diggin’ it.  Of course right now it’s all talk.

So, somehow we got on the subject of potty training at dinner the other night.

Previously Jayce and I had been the only ones present for discussions of peeps related things.

You can imagine then why I was taken aback when Jeff nearly spit his dinner across the table at the mention of Jayce’s big boy panties.

Yes.  You read that right.

Big boy panties.

Apparently I made a cardinal mistake in teaching Jayce the term ‘big boy panties’.

Big boy panties, it seems, do not exist.

Who knew?

Big boys wear underwear.

Or undies.

Boxers is an acceptable term.

As is briefs.

Big boy panties though?

Not so much.

In my defense I’m the mother of three girls.  And just one boy.

I guess I’ve got a thing or two to learn in that department.

Jeff said I should blog about all of the ways in which I am a freak.

What are you talking about?  Give me an example.

I’m not going to deny my freak status.  But I needed something to go on.  General freakishness does not a blog topic make.

Like, how you worry about things.

Like what?  What do I worry about that equates to me being freaky?

Like not putting 200 pounds on the top bunk.

That’s not freaky.  The kids’ bunk beds weren’t made to withhold 200 pounds.  They’re made to withhold, like I dunno 80 or something.  And when I changed the sheets today I had to climb up on the top bunk and I noticed it was way more wobbly than it used to be.

See?

See what?  That’s so not freaky.

Blog about how you freak out when Jayce is choking.

Jayce doesn’t choke anymore.

Blog how you used to freak out when he was choking.

Right, because I’m surely the only mother who freaks out when her infant son is choking.  Uh huh.  That totally proves your point.

Blog about how you don’t want me to take Jayce camping in the desert because you’re afraid he’ll step on a snake.

Hmmm.  My only son camping, primitively mind you, in the desert.  Miles from a hospital.  Surrounded by rattlesnakes on all sides.  Totally a legitimate concern.

It’s not like the rattlesnakes are going to stage a sneak attack.

He might happen upon one.

He won’t.

He might.

Blog about how you always freak out when you get something in your eye.

Who doesn’t?

I don’t.

You’re the freak then.  Eyelashes were meant to protect the eye.  Not swim around inside of it.  I could scratch a cornea that way.  And anyways, I don’t freak out.  I just head directly to a mirror so I can remove the eyelash.

But you won’t let me talk to you while you remove the lash because you say it breaks your concentration.

It does.

You’re proving my point.

You don’t even have a point.

My point is that you’re a freak.

News flash.  Have you not seen the Me and My Spasticity category on my sidebar?  I know I’m a freak.  These things though?  These things have nothing to do with my freakishness.

Okay.

Seriously.  My blog peeps will back me up on this one.  Chocking children and snakebites are legitimate concerns.

And the top bunk collapsing?

Legitimate.

Swimming eyelashes?

You gonna teach me braille when I lose my eyesight?

Yep.  But we won’t start at the letter A.  We’ll start at F.  Then R.  E.  A….

Oh just be quiet.

I’m just sayin’.

Go away and let me blog.

You gonna blog about being a freak?

Actually I thought I’d blog about withholding.  Withholding for a freakishly long time.  How’s that sound sweetie?

(Crickets chirping).

I thought so.