He’s baaaa-aack.

Not that you ever knew he was gone.  Seems I have an aversion to announcing to the wide internets that my husband is out of town on business.  You know, inviting the crazies and all.

He’s back now.  After four long days away, in Dublin, Georgia.  Which has nothing on Dublin, Ireland, I’d venture to guess.

We welcomed him back to the madness with a spaghetti dinner–the mess from which likely rivals that from a full-fledged food fight.

I missed him.

No. Not just because there were eight-legged creepie crawlies to extinguish and smelly trash receptacles to lug to the curb.

I miss him when he’s gone.  I don’t sleep right–awaking to every little bump in the night.

We’re one of those couples that go to bed together (I mean literally people, don’t let your minds wander) every single night.  We brush our teeth side by side before methodically stripping the decorative pillows from the bed and pulling back the comforter.  Every night, we crawl under the sheets simultaneously, both of us exhaling the second our heads hit our respective pillows.

And then we talk.  Sometimes for just a moment or two, and sometimes long into the night.  Either way, it’s a ritual I’ve come to require, in order to drift slowly to dreamland.  We’ve taken a stab at the ritual via phone, but it just isn’t the same.

Tonight, though?  I’ve got the real thing.  And after three virtually sleepless nights, something tells me I’ll sleep like a baby.

I’m curious, though.  Am I a wimp and a wuss all rolled into one?  Do you lose sleep when/if your spouse has to pick up and go for a day or two?  I’ve heard tell that some wives actually enjoy the time alone.  Is it thoroughly disgusting that we lie in bed talking every night?  Or is that a pretty standard thing for married folk?  On which side do you fall?

Yeah, so I totally performed my wifely duties tonight.

Um, no.  Not those wifely duties.  Ahem.

I mean the wifely duties where I run around in the 107 degree heat all day, picking up ingredients for the perfect dinner.  And then I come home and clean house and make a totally organic, from-scratch dinner and dessert.  All because one of Jeff’s good friends from high school was passing through Arizona and was able to stop by for dinner.

So, yeah.  I totally knocked it out.

And, between you and me, I didn’t mind.  Not one bit.

Because this was the first of Jeff’s BD (before Darcie) friends I’ve ever met.

It was nice.  Like, nice, in a really, truly nice way.  Delightful.  Refreshing.  Lovely.  Really and truly.

Because, also between you and me, I’ve not had the greatest reception from my husband’s peeps.  {And, for the record…no, they don’t know what they’re missing}.  MovingRightAlongThough.

So I may have been just a touch gun-shy going in.

It was unnecessary though.  Both he and his wife were as friendly and gracious as could be.

I wish I could explain to you–within the parameters of this page–what a breath of fresh air it was, to be treated so warmly.  To feel so thick in the conversation.  To feel so purposefully included, as opposed to so purposefully excluded.  To feel so…welcome.  {Also for the record, yes, it is possible to feel unwelcome in your own home}.

We loosened up over margaritas.  And then stuffed ourselves with turkey burgers and home-fries.  And by the time I dished out the lemon bars I realized we’d been lingering at the table–deep in laughter and conversation–for a couple of hours.

The icing on the cake though?

When they left?  Jeff’s friend scooped me up in a side hug and told me Jeff’s a lucky man.

Indeed.

But then again, me too.  No need to tell my husband that part though.  Better to leave him thinking he owes me one. ;)

Forgive me if this is TMI, but I just have to share.

Jeff and I had a little post-midnight rendezvous last night.

TMI?  Probably not.  Once I tell you precisely what kind of rendezvous it was.

The clock showed 1:15 when I awoke to the sound of what could easily have been mistaken for a yelling child, coming through loud and clear on the baby monitor.  Jeff heard it too.

It only took me a minute or two to get my bearings and identify the noise.

The same, however, could not be said for my thoroughly confused husband, who turned the volume of the monitor way up, all whilst trying to concentrate through the fog of interrupted REM.

He must have lived a privileged childhood or something because he had never heard the sound before.

I, on the other hand, must not have.  Because I easily deciphered the howling.

Or meowing, if you will.

Assuming that one could refer to the obnoxious noise of a cat in heat as meowing.

It’s debatable.

Once I told Jeff what it was he asked (in his cranky sleepy voice): how many are there?

How many whats?

Cats.  In heat.

Oh.  Just one.

There’s gotta be more than one.

Why?

Because clearly the one making that noise is getting hers. {You’ll have to forgive me for not expounding on this.  Three generations of my family read this blog so I’m leaving it at that.}

Ahem. That is not the noise she is making.

Well why is she doing that then? {Because clearly I’m the feline reproduction expert}.

To attract a mate.  Duh.

Well no wonder.

No wonder what?

No wonder she’s been at it for so long.

Why’s that?

Because she’s sending them running the other way.

We spent the next thirty or so minutes trying to figure out a way to drown out the noise.  My selfless husband considered using the noise canceling headphones he hijacked from me long ago.  The flaw with his solution was that it sort of left me hanging.  And he should have known that if mama ain’t sleepin, he ain’t either.

So we settled on the “rhythmatic” ocean waves CD we purchased long ago.

But it didn’t take us long to remember why it goes unused.

It’s less rhythmatic and more jarring.  Not so conducive to white noise if you ask me.

I was trying to make do though, and drift back to an elusive slumber.

But apparently the waves were disturbing my comedic husband, who decided to toss in random seagull impersonations.

Needless to say, there was not a lot of sleep to be had in our bedroom last night.

There was a lot of wishing for BB guns though.

Followed by a rant about why our neighbors should spay and neuter their cats.

And since I couldn’t beat him by doing my best to stay silent so as to summon sleep, I decided to join him.  I reminded him how just a couple of weeks before I’d told him how a stupid cat in heat had kept me up half the night.  His response then had been that he’d never heard a cat in heat.

At least now you can say you’ve heard what a cat in heat sounds like.

I’d rather be able to say I know what a dead cat sounds like.

Me too.

With any luck, the coyotes will be hungry tonight…

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.