The Beginings of A Sophomoric Brain Damaged Relationship

me: Jack! The husband just torched me yesterday on our 2-mile run.
Jack: oh yeah?
me: Yeah. And he hasn't ran in 7-years! I've been running. . .
Jack: Well, he's a better athlete than you.
me: I kno. . . . What?!

Double-Jointed Barkology

When It Pours

Yesterday, I was playing with the digital camera in the rain. The pictures above are proof of that. I am not sure if that is recommended by the manufacturer unless the camera is made for water-play, but I tried to make sure it stayed dry in between me taking shots in the downpour and then immediately running for cover as if I was someones target practice. The complexity of my dodging raindrops ended up being fun for me though I think the husband had other thoughts. It was pouring out. But we think this was a good thing as the husband and I had just finished the laying of 300 pieces of sod in our front yard.

The husbands vacation is over at 3 o'clock this afternoon. Back to the daily grind of sick human body management for him. Me? I still have bushes, flowers and vines to plant. But most of the major back-breaking work is out of the way for now. Since I don't mind digging in the dirt and making things pretty; I'll be happy as a pig in mud.

Maybe You Should Try Prozac (Part II)

Pre-duathlon conversation (in fact, 2-days prior):

the husband: honey, you are going to ride the Ride for Heroes this Saturday, right?
me: um. I don't know. . . I'm not sure I'm . . . .
the husband: good! 'Cos I signed you up to do the 35-mile ride!
me: sigh.
the husband: what's that for? It'll be fun! And there's hamburgers at the end! *skipping ever-so-lightly away before un-planted flowers could hit him in the head*
me: *detonating* could someone please explain to me as to exactly why I married you?

Trimmed Nose Hair is Part of the Job

The husband, working hard to dig those holes.



Chobie supervises. Mmmmrph.



The one tree has flowers. Many do not.



Bush number 9 - only 44 more to go. . . .

Update on the yard work:

• We bought 50 pieces of sod. We need 200 more.
• We've planted 18 of the 53 bushes. Only 35 more to go.
• I've halted my embargo on Starbucks. I heart grande non-fat vanilla lattes once more.
• One tree now has a garden below it. One more awaits.
• One planter has been planted. 4 more to go + 20.
• 25,000 visits to the garden shop. 25,001 visits to the hardware shop.
• The sprinkler system was dug up and checked by the husband. It will now be buried and remain as is.
• Have managed to continue our workouts. No, no not together.
• It is suppose to start raining at 2 PM today. That'll be fun.
  
• Found more fire ant hills than wanted or needed. Still don't understand the validity of these creatures.
  
• 7 bags of yard waste hauled. Only 50 more to go.
  
• More money spent on lawn/yard than a 4-day vacation. Priceless.

Maybe You Should Try Prozac

the husband: Okay! We're both signed up! *big, big smile*
me: for what?
the husband: for Sunday!
me: what's Sunday?
the husband: the duathlon! *skips away*
me: okay. . . huh? What? Wait! Get. Back. Here. . . .

Renewing Our Vows

Front Yard Before Picture . . . .

So, today is Monday, March 26, which means that the husband and I were going to travel to Hill Country for a 4-day vacation so that we may actually have alone time together. No bike riding, no bike races, no running, no work, no gym, no dogs, no cats, no housework, no blogging, basically, no nothing unless it was done together.

I, on the other hand, decided to have a meltdown along the lines of Chernobyl approximately 2-days ago. This great grumpy-pumpkin sized cataclysm of mine will have forever changed our holiday plans that had once included artistry, fine wines, gourmet dinners, bike rides (together, people, together), movies, hiking or to just view the inner beauty of the great state of Texas. No, we will no longer be enjoying such luxuries outside of this longhorn city, because crazy time began Friday, March 23 at approximately 3:15 PM in the Honda Ridgeline while on the way to the movies. *Shudder*

Instead we will be staying at home to start & finish desperately needed landscaping and house painting. We have 4-days to plant 50 bushes, research [we did have a cool trip to the Botanic Gardens this morning], purchase, dig out existing grass, hedge and plant innumerable native Texas flowers around trees, the front walk and the garage fence, as well as paint the house trim - yes. all. of. the. trim. 4 days. I might as well be strapped to a chair getting my ear cut off.

And to make things even better . . . today, it is raining like the sky hasn't opened since Noah built the arc. The forecast shows possible thunderstorms for the next 4-days. Oh yes. We will be digging in the mud as my mini-Chernobyl was not for nothing. The plans have not changed. I certainly showed the husband who the Alpha Diva was. . . .

Um. Right.

So, while the rain pounds the pavement in mass quantities, and the husband pulls a Homer, I, the Alpha Diva, blogs. . . .

Am I the Only One Who's Scared Up In Here

For those of you who feel slightly hornswaggled by my last posting. I must apologize as well as cleverly come up with another subject for your reading pleasure. . .

I have been contemplating lately that it's been a long time since I've been put together and appropriate in my appearance. I live in workout clothes and ponytails every day. This has made me realize that my level of acceptable appearance in public has diminished greatly over time, especially since I no longer work professionally. In an office. In the public. My acceptable level of appropriateness is so minuscule to me that I now do what I never said I'd do even if I got hitched, which is go out in public sans makeup or not even brushing the hair. That's what ponytails and hats are for anyway. Why bother? This; however, is not a pretty sight to see or, to quote the 40-Year-Old Virgin, "this is not a good look for me!" It's a wonder people don't run from me as if I've just sporked my own eye out and left it there to hang in all its glory.

Furthermore, most of you know of one of my afflictions called, you-will-be-carded-until-the-day-you-die. (I know! I know! Most of you are shouting, "Oh. Just SHUT UP about this already!") But you see, it's not flattering to me. It never has been. Sure, it would seem to be a fabulous affliction, but I can assure you it is not. I constantly get carded if I try to purchase the fire water, enter a pub or do anything that has any remote possibility of running into alcohol. Always. It's not complimentary, mainly because people are just rude about it. Rudeness does not make one feel young and oh-so-pretty, witty and ni-iiiiiiiice. And then, they. Don't. Believe. Me. Short of me giving them my first unborn, of which I don't even have yet, as evidence to point out the contrary that they are wrong I cannot get them to believe me. I do have proof that I am over the age of 21. *** I carry my Texas appointed drivers license with my official and bona fide birth date listed. I wouldn't even know where to get a fake ID these days. I graduated college almost 13 years ago and I also don't hold/have any questionable friends these days that could help me out with these types of things.

My point is, is that I went to the grocery store last night to pick up a few items for dinner. You know, green beans, milk, cottage cheese, potato rolls and a pack of Shiner Light. I headed to the express check out. There in the 15 Items or Less aisle, was a girl of about 18-years of age checking out groceries. She was amicable enough until she got to my pack of beer. I should mention here, that I had just gotten done with a 75-minute workout at the gym. I was sans makeup, in my sweaty workout duds, most likely did not smell like the delicate flower I usually am and had a visor on my head with a ponytail. I did not look well and I didn't really care. I wanted my items and I wanted to go home, shower and make the husband and I dinner. Instead, she looked at me. I looked at her. This conversation then ensued:

18-year-old grocery gal: You're not 21 are you? (Skeptical and disbelieving look followed)
me: yeah, I am actually 35.
18-year-old grocery gal in complete and utter shocking disgust: No. You're. Not.
me: Yes, I am. Do you want to see my ID?
18-year-old grocery gal viewing my ID and then glancing at me with a look that felt as if I'd purposely turned something off inside me that caused my brain to slowly leak out my left ear. This look made me nervous and completely uncomfortable. It showed as I anxiously laughed and put away my Texas ID.
me: I'll be 36 at the end of April.
18-year-old grocery gal non-believing: Yeah. Right.

___________________________________________________________________

*** Even when I am with the husband, I still get carded - he does not and he is FIVE YEARS YOUNGER THAN ME. Do you know how frustrating that is?

Sharing a Chimichanga

This was the original blog I was going to post when I first opened this site:

New beginnings. Again. This whole new blog of mine has been hard for me to figure out. As there are all these new kinks to work on and I am still confused as to how this whole Blogger thing works. For example, it only took me 18+ hours to finally download my photograph, which caused me to almost pay the money to stay with iMac. Almost. But not quite.

Somehow, and 2 months later of severe lessons in trial and error, I have debuted my newest blog: "When the Godiva is Gone".

When I think about my past two blogs here and here, I realize I have never really smelled a chicken while it's still on the farm. So, I'll explain myself to my 6 readers.

For those of you who may not know, I am a Stay At Home Wife (SAHW). Which may cause some of you to conjure that I sit at home, eat bon-bons, drink champagne and watch salacious movies. While I could be very good at those things, I don't actually do them. There isn't possibly enough time in a day for me to accomplish that on top of what I normally perform. I will say that for the most part I do the SAHW thing pretty darn well, but there are those times when I wish I had my big desk back with my very own office door to shut while someone answers my phones. So, yeah, for those of you who may not think so, I do have a brain and I do have an edumication. I did graduate from Carroll College in a time far, far away from now. I majored in Psychology (let me tell you how messed up you really are) with a minor in General Communications. I can and have publicly spoken - at NASA, on TV and radio as well as in Washington, DC. I still get gigs every now and then. This doesn't mean I love to get up and open my mouth, it just means I can.

Drifting off course again . . . .

After a few years of getting my arse kicked by sociopaths, paranoid schizophrenics, delusional's, gangsta's, alcoholics/drug addicts (or boyfriends of) and what most people would label in general "the crazies," I decided it was time for a switch of professions. When your psych degree is no higher than university, you are of the bottom feeder of healers. I'm not going to lie, the money was crap too and the hours long. My awakening occurred as one of my paranoidschizo's clients chased me around her apartment with a butcher knife yelling at me that the toaster told her to do it. To which I responded, "I'll be back when you take your med's ." Some people just were not cut out to live in society with the rest of us. I decided to get out with all my phalanges (and noggin) in tack.

On to the beauty industry. Almost 4-years. Enough said.

Then on to the business of Advertising & Marketing. Ahhhhh. . . I finally found my calling. I learned I could publicly speak and not die from doing so. I experienced the highs of hiring and the lows of "you're just not going to work out." I constructed, created, taught, developed, trained, registered, established, wrote, published and researched. I used my brain. A lot. These were remarkable jobs and I experienced more than I ever expected. Especially with regards to signing contracts. If at all possible don't. do. it. And if you have to do so, have an attorney read it over first. It's worth the $500.00 per every five-minutes of consultation. Trust me on this one.

Then, I met the husband. My life completely changed. Over the course of a 2.5 year marriage, I have landed here. And am none the less happy for it. I am blessed. I am loved. I am lucky. I am more so very grateful. I have the husband. I have the 4 dogs whom I constantly step on/over/lay at my feet/take over our bed/play with/run with/walk with and guard with. I have the 2 cats who greatly wreak havoc in my life just for the fun of it, but have also been known to cause peace now and again. Finally, we have our home. I can't complain. I really can't. In this life I still have much to do - it may just not be behind a big desk. I have hopes. I also have dreams. Some may be revealed on this here site from time to time. Some will not.

Overall, I hope you too enjoy my blog as much as I love leaking my brain onto it and in the very least if not a laugh you give, a smile will do.

The Husbands Very Own Paparazzi

Here is the husband doing something he told me not to take a picture of, but catching me in the very act of taking his picture anyway. You can tell just how much he truly loves me at this very moment.

Here is the husband eagerly and most excitedly awaiting in line for his time trial race.




Here is the husband catching me taking his picture, again.




Here is the husband riding across the finish line for the time trial.

This is all done in the name of love and fun! Fun with the digital. Love of the husband. Or maybe love of the digital and fun with the husband. Either way, I'm not too sure the husband finds my muse as fun as I do. But in the end, it's all about me and my shiny camera. Besides, he'll come to appreciate it someday. Even Courtney Cox has this to say about us paparazzi's, "There are times when paparazzi go too far. . . .Sometimes they get so competitive it’s dangerous, like “Who’s gonna get the shot?” It’s OK as long as it stays within limits. It’s OK to go to a restaurant and get your picture taken—you’re going out and you have to expect something. But when it gets invasive and they’re sitting outside your house, it’s gone too far. I’m kind of torn because I understand. Look, I don’t read those magazines. . . but don’t think I don’t look at the pictures to see what people are wearing. I “get” the fascination, but if I’m followed every time I leave my house? That’s too much." (shout out to PopSugar.com for the CC-A quote from LA Confidential)

If Mrs. Cox-Arquette can warm up to the pap's, so too will the husband. He definitely will.

Strike a Pose, Poser

I had to call my little sister, Sarah, this past Saturday morning.

I was out with the husband while he was pedaling away on his bicycle during another road race, when I noticed some pretty Texas flowers. I couldn't remember for the life of me how to take close up shots and it was the most important thing that I get a hold of my sister to tell me the deep dark secrets of my camera right then and there. This was an immediate attention matter of business.

You see, I had two buttons to chose from - one I called the MoFo button and the other was a picture of a flower. This choice may seem obvious, but in using both of them with equal amounts of shots and with none of these shots turning out, I became slightly befuddled. I needed the guidance of an expert. This is where the Saturday early morning phone call to the sister ensued.

I was promptly told by my younger sibling that the MF button does not stand for MoFo. It means "manual focus" which entirely makes sense. I was also told that I need to use the flower button if I am taking very close shots of something, but make sure I let the camera focus before pressing the shutter button . . . .

Sometimes I feel like a gorilla.

I seriously need to get more serious about taking a photography class as my sister isn't always available to pick up my immediately desperate phone calls on how to use my camera. Though, I have to say, her guidance is far easier and way faster than the 300+ page manual it came with and in all actuality an 8 week course. I may just stick to bugging her. It's payback for growing up together where I felt she was a serious pain to my popular quotient.

If You'd Rather Change My Diaper

I just read that Eva Longoria is the new spokesperson for Bebe. I do not heart Bebe. I do not heart Eva - though she was pretty good in "The Sentinel" - and that might give me a glimmer of hope. After all, I was totally wrong in my disdain for Ellen. I heart Ellen. Now. She seems a pretty good gal.

You are wondering as to why I am posting about Bebe and Eva?

Well, this breaking spokesperson news reminded me of something that happened almost 2-years ago for I needed a dress to attend an upcoming wedding. I used the Internet to surf through a gazillion stores to find my fabulous dress. I do not heart shopping. Strange phenomenon for a girl, I know. When it comes to buying the clothes I would rather get in and get out as fast as possible! Thus, the Internet surfing. I finally landed at Bebe. Great! There was a store in my backyard and I found a dress I loved. Somehow, I talked the husband into going with me.

Off we went. As we were walking through the mall about to make a right hand turn into Bebe when the husband spotted the Apple Store. He made a sharp left before I could even utter a syllable of protest. He said he'd be quick and meet me later. Off I went to Bebe myself. Alone.

I will clarify and start here: I am not a size 0. I never have been a size 0 except for my days in infancy and even then that is questionable. I am not a size 2, nor 4, nor 6, nor - you get the point. I am also not a teenager. I hadn't been one for almost 14-years at that point. And I thank God for that! This is all very important information for the following conversation I had with the sales associate who was more concerned with helping the rich mothers of the teeny-tiny-who-need-to-eat-a-cheeseburger-or-2-daughters. No, I'm not bitter. Just a paying customer. I had a Julia Roberts moment from "Pretty Woman," "I have money to spend here! No one will help me!" Except I wasn't a hooker dressed as a hooker, I was only a size 10.

Me standing outside my dressing room for 6.34 minutes (my best guess - it was 2-years ago).
Sales associate nonchalantly walks on by (several, several times).
Finally, "Oh. Do you need some help." (sigh)
"I do! Please! Could you see what size that dress is on the mannequin for me?"
Sales associate looks behind her, then around the room and finally to where I am pointing, which was the only mannequin in the entire dressing room.
"Um. That dress would not look good on you. You wouldn't fit in it."
She then walked away from me as if she just lifted her leg and peed on my bare feet.

I retreated to the dressing room, sat on the bench and tried my very best not to cry. I heard the husband. I invited him into the dressing room. My lip was trembling and my eyes were starting to fill with tears. He looked at me, "honey, what's wrong?" And I threw up all over him the story about what just took place. Very sternly he looked at me and said, "get dressed. We are leaving here." I said I had found some things to buy. He said, "no. We are not buying anything from here. We are leaving. Now." The husband was clearly mad and I believe that somehow he was suffocating the urge to punch or throttle this girl as I continued to try and not collapse into a heaping pile of cry on the dressing room floor. I changed. We left.

The husband took me outside to a bench where I finally broke down and cried with his arm around me.

Put a Patch Over It

I got on the scale this morning. I looked at the husband. He looked back at me and then at the scale. We weigh the exact. same. weight.

He said, "it's because you ate pizza and beer last night. You're just bloated, honey."

Life is not fair.

I Don't Take Laxatives in My Tea

I have been entirely too acrid lately; in fact, I have been an all around bad-tempered misanthropic creature. Mostly about myself, which is a twistedly good thing considering I live with the husband and I am also not in the neighborhood of wanting to actively lose friends nor the husband. I've turned into a cretin. And not in a good way.

Just a couple hours ago I about essentially blew up over a little thing called "no-toilet-paper-left-on-the-roll-but-not-changed-because-there-were-2-fragments-of-ripped-shards-left-for-someones-use-even-though-
they-were-only-as-big-as-your-middle-fingers." And you know who I was going to blame? The husband. And for the love of everything that is made from trees to wipe your bum, the husband. is. not. even. in. town. He left yesterday morning. Nowhere close to our home where he could leave nothing but fragmented shards on the toilet paper roll; even though he does have a tendency to excel in this area. In fact, he almost has it down to a near perfect science, "leave this much TP on the roll and I don't have to change it, but when Jen comes in for a sit - tee hee - she'll be stuck! Oh what fun we'll have!" Is it right to still think that somewhere, somehow this is all the more his fault?

And to further prove my point, about 30-minutes later, I found myself talking to a good friend of mine about my latest life torments. Which when toppled on top of those previous mentioned afflictions and that the husband is gone from our longhorn town had made things that much worse for me. Go ahead and smite me o' mighty smiter! Yet, later in the conversation I found out that the good friend's wife is out of the country on business for over 2-months. I was complaining about 2 to 4 days on being alone while playing with all my drama. His love is gone for much longer. And, of course, he was handling it much better. I am a dreadful mess.

Indeed, I found out today I had finally lost my angry, but it was replaced. My heart hurt so much I felt it in my eyebrows. I needed to go to my happy place or we were all. going. to. die. And, really, life is not that bad. For me, it was crucial that I get a grip if even just to grasp a roll of toilet paper. As Jack Handy says, "if you ever fall off the sears tower, just go real limp, because maybe you'll look like a dummy, and people will try to catch you, because hey, free dummy." That's what life is all about.


So, I did the next thing any reasonable, practical, plausible individual would do. I took a deep breath, ordered a moderately unhealthy pizza, grabbed a beer and turned on "America's Next Top Model." The only therapy a girl ever really needs.

Laugh and the Whole World Laughs With You, Cry and You Have to Blow Your Nose

I have to ask, what does a girl do when her "girl claws" come out (but in this instance these claws have absolutely nothing to do with being territorial)? 'Cos, ladies, if you ever lay your hands on the husband, I will eradicate you like you've never seen Rambo before. Plain and simple. No problems there. But what if you're just angry? How does a girl deal with that? What does she do?

Generally, I consider myself a pretty decent human being. At times, I tease the husband more than I should (and put it in writing on the world-wide-net for the entire heavenly body to view), but that just means we have a solid relationship. If we didn't I could not write some of the things I do. He understands this. I respect this. And I love him all the more for him letting me be me. Everybody knows I am far from perfect myself. Even if I am a delicate flower.

However, I have even been known as a pushover. Some of my friends have said and continue to say I'm too nice as well as too forgiving and they've tried to help me with that. Most of their counsel has not been in vain - some of it has worked. And I believe am a better person for it. Though I'll never forget that an ex once said to me, "God, it must be nice to be you. I'd love to be ignorant. Ignorance is bliss." And then laughed at me. It hurt, but I forgave him for that. Eventually (and thank all the Gods in this universe), he became the ex. So, I can and will get there. In this day and age, be forewarned that the time line for me to achieve this is getting far shorter, especially since I'm becoming antiquated, primeval and in general just more crotchety. Or maybe it's just my dementia. Either way, I have a much shorter tolerance these days for people who steal my Godiva.

My point is, that I can and will turn into the devil incarnate if I am pushed far enough. It's not pretty either. And the husband, family as well as close friends will hear about it through my 90-mile-an-hour-machine-gun-mouth (or AK-47; whichever the kids find coolest these days). I pretty well sound like, "tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat, tat, tat (reload), tat, tat, tat, atta, atta, tat, tat. . . . "

How to make me angry: To summarize, go ahead and tell me that I am insensitive, irrational, selfish, insult my marriage and tell me I lack empathy.

So, how am I to deal with that without landing myself in the federal penitentiary system for the rest of my life? What is a girl to do? The girl claws are extended and waiting . . . .

Because I'm a Fun Girl Who Wants to Have Fun with a Fun Man

Today, the husband and I awoke a bit later than usual. I had planned to run 4-miles. The husband planned to ride 2-hours. But this time change thing has not sat well with me. I know I'm a handful when I am not sleep deprived, so I'm just going to just deny, deny, deny that I'm even more so every spring about this time of year when we have to spring the clocks ahead. The husband may disagree.

Somehow, he talked me into riding on the CompuTrainer instead of running. How he did it will forever remain a mystery to us all as I was on the wee bit cranky side of life this morning. I had once again regressed into cave man grunting. And since I am still on the Starbucks embargo, I still had no coffee. With a wash of the face, a bit of deodorant, and a brush of the hair and teeth out the door I was.

It takes about 15-20 minutes to warm up for these cycling sessions before one actually begins their course. For this one, I had planned to ride to keep my rpm's around 80 to 90. A good ride which isn't too difficult on a flat-road-with-no-wind. About 1/4 into my ride, I decided; however, to do interval training. For no other reason than I was inspired by the husbands training ride provided to him by his Nazi bike trainer. So, while he did his 20-minute intervals with a 10-minute rest period, I only did 2-minutes of intervals with a 3-minute rest period (5 intervals only). I. Thought. I. Was. Going. To. Die. Or puke. Sometimes it doesn't really matter which occurs as they're both equally dreadful.

Anyhow, about 45-minutes into our course ride, the conversation that popped out of nowhere went something like this:

"Honey. . . . if you trimmed down a bit you'd be a really good racer."
Me with laser beam death ray eyes calmly turned and looked directly at the husband.
"Well, uhhh. . . . you would. You, uhhh. . . . have a lot of power."

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Aaaargh. Grrrrrr. Mmmmph.

What is it?

• Zombie's walking the streets of Milwaukee?
• The Husbands evilness in the middle of the night?
• Jen this past Sunday morning without coffee? Ding, ding, ding, ding!

I was seriously sleep deprived and even my autopilot was malfunctioning. It was early. Really, really early. I was supposed to get up to make the husband his bike racing breakfast - I had volunteered for this job. I saw it as my solemn duty. However, in my over zealousness, I had blondely forgotten that daylight savings time was to begin that very morning.

And, while I'm not addicted to the java bean, I do on occasion like to imbibe in it. Some mornings the coffee is more necessary than others. Sunday was one of those necessary days. It was virtually impossible for me to gather my brains together to get out of our comfy bed. It was just plainly painful.

The husband finally said, "stay in bed, I'll run and get you some coffee." He returned with that little piece of heaven on earth. The husband was my knight in his bike racing shorts and baseball cap. Of course, holding my vanilla latte in one hand while whispering, "time to get up, baby. We have to get moving." [translation: "evil sleep demons be gone!"] I then tasted what was supposed to be my grande non-fat vanilla latte.

It was only a latte. No vanilla.

There was suddenly a buzzing in my ear. I think my brain was dying.



*******Side note: In lieu of recent comments commenting, I must make it clear that I am not complaining about the husband here. As mentioned previously, he went and bought me coffee very early in the morning during daylight savings time. Hurrah! Also mentioned previously, he was my knight in his bike racing shorts and baseball cap! Touche! It is Starbucks that I am complaining about. They made the wrong coffee. They tried to melt my brain. Thus, they tried to kill me.

How do I know this? Because it is well known by the husband that I heart grande non-fat vanilla latte's. He would order nothing else ever. Period. So, when he ordered my skinny latte he ordered it with vanilla - not plain, which was just icky, icky poo.

Besides, he told me so and I believe him. He felt pretty bad and even offered to stop to buy another one, but I am, for the moment, having an embargo on Starbucks for messing up my chi.

Bou-Yah

The husband warms up with sponsors Pearl Izumi of Fort Worth, Cliff Bars/Shots and Colonel's Bicycles of Fort Worth

The husband is in his team jersey (yellow with blue/black sleeves on the far right)

The pace line. The husband is last in this line. . . .

but first to cross the finish!

I am insanely happy for him! He finished first overall in his category this Sunday morning - even with daylight savings in working order. It was the husbands first win since deciding he would recreationally race on two-wheels. Maybe he is not so crazy after all.

Give that man a yellow jersey!

If He Knows What's Good For Him

"Honey, close your eyes."
"Are they closed?"
"Close 'em. . . "

I heard the husband shaking something as he walked from the kitchen to the family room. "I got you something yesterday." Me, ohhhhh (excitement!). . . maybe some diamonds! ?

"Open your eyes. . ."

"Awwww . . . it's GODIVA! Love it, honey! Thank you!"

"Well, uhhh . . .I know you don't like Godiva, but I thought . . ."

"What? Since when have I ever told you I don't like Godiva?"

"I swear you told me that."

"When?"

The husband replied in all his seriousness, "well, then I guess that must've been my mistress who doesn't like Godiva then. . . I don't know." To which my final answer to that remark was, "yeah. 'Cos you have time for one of those. For God sake, my friends already think you're fake."

He Was Going to Take My Water, Possibly My Soul

As most of you know, the husband that I married is a really good man. I am more than lucky. I know this. He is gentle, he is funny, he is smart, he has white teeth (in fact, he has all his teeth), he has no known criminal record, he is kind, he has all his fingers and toes, he works hard, he has a heart full of love among loads of other positive traits most women look for in a man before becoming Mr. & Mrs. Ball-And-Chain. I love him fully - even the faults he holds are endearing (if you give me a couple days and a couple bottles of wine, I can find a way to make any annoyance almost heavenly. Mostly, but not always.)

This includes the our exchange at 1:47 AM the other morning.

I awoke from the dead of sleep to a TV blaring something from the Military Channel. This most likely included bombs exploding on the earth somewhere. Or large guns going off in repeated succession. Or both. I'm not sure which, as I was dazed and slightly confused. . . . Yet, I do not believe that I awoke because of the TV. No, I believe I was kicked to consciousness.

But the act alone did awaken me and because I was 1/2 dead and wanted some sympathy for my hurting shin, I meekly said, "Honey. . . You kicked me. It hurt."

To which the husband responded, "Wahhh, wahhh, wahhh. . . go cry to someone who cares like you always do. . . ." Mass confusion set in. Do I really do that? Why did he say that? What had I done to make him be mean to me? At 1:47 AM? This should have been a huge clue as to why the husband said what he said, but being blond and 1/2 dead is not a good combination for me at that time in the morning. Besides, the world was being blown to bits right before my ears and that only added to my utter bewilderment.

So, I wanted to prevail. I needed to, as I needed the TV off. I then humbly and in the most docile way asked the husband who had successfully rolled over and fell back into a blissful sleep in less than 2.3 seconds, "why are you being such a jerk."

Somewhere a bomb exploded. Literally.

The husband rolled back over with his eyes closed said, "@#^%&* Jennifer! If I want to be a jerk, I can be a jerk." And with a "hmmmphf" he disgustedly rolled back over, pulled the covers up to his chin and fell back asleep. I don't even know this man. There was suddenly a stranger in my bed.

I was not done.

"What's going on? Why are you being like this? Can you at least turn off the TV?"

A few more seconds go by.

"Thomas. Please. Turn. Off. The. TV. . . "

More time passes.

"Thoma . . . "

"WHAT!"

"Could you please turn off the TV? You have the remote and stop being so mean to me. I also expect a full apology in the morning."

With that the TV was finally turned off.

**************

The very next morning. . . .

The husband gets up a bit too early and within a few minutes comes crawling back into bed. With a kiss on my shoulder he said, "G'morning baby! I love you!" My eyes flew open to see his humble pie eating grin where I preceded to look at him like he had lost his damn mind. The husband looked back at me and with his smile fading he said, "What? What's wrong? What'd I do?"