Posts Tagged ‘Marriage’

It’s Because of Technology that Conversations Like This One Happen in My House

ME (to the LOML): “Babe, can you get me a notebook?”

LOML: “What the hell do you want a notebook for? You’ve got a laptop, an iPad, a Nook, and every other friggin piece of technology known to man…now you want a notebook?”

ME: “I need to write something down. I’m asking you for what normal people call 70 pieces of ruled paper bound together with a piece of spiral metal. And a pencil, if it’s not too much trouble.”


09 2011

Wait . . . THAT’S What You Called Me About?

Here is a list of things that, over the course of the past few weeks, the LOML accidentally on purpose forgot to tell me about:

  1. Benny fell off of the back of the couch ONTO THE TILE FLOOR.
    “Oh, yeah. You may want to keep an eye on him because I didn’t EXACTLY see the fall, but it sounded awful. He could have a concussion, but his eyes look okay and he seems to be playing okay. What’s for dinner?”
  2. I got a parking ticket. TWO MONTHS AGO.
    “I’ll just get work to cover it. But we need to pay it by tonight or else we’ll have to pay a penalty. And then I can just turn in the receipt.” (I’m still waiting for the reimbursement…)
  3. I kind of, sort of, maybe volunteered you to help with the Jr. Pee Wee website. Why do you ask? I bet you someone said something at practice . . . I was supposed to tell you a couple of weeks ago. My bad.
    “Okay, so they don’t actually HAVE a website. But you built one for the school, right? How hard can it be to do it again? I mean, really?”
  4. I found Benny at the sink, washing off your phone.
    “You know, I meant to say something to you when I called you today, but then your phone cut out and I forgot . . .”
  5. You don’t have to Febreeze Jake’s (football) pads.
    “What are you doing? You should just be throwing those in the wash. Oh, wait. It was me who said you should take them out before washing them, huh? But then I asked the team mom about it and she said to just throw the pants and girdle in the wash with their pads inside. But you can still Febreeze the shoulder pads. How long you been doing that, anyway?”

I know, right?

But here’s why I bring all this up:

Today he CALLED ME AT WORK. A rare occasion, which usually means something is wrong or that he has to work late. Just to clarify, HE called ME.

And it wasn’t that he got in a crash or someone died or was on his way to the ER because Benny had finally broken a bone.


“What? Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“I just saw the trailer for the new Resident Evil movie. It looks [sing-songy] SA-WEEEEEET!”


“Yeah, I know, huh?! I didn’t know either. I’m TOTALLY going.”

“I’m hanging up now.”


The LOML frying piroshkis at the 2010 Holy Cross Festival

Just look at him. How can you stay mad at that face?


The BEST Mother’s Day Weekend EVER!

First of all, I need to send a HUGE shout out to all you SINGLE PARENTS out there.

When the LOML goes out of town, the boys are very much aware that they have me outnumbered. Add to that the fact that I now work 20 miles in the opposite direction from where Jake goes to school and where Ben’s day care provider lives, and you’ve got one very burned-out mama headed for the liquor aisle at Costco.

So, I have a new-found respect for anyone who has to raise their kids alone (not that I didn’t respect them before). I had the luxury of the LOML returning home Friday night after being gone for only one week. Single parents selflessly suck it up day in and day out, and some even go to school on top of it all. I honestly don’t know how you do it.


My awesome weekend began Thursday evening. While making dozens of new friends at the 1st Annual Mom’s Night Out, I was the lucky winner of a pink VADO pocket video camera from the wonderful ladies at and

Then my week as a single parent came to an end when the LOML returned from Minnesota on Friday night. (But only for a few hours, since he got in at 11:30pm and then promptly left at 5:00am to take an all-day exam.) At least he was home.

On Saturday morning, the boys and I spent a few hours at Sacramento’s Fairytale Town and Funderland. And I was instantly reminded why I decided to have kids. You know you’re doing something good when you can get your children to laugh like this:

Benzilla's 'Mona Lisa' Smile. God knows he's hiding the devil behind that grin.

Benzilla's 'Mona Lisa' Smile. God knows he's hiding the devil behind that grin.

Quite possibly the coolest picture I've ever taken of Jake. When was the last time YOU smiled like that?

Quite possibly the coolest picture I've ever taken of Jake. When was the last time YOU smiled like that?

Later that day, the LOML and I had the privelige of dropping the boys off at his mom’s house for an over-nighter. NO BOYS FOR 24 HOURS. The activities for the night shall remain confidential, although I did spend part of the evening with a half-naked Hugh Jackman and Ryan Reynolds.

Then this morning, after being allowed to sleep in until 9:00am, I received this direct message on Twitter:

plumkeeper: Congrats! Your tweet won the “Moms Tweet” contest. Pls send an email to . . . with name, address, phone #.

Hell. F-ing. YEAH!!

The iTouch that I’d worked so hard for was officially mine! I earned it too, considering I spent the week soliciting votes via Facebook and Twitter (and at work, and from my family . . . ) I do have to say, though, that I was genuinely surprised that I won, considering some of the other quotes were laugh-out-loud funny and gave me some serious competition!

So . . . a free Vado, fun with the boys, a night alone with the LOML, and a free iTouch.

Is it selfish of me to hope I nab that Wii too?


05 2009

15 Years

My Big, Fat, Mexican Wedding

My Big, Fat, Mexican Wedding

A couple of days ago, I wrote about how I met the LOML. Today, it’s all about how we got together.

This one’s for you, Sweetie.


On April 8, 1994, I walked through the doors of a country bar, all nervous and anxious because I knew you’d be there.

A few minutes later, I’d learn that my BFF had put on her “bad cop” costume, stuffed you into a booth, and mercilessly interrogated you prior to my arrival. But you didn’t care. You thought it was kind of sweet, actually.

And you also didn’t mind that, when we decided to go get a bite to eat, she tagged along, crowning herself the night’s “chaperone.” Nor did you care that the closest place to the bar that served pizza and beer was Chuck E. Cheese.

There we were. The three of us. On our first date together. Surrounded by screaming kids and talking animals.

You couldn’t tell, but my legs were shaking.

The hours that followed went by like a blur. We danced and drank and talked. We’d go outside to get air, and then danced and drank and talked some more.

At the end of the night, in the middle of the dance floor, I looked up at you so I could say something. But before I could speak, you kissed me.

And it wasn’t just a garden variety, obligatory “first date” peck. This was a Rhett-Butler-make-the-girl-feel-like-Scarlet-O’Hara movie kiss.

You didn’t notice that I’d stopped breathing. Just stopped. Held it in. Because for some reason I thought that if I let out a breath, the kiss would somehow manage to escape.

Then you said, “I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you walk in two days ago.”

And my first thought was, ‘Really, because when I walked through the door two days ago I looked like a wet rat.’

Feigning embarrassment, I said, “Oh, come on. You probably say that to all the girls . . .”

“No, really. My friends have been teasing me for two days straight. I’m, like . . . I mean . . . I really like you.” Then you kissed me again.

And at that moment, I knew.

I knew that you were HIM.

Six years later, to the day, you made me your wife. Even though all the signs along the way screamed, “Run. RUN. As fast as you can. And don’t look back. She’s got more personalities than Sybil. And that family of hers . . . You’re kidding, right? Have you NOT met her Dad?”

You knew full well what you were getting yourself into, but you did it anyway.

Thank GOD you don’t believe in signs.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetie.


04 2009

So, a Drunk Girl Walks Into This Bar . . .

"I paid $7 for this beer, and I'm drinking every drop of it if it kills me."

"I paid $7 for this beer, and I'm drinking every drop of it if it kills me."

One of the most popular questions that I receive via email is “How did you meet the Love of Your Life (a.k.a. ‘The LOML’)”?

And I usually think, “Jesus-H-Christ, if they all knew what I had done that night I’d get hate mail from now until all eternity.” Because I used to do some seriously irresponsible shit. Like smoke weed. And drive drunk. Not things I’m happy to admit I did, but they’re a part of my past nonetheless. I thank God every day that I never hurt or killed anyone.

[I'm serious. This is not an easy tale to share.]

However, since today is the 15th anniversary of our meeting, I decided to come clean and just put it out there. Because it’s a damn good (if not very long) story . . .

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

Fifteen years ago today, I was 21.

Eight months prior to that, I had decided to get out of a horribly abusive relationship, where the man in question had turned me into a shrinking violet that rarely spoke to my Mom. He did not drink. And he did not allow me to drink (so I went out and did it without his knowing). He didn’t allow me to do a lot of things. Like talk to my BFF. Or spend time with my own family. I’m not sure why it took three years for me to realize I was making the hugest mistake of my life, but I realized it nonetheless.

So, on one sunny day in late July of 1993, I announced to my family, friends, and co-workers (so I’d have accountability partners) that I was going to leave him. I spent three weeks cleaning house and packing, all the while telling him that I was just “reorganizing.” On the morning that I left him, I loaded up what was mine into a few small trucks, taped a note to the wall, and moved back home.

Three days after we broke up, I took a trip with my mom, sister, and her three daughters to a theme park resort. I smiled and laughed with a passion and spirit that I hadn’t seen in over three years. Later that night, I won a tequila shooting contest at the hotel bar and ended up making out with the evening’s emcee. My sister officially declared me “over him.”

Then between September 1993 and March 1994, I spent most of my evenings making up for lost fun. I was single, had successfully completed the “ain’t-nobody-new-gonna-see-me-naked-until-I-lose-40-pounds-diet,” and was on a mission from hell to paint every bar within a 500-mile radius of Sacramento red.

On April 6, 1994, I had spent the day begging the BFF to meet me at a country bar that had become our hangout. It was a Wednesday, which meant that we only had to pay $1 for anything on the bar menu. And I was also itching to dance.

She was married at the time, and kept arguing that it would better for her to stay home.

But I persisted, and she eventually gave in. She said she’d meet me there at 8:00pm.

Later that day, I decided to go to my usual after-work watering hole to spend some time with a bartender that had been doing the flirt tango with me for what seemed like weeks. A bunch of my co-workers followed me over, and we did an amazing job of getting our drink on.

We started with beer, then moved on to shots. In between we munched on appetizers and whatever else the bartender decided we needed to have. He liked me, so most of what was served was either deeply discounted or free. Including booze.

Over the course of 2 ½ hours, I got so drunk, I could barely stand up, let alone walk a straight line. Or drive.

I remember putting my face down on the top of the bar, which was covered in blue tile. It was cool on my face. The bartender, stroking the hair away from my face, asked me to hang out so he could drive me home. But I told him no, because I didn’t want to incur the wrath of the BFF if I stood her up. I had spent all day begging her to go out, so I HAD to meet her. I would either kill myself on the road, or she would kill me for not meeting her. Either way, I was screwed.

So I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and changed into my two-steppin’ clothes.

The bartender then begged me to stay. Not only so he could drive me home, but maybe take advantage of me. A supreme offer, really, but I declined. And left.

I would never see him again.

From there, the evening’s events get a little fuzzy. And can only be described as reckless, negligent, and downright foolish.

I do not remember getting into the car. I do remember getting on the freeway and talking myself through the driving process. “You’re just driving. You do this every day. You’re only going three miles. You can do this. You can TOTALLY do this.”

I do not remember being on the freeway.

I do remember being on the road that I needed to be on after exiting the freeway. I was still talking to myself. “You’re almost there. Just a few more lights, girl. Just get there.”

And if that wasn’t scary enough, I don’t remember anything else. I just remember waking up in the parking lot of the country bar. At 8:30pm.

Since the bouncers knew me, I didn’t have to go through the I.D. or line-vetting process to get through the door. If they had known how drunk I was, or what I had done to get there, they would have called the police.

I walked in and began to look around for the BFF, who found me within three minutes of my arrival. “Are you KIDDING me with this?” she said, and grabbed the keys out of my hand. “Come on, let’s go have Ed make you some coffee. And get you some gum . . . Jesus! I’ve been watching the place for 30 minutes and there’s this really cute cowboy that I want you to check out. But not looking the way you do. How’d you get in?”

“I put my bangs over my eyes and smiled for the boys.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe you drove here.”

She spent the better part of an hour getting me pumped full of caffeine, then took me to the bathroom to fix my face.

A few minutes later, after we emerged from the ladies room, she was asked to dance. She was always asked to dance – my BFF is a natural beauty without even trying. When done up, she looks like something out of an Estee Lauder ad. It’s totally disgusting. But I love her anyway.

She and her dance partner headed for the floor. I then realized that dance partner’s wingman was fast approaching me, assuming that I’d partner up with him. He resembled George Costanza, and was wearing a shirt that was too tight, unbuttoned to show his hairy chest, and drenched with sweat. I was SO not going there.

Behind him though, and gaining ground, was a tall, handsome, blue-eyed cowboy. Thinking as quickly as I could for as drunk as I was, I walked right past George, went up to the cowboy, and said, “Dance with me! This is my FAVORITE song!” Then I grabbed his hand and ran, leaving George in a cloud of dust.

While we were dancing, the BFF made her way over to me and mouthed the words, “THAT WAS THE GUY I WANTED YOU TO SEE!” And did the thumbs up move.

When the music stopped, we made our way to a small spot at the end of the bar to talk. This is where it’s really important for you to know that I have no sense of smell. At all.

For the first ten minutes of the conversation, I was scared out of my mind. Because whenever I said anything to him, he would immediately turn his face away. I kept thinking, “Oh-my-f’ing-GOD-my-breath-must-smell-like-hot-ass.” But I had no way to really know. Having no sense of smell, the old “breathe-into-your-palm-and-sniff” trick never worked for me.

Finally, I just said, “Uh, does my breath smell?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you keep turning your face away when I say something.”

He laughed and then said, “Ohhh. Sorry. I can’t hear out of this [pointing to his left] ear. I’m just trying to make sure I understand you.”

And I was like, “No . . . WAY! I have no sense of smell. Don’t we make an awesome couple?!”

He laughed again, and we spent the rest of the night talking and dancing. The BFF met up with some of our other friends, but would stop by to check on me here and there. By the time ‘last call’ was announced, I’d sobered up enough to drive home. He walked me to my car, kissed me on the cheek, and we agreed to meet again two days later.

The next morning, I told my mom that I had met a really nice guy, and I remember her rolling her eyes immediately.

Five years later, she would give him her wedding ring so he could use it to propose marriage.

Yes. Women really do marry guys that they meet at bars.


04 2009