Jeff has always been the spender in our marriage. Not because I hate ever spending money, but because he loves it so much that if I did as well, we would be completely broke. So, I pinch pennies and clip coupons and dole out warnings about the status of our checking account just to make up for his spending habits. It’s not fun, but someone has to do it.

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Yes, I am a martyr. And, also a bit of nag. But, I have no choice!

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Anyway, last week Jeff was an asshole. Admittedly, I have been a tad tough to take lately, between the hunger pains thanks to my annual January diet and the anxiety attacks over my book, but still. He was indisputably an asshole. In fact, he was such an asshole, that I was forced to take some action.

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Did I want to emotionally eat a brownie? Nah.

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Dull my anger with a glass or two of wine? Eh.

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Run around the neighborhood? Snort.

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My heart was beating out of rage and my butt, firmly planted on the couch. How could I quietly take out my anger on him, right then and there?

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And, then it hit me: I could shop.

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I’ve been looking for a new bag for several months, comparing prices and fabrics and sizes. Leather? Fabric? Slouchy? Stiff? There was so much to consider that I hadn’t been able to make a decision, but at the moment, none of it mattered. All I wanted to do was violently hit “purchase” and eagerly await the UPS truck. It was totally out of character and a complete rush. For the first time in my entire life, I actually felt pleasure rather than guilt over making a purchase. It felt great. Dangerously great.

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Take that, asshole, I thought. Let’s see how you like being on the other side of things for a change.

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The bag arrived yesterday. I was admiring it and plotting for a possible revenge shoe purchase the next time he got on my nerves when Jeff walked in from work.

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Is that the new bag? he asked.

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Yes, I gloated, and I love it. So there!

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It looks nice on you, he responded. Good choice.

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You’re not supposed to like it, I hissed, as my previously exciting and highly anticipated bag transformed into nothing more than an overpriced, frivolous purchase.

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The leather suddenly looked dull and it didn’t fit in the crook of my arm quite as comfortably as it had before. It was just… a bag. One that didn’t seem worth it in the least. I let it fall back into the box, defeated. Today it will travel back to the warehouse where it came from and that will be the end of that.

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Asshole.

Last year, Jeff had pneumonia. He was feverish and sore and tired and all around completely miserable. As the doctor gave him instructions for the next few weeks, he pathetically moaned, why me?

I have to sleep alone?

I have to stay home?

I have to be quiet?

What did I do to deserve this, he cried.

Yesterday, I too, was diagnosed with pneumonia after a couple days of feeling crappy culminated in shortness of breath that scared me enough to get my ass to Urgent Care. After my x-rays and blood work, the doctor sternly gave me my orders:

Stay in bed as much as you possibly can. 

Don’t allow your husband or children in the bed with you.

Don’t share food or drinks with anybody.

Take lots of long steam showers.

Talk as little as possible.

Take lots of naps.

Beware that the Tylenol with Codeine will make you “loopy.”

Just do as little as you possibly can for as long as  possible.

Do you have any questions, he asked as he was finishing up my chart.

Yes, I responded, with glee.

Why me? What did I do to deserve this?!

Remember back in the days when you and your spouse were merely dating and sharing a dessert  was the most romantic way to end a meal? You’d settle on a single dessert along with two spoons, to savor, together. Feet would  intertwine under the table and lips would sensuously lick chocolate off of silver. You’d gingerly take a bite, careful not to take too much, in between deep conversation. The last bite would always remain on the plate, because it seemed rude to take the last one and you were each too considerate to dream of such a thing. It was delicious and satisfying and you just couldn’t get enough of it. The dessert and the company.

And, then you got married. And, though romance isn’t entirely dead in marriage, it most definitely isn’t found on a plate of molten chocolate cake.

Or, at least in my marriage it’s not.

When Jeff and I split a dessert these days, it’s more of a race to the finish line than an enjoyable indulgence. We may as well have our hands tied behind our backs and be head butting each other in order to be titled the winner. Most times, I can barely even taste the food I’m inhaling, I’m just shoveling in it my face fast enough to ensure that he doesn’t eat it all before I do. Our dueling utensils fight for the biggest bite; we’re merely one step away from spitting on the plate to claim it as our own.

If it were up to me, I would simply ask for two plates and cut the dessert in half from the beginning, you know, like we would do if we split a main course of fish or chicken. That would make sense, right? It would be equitable and civilized and so much more enjoyable. But, dessert is supposed to be shared for some bizarre reason, clearly the brainchild of a still smitten single person.

We become barbarians, forgetting that a few minutes ago when we placed the order, we were too full to each get our own and only wanted a bite. And, we vow not to share again next time, because neither saving five bucks nor a few hundred calories is worth seeing this side of each other.

Until the next time we go out for dinner, and we do it all over again.

Sixteen years ago today, Jeff and I went on our first date. Last night, he posted a picture of us on Facebook, a few months later over Thanksgiving break. He wrote that it his hope for our kids is that they fall as deeply in love as the two of us did. It was very sweet and I couldn’t agree more.

But.

I feel like I need to address my bedroom, since it really just can’t be ignored.

I mean, have you ever seen anything quite like it?

I know.

1. Yes, those are fish floating around on my walls. But, not just any fish. Fish that I hand drew on plain white wallpaper and cut out and arranged one by one on the walls. Because you just couldn’t find a decent fish border, dammit.

2. After all, there might have been some confusion about exactly whose room this was.

3. Random teddy bear whom I had no attachment to.

4. Yes, those are mini liquor bottles lining every framed print I had in my room. No, I wasn’t an alchoholic.

5. Sombreros!

6. The Broadway musical, Anything Goes. Have I mentioned how cool I was in high school?

7. Rosie the Riveter. I am such a feminist!

8. That’s another sombrero, for a total of three. In case the Three Amigos stopped by.

9. Hot guy ripped out from a magazine. (Why did we stop doing that again?)

10. A mock magazine I created in high school. Oddly consistent with what I do now.

11. Teddy bear sheets. To contrast the liquor and hot guy.

12. Awwww, Jeff’s hair!

13. Jeff used to find it adorable that I would trip constantly. And, I did. Like, all the time. I realize now that it had nothing to do with clumsiness or lack of balance, I just couldn’t walk in those chunky shoes.

14. Yes, I’m Jewish. Yes, that’s a nun. I have no idea why.

15. The Gargoyles of Washington University. Otherwise known as: What nightmares are made of.

Oy.

And, now,  a picture of Jeff in his room. This is the picture I excitedly sent home to my parents. They couldn’t wait to meet him.

I think I can safely say that our decorating skills have strengthened.

As have we.

Of course you have heard of the book, Go the Fuck to Sleep. I would like to suggest a follow up, inspired by my husband…

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The dishes are washed, everything tidy in its place
The leftovers boxed up, my dear, and the counters wiped away
I’ve asked you six times, don’t make me say it again
Please, for the love of God
Just empty the fucking trash can.

———————————

You work hard and need your rest
I do know that and care
But you slept all night and napped three times
You’ve more than gotten your share
It’s time to awake and get on with the day
Wake the fuck up already, you hear me OK?

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You’ve been flipping for an hour
But have yet to pick a show
Could you be more annoying?
The answer is no.
Surrender the remote, I’ll ask one last time
or I’m kicking you out, on your fucking behind.

———————————

The day is getting dim
Soon it will be night
I can’t see a thing, my love
You have to know I’m right
I’m not as tall as you so I need your larger height
Would it kill you to change that fucking hall light?

———————————

I know you feel sick but I do as well
My nose is stuffy too
and my throat sore as hell
Please stop complaining
It’s just a little cold
So shut up and cope
You’re not that fucking old

———————————

I love you so much
I value what you say
But now I’m trying to sleep
And you’re keeping me awake
For the last time, my sweet,
I just don’t give a crap.
Enough already, really
Just shut your fucking pie trap.

———————————

I’m laying in bed, desperately needing my rest
You’ve been sleeping for hours
Happily passed out on your chest,
How are you so loud, I really don’t know
But if you don’t fucking stop snoring,
You’re gonna have to go.

———————————

Is this too much to ask,
from the man I adore?
I really don’t get why I’m so easy to ignore.
Start listening to me, that’s all there is to it.
Oh, and the dog needs a walk
Just fucking do it.

———————————

Remember the good old days? The days when you could actually lose touch with the people you wanted to lose touch with? Sadly, those days are gone.

Once upon a time, you could leave a job and rest assured that if you never wanted to hear from those cubical mates again, you wouldn’t have to. Old neighbors would receive holiday cards for a few years until the communication fizzled out and expired friendships were allowed to simply fade away. It was a natural part of the cycle of life. Relationships come and go and that’s how it always was and is supposed to be.

Until Facebook. Thanks a lot, Mark Zuckerberg.

A few months ago, I heard from an old acquaintance. She was the type of person who you know for a brief period of time and never hear from again. Except that she found me on Facebook and lived not too far away. Would I like to meet for lunch? I could barely remember who she was, but I accepted. What did I have to lose?

Turns out, a few precious hours of my life. Within minutes, I remembered exactly who she was and exactly why the relationship should have died a quick, painful death. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to agree. Before the meal was over, I was somehow roped into a double date for the next weekend and invited to her kid’s birthday party. I’m really not even sure how that happened.

I rushed home and called Jeff. Normally, when I meet potential friends and we take that big step of a double date, I give him a speech about us needing more couple friends and to be on his very best behavior. No crude jokes. No inappropriate stories. No third glass of wine. This time, I did the opposite. We need to get out of this friendship now, I told him. You have my permission to be offensive. Be obnoxious. Do all of those things I would normally kick you under the table for. Be your worst self ever.

And, he was. He told jokes that only belong at bachelor parties. He was loud and brash and didn’t think twice about inserting his unwanted opinion. He was horrible. It was perfect. We never heard from her again and the pending Facebook request was cancelled.

And that, my friends, is how you end an unnecessarily resurrected relationship.

Back when I used to work in an office, I would occasionally listen to the Dr. Laura Show on talk radio. Don’t get me wrong, girlfriend is nuts, but it was a mildly entertaining way to kill an hour in the car. Who cared if my eyes throbbed from all the rolling?

I remember Dr. Laura once talking about “Love Languages,” the different ways couples give and receive love. Che-ea-sy, I thought, but I must have filed away the information in my head because, lately, I’ve been thinking about the notion a lot.

You might not know it based on some of the posts I write, but Jeff and I are a really well matched couple (in the ways that really matter, at least.) If soul-mates exist, he is no doubt mine. He’s the ying to my yang, the butter to my bread, the every cheesy metaphor out there. The only problem? We speak different entirely different languages.

I’m not talking about the language known as “ignore your wife and hear whatever it is you want to,” although he is well-versed in that as well. I’m talking the way he proves his everlasting love for me and vice versa.

Jeff’s language is green. He expresses his love for people by buying things, which conflicts with my hatred of having money spent on me. It’s a long-standing issue in our relationship and I spend a good deal of my time standing in return lines. Before we shared a bank account, being lavished in unwanted gifts was a mild annoyance, but once married, it just seemed ridiculous. If I want something, I’ll buy it. Flowers die, cards get thrown away and there is no secret present-buying stash of money. It’s all lost on me; I just don’t speak green.

As for me, my language is food. Food makes me happy– planning it, cooking it, eating it. I once heard that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and it stuck. I spend hours and hours slaving over the oven and cooking meals from scratch. I try and recreate restaurant dinners he liked. I pretend I’m a cooking show contestant and challenge myself to make the best plate possible. I fuss and fix and taste and fuss some more. For him. But he doesn’t get it. He’d be just as happy with some pasta and jarred sauce or cheap Chinese food take-out over anything I cook.

So why do I do insist on making him fancy meals? Why does he still buy me things? Will we ever speak the same language?

I suppose the only solution is to eat out and have him foot the bill.

Marriage. It’s all about compromise.

I don’t love my kids’ names. There, I said it. The most important decision you make for your children and I botched it before ever leaving the hospital. Go me!

Well, I do love Lily’s. Jeff and I wanted something feminine and timeless and pretty and the moment we found it, we knew. It’s more popular than I realized, but that’s alright. She’s fine.

It’s the boys. I mean, their names are fine. Nice, even. Just so much more boring than I ever imagined I’d have.

I always thought I wanted a Gabriel, but with Ben, we owed Jeff’s family a name and he wanted to honor his grandmother by using the middle initial “A.” An A name would have resulted in the initials GAS, which shattered my dreams of a little Gabe. Also topping my list was Oliver and Asher, but the “er” at the end clashed with the “er” at the end of our last name, so those were out. Every other name I loved didn’t work for some reason or another and I was totally stumped. Boy names are just so hard.

I vividly remember the moment a friend suggested Benjamin as I pushed Lily on the swing in her backyard. It’s not awful, I sighed. There was no reason not to use it. I liked it enough. And, with that, my baby had a name.

Evan was going to be my Gabriel. Or my Aiden or Julian or something less common and more beautiful sounding, while still being masculine and cool. (Kind of an impossible feat, right?) But at the hospital, none of those names seemed to fit.

How about Evan, Jeff suggested as I huffed and puffed my third baby out. Evan. It’s not awful, I sighed.

It was never a name we so much as mentioned during the nine months, but suddenly that’s what our baby was called. I remember being rather incredulous the next day that I agreed to it at all. We each accidentally referred to him as Ethan a few times during the early days since that was actually a name we’d discussed beforehand. Whoops.

So, that’s the story of how we named our boys: The least awful names I could think of. Romantic, huh?

For the past several weeks, I’ve been sick. My throat has been sore. My nose has been stuffy. My sinuses have been achy and I’ve been coughing up green crap incessantly (sorry for the visual.) It’s no doubt that with an ear and strep infected son who insists on permanently residing up in my face that I would get sick. I finally went on antibiotics for a sinus infection last week and have slowly been on the mend. Unfortunately, just in time for my husband to get sick.

Now, I love my husband. I truly believe we are soulmates, my life wouldn’t be complete without him, he is the love of my life and all that crap, but when he’s sick? I have visions of stabbing him repeatedly with sharp kitchen utensils and making a run for it with our children.

What? He gives me no choice.

You would have thought he was dying yesterday. In fact, fifty years from now (God willing,) when he is on his death bed, I imagine his face looking remarkably similar to the way it did for much of the weekend.

I’m sick, he proclaimed pathetically. Barely mustering up the energy to get out of bed, he drove to the Minute Clinic to get a dose of antibiotics and a bucket of sympathy. An hour later he called sounding defeated. Did they give you something, I asked. No, he whimpered. The strep test was negative and she said it couldn’t be a sinus infection if it just started.

It’s a cold.

(A man-cold.)

Someone, save me. We may not survive this week. Either one of us.

Tiffany is a wife to her best friend and a mother to two beautiful children, Bubs & Bubbette {Nope, those are NOT their real names.} When she’s not doing public relations for one of the top zoos in the country, she’s over-sharing at Mom-Nom.Com, the e-result of her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder diagnoses, after nearly losing Bubs in an accident in July, 2009. Now? She’s just trying to figure out where they go from here…one post at a time.

First there was the fiasco when my husband discovered that I have three holes.

Yet, surprisingly, I still was NOT prepared for this.

Let’s just say the Mister did NOT embrace the idea of the “Big V” as quickly as I would have liked. Clearly, it was a much easier decision for me. I mean, as I lay on the table butterflied open for the world to see, one would have thought it would have been an obvious “yes’m sir, please and thank you” when they asked if I was getting my tubes tied.

Not me. Nope.

When they asked, the first thing that popped into my little head?

“Fuck him. I’ve done this bullshit twice. His ass is getting neutered. It’s the least he can do.”

I’m every man’s dream. I know.

But all I could say, was no. I blamed it on the fact that I was dying to vomit. But really? If you don’t have anything nice to say…

Anyway, not too long ago, I made the official request. In the most professional way I know how.

Me: You need to make an appointment to get your dick clipped.

What? I’m graceful.

Mister: Huh?

Me: If you ever want to cum again. Your wings? They need to be clipped. I talked this shit over with my girlie bits and we’re all in agreement. We’re closed for business until the deed is done. I love you. Shut up.

He’s living the dream people.

Mister: Um, shouldn’t we talk about this?

Me: We just did.

And then I slithered out of the room….

So, you can imagine my surprise when several weeks later I walked into the family room, to find the man I married (read: luckiest man on earth) curled up on the couch with our (male) dog Jack. ::insert saddest man face ever::

Me: What’s wrong?

Mister: Nothing.

Me: I’ll only ask one more time. What’s wrong?

I know. You’re jealous of him. I swear I’m not always so bitchy. Just most of the time.

Mister: I’m just thinking about how weird it’s going to be.

Right about now I notice the dog flat on his bag, hind legs spread eagle and my husband starring at the space between his legs….

Me: Alright, what the hell are you talking about?

Mister: I mean, I’ve had these same two balls my entire life. It’s going to be weird not having them.

Me: WHAT. THE. FUCK. are you talking about? Are you drunk?

Mister: You know, when we do the vasectomy and they take my balls off, like Jack’s when he was neutered.

Me: You’re fucking kidding me, right? I’m not fucking neutering you. AND, your not a 12 week old puppy with pea sized nuggets. Please tell me your kidding.

Mister: You mean their not going to cut my balls off during the vasectomy??

Me: There is a damn computer sitting across the room from you – Google that shit. And please, for the love of all things holy, don’t talk about this with ANYONE.

Needless to say, I won’t be going to his consult with him next week. I can’t face the doctor when he asks if there are any questions.

Disclaimer: I’ve come to realize that, WOW, this man really, REALLY, loves me. He was willing to chop his nuggets off for me. We officially know that someone in our marriage does in fact love the other person more. I’ll let you decide who.