That's what I hired YOU for!

As my man, Angry has a list of duties that are his and his alone.

ü    He is in charge of filling my car with gas.  Men love cars.  Cars need gas.  MY car needs gas.

ü    He is in charge of lawn care.  When I was in college, the city I lived in allowed you to work for them for two summers.  I was in the “Lawn and Garden” Department one of my years.  I mowed grass (using both riding and push mowers) five days a week, eight hours a day for three months.  That was enough grass cutting for my lifetime.  I will never, ever cut grass again as long as I live.  If Angry quits, I will just live with that ensuing jungle.

ü    He is in charge of snow removal.  I hate cold and snow (and exercise in general).  That’s all he (and you) needs to know.

ü    He is in charge of making lunches.  I cook dinner.  I do all the dishes that can’t go into the dishwasher (a job that I hate despise).  His comparable job is to make our “brown bag” lunches for work.  I think he got the easier job (and, I want a raise!).

ü    He is in charge of taking the garbage out.  This is a man’s job.  Women should not have to deal with disgusting bags of garbage.  My rules only, but he has to follow them (so says me).

ü    He is in charge of carrying any heavy bags.  This means grocery bags as well as shopping bags at the mall.  I drag him with me to the mall just so he can handle the bags of shoes I accumulate.  Men are strong; they should carry the heavy stuff even if it’s my shoes.

ü    He is in charge of matching his own socks.  I do all the laundry.  I fold everything.  He can putz with putting together all the totally similar white socks that he wears.  Problem is, he tends to keep the ones with holes in them.  I need to re-train him to throw those away!

I married hired him almost 21 years ago.  This information is all on that license contract he signed!  You know, till death do us part.

Who'd I marry? Barney Rubble?

I've been married to Angry for 20 years.

I just recently noticed something about him.

When he starts laughing hard at something that's really funny, he sounds just like Barney Rubble from the Flintstones.

Click here to listen to Barney (or, if you're at my house, Angry).

Angry's a much better dress than Barney (but I do think his feet are just as big!).

Angry's not blonde either.

After all these years, I'm not sure how I didn't notice this before. 

I think we'd all agree that there are things we'd like to change about our spouses/partners/loved ones.

This is NOT one of them.  I think it's cute!

Here's a story. . .

Of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovey girls.

Whoops!  That’s not my story.  Sorry!


Let me tell you about something special in my life.

Twenty-two years ago, in August of 1989, I met a cute guy when I took a part time job at a grocery store.  I was finishing my last semester at college before I was to start student teaching.

I was a cashier and office “gal” and he did everything including bagging, cleaning, stocking, and other grocery store stuff.

This young man and I became friends while chatting on breaks or while he’d bag at my checkout lane.  We'd talk for a long time when he'd walk me to my car after our shifts to make sure I was safe.  We discussed music, movies, cars, our families, and our lives in general.

I started to think that maybe he “liked” me.  You know, boys in school pulling your ponytail “like.”  I decided that I’d ask him if he wanted to see the latest “Nightmare on Elm Street” movie (my treat) and he said yes.  The next day, he offered to buy dinner before the movie.

And true love was born.

We dated for about a year and then discussed marriage.  We shopped and bought an engagement ring.  He worked second shift in those days so I went and picked up my own engagement ring at the jewelry store when it was finished being sized.  He came to my parent’s house that night after work and proposed.  Well, sort of.  .  . I handed him the ring box and he handed it right back to me and said, “Here ya go.”  Why yes, he’s certainly a romantic!!

We wanted to pay for our own wedding so we decided to get married about a year later.  My Mom and I did all the planning since he wasn’t available in the evenings.  He trusted me to get it done in style.

November 2, 1991 arrived and we sealed the deal.


Our 20^th anniversary was spent in Mexico last Wednesday so I didn’t get to blog about my wonderful husband.

He’s not perfect but he’s perfect for me.  We fit together like two peas in a pod.

He is the person I want to be with for a million more years.  He’s the person that takes care of me.  He is my drinking buddy.  He’s the one that always shares with me even if it is the last candy bar in the house.  He is the one that lets me cry about stupid stuff.  He’s the one that holds my hand when we are at the shopping mall.  He is the one that lets me carry on about ANYTHING when I’m happy, or sad, or mad about something.  He’s the one that makes sure I have what I need when I’m sitting on the couch and say something like, “Damn, I’m thirsty.”  He's the one that makes me a kick ass margarita when I say I need one.  He is the one that makes me giggle (and then tells me how he loves to hear me laugh).  He’s the one that comforts me when I have a terrifying nightmare at 2 am due to low blood sugar.

He is the one that I can’t imagine being without.

My life is better because of him.  My life is happier because of him.  My life is funnier because of him.  My life is more complete because of him.

Here's my Angry (in Mexico last week).  My love.  My best friend. 

I love this guy!

Honey, I love you with all my life.  I hope you remember that every time you think of me.  Happy Anniversary!

I gotta pee!

Angry wants me to tell you about a little "issue" I seem to have.

Every time we go out for dinner or drinks, the same conversation takes place.  It usually begins when we are about half way home:

ME:  Guess what?

Angry:  Let me think; you have to pee?

ME:  YES!

Angry:  Why don't you ever go before we leave?

ME:  I did!

Angry:  I think you went about an hour ago.  That doesn't count.

ME:  Hurry up and drive as fast as you can without getting a ticket.

Angry (with a very heavy sigh):  I'll do my best.

ME (every time the car hits a pothole or bump):  Don't do that! I'm gonna pee my pants.

Angry:  I can't avoid every friggin' bump or pothole.  You should have gone before we left.

When we get home, Angry has to bolt our garage door and then unbolt and unlock the back door.

While this is going on, I'm standing on the back porch.  Well, not standing.  I'm actually doing a dance jig to try and keep from peeing my pants.  The rest of the conversation always goes like this:

ME:  COME OOOOOONNNNN!  I gotta pee!!

Angry:  Maybe you should bring your keys with you so you don't have to wait for me.

ME:  You go slow on purpose. (I actually think he does.  He's usually dropping his keys or looking at something in the yard.)

Angry:  I'm going as fast as I can.

ME (as he unlocks the door):  Get out of the way! 

Angry (as I'm pushing past him to get into the house):  Geez . . . you'd think you'd learn.

This conversation happens EVERY time, without fail.  I don’t learn.
 
Maybe I’m the martyr of pee?

What brand?

Angry and I have two cats.  One is 14 years old and one is 11 years old. 

The older cat stopped eating hard kibble a few years ago.  No big deal, we started feeding him canned food.  We’ve searched out what we thought was the best.  We’ve tried holistic food, all natural food, and food made from nothing but fish or fowl.

He used to eat pretty much anything we offered him.  I’d mix it up with different “flavors” because I felt like he’d like a variety.  Yeah I know; he’s a cat for pete’s sake.

A while ago, he stopped eating anything that was seafood flavored.  What?  A cat that won’t eat seafood?  We bought only chicken, turkey, or beef.  Then he stopped eating beef.  We He eventually narrowed it down to two foods that he’d eat.  Then a month or so ago, he stopped eating one of those two.  We are currently down to one flavor of one brand that “Mr. Picky Pants” will eat.

Monday I opened the last can and asked Angry to stop after work to pick some up.  I specifically asked him if he knew what brand and flavor to buy.  The very typical “Yes Dear” was the response I got.

When I got home, he told me that the store only had the “small” cans so he bought a bunch of them instead of the larger cans we like.

That brand we use doesn’t come in a “small” size!  I asked him what he bought.  He said the “Turducken” flavor that the cat likes. 

NO, NO, NO!!  He won’t even sniff that one before he walks away!!  That’s the one he quit eating a month ago.

I’m normally the one to feed the cats.  This is even funnier because he just fed them the other day (using the correct brand).  Then, he also fed them when he got home from the store.  He didn’t notice that the can he was using was different from the ones he just bought!!

Luckily, the pet supply store we use allows returns.  He said he was going to tell the sales guy that, “My wife told me the wrong brand to buy” for his return reason.  Thanks Honey!

I love the man but sometimes wonder what’s going on in that head!!

Even I . . .

could be a stripper.

Let me explain.

Many years ago, two very good friends were getting married.  The most important crucial part of a wedding, the bachelor party, was planned and Angry attended wasn’t going to miss it.

As usual, a group of guys travelled from strip club to strip club enjoying the “scenery” and drinking copious amounts of beer. 

I waited up for Angry to hear details about the party.  How much fun did everyone have and how did they all behave?

He regaled me with tales about the evening:  What strip clubs they went to, how much it cost to get in, what beer they bought for the bachelor, how many girls danced, how pretty the girls were, how fake the boobs were.



Enough fake boobs & high heels for everyone!

Then he told me about the last strip club they went to.  It was only about half an hour from bar time.  He said the club was not “that cool” and that the girls were not “all that great.”  I asked him what that meant.  He explained that the strippers looked “skanky and used up.”

Next thing I know he stops talking, looks me right in the eye and says, “You know, even you could be a stripper.”  WHAT?  I said, “good night” and starting walking towards the bedroom.  He followed me like a lost puppy and said, “Wait, you’re not THAT bad.”

This story has been used for years to humiliate Angry.  I think everyone that has ever heard the story has told it to every single person they know.  Angry is famous!!

How did Angry get his nickname?

Obviously my dear husband’s real name isn’t Angry.  Come on, who would name their kid that? 

Let me explain how he got his nickname.

He’s always had quite a temper.  It takes a lot to get him mad but when he hits that point, he is MAD. 

When we were dating, we pulled into the parking lot of a movie theatre.  At the time, he drove a classic car that he loved.  As he was turning of the engine and taking off his seat belt, some teenagers walked behind the car and punched the trunk lid.  He was furious!  He wanted to get out and chase after them.  I told him to relax and we went to the movie and had a nice date.  We also checked the trunk and there was no harm done.  But, he talked about it for a long time (a grudge holder perhaps?).



Here’s the story that earned him the moniker “Angry.” 

That's not really Angry!

We were grocery shopping.  When we returned to his truck, we saw that there was a shopping cart sitting right up against the door.  He pulled it back and we saw that there were three very large dents (one was so deep that the paint had chipped).  He said a few “choice” words, picked up the shopping cart, lifted it over his head, and threw it!  Picture the Incredible Hulk minus the missing shirt, torn pants, and green skin. 

He turned and started walking to the cart corral to grab some more to toss.  I grabbed his arm and told him that we needed to leave and he needed to calm down.  The ride home was crazy as he couldn’t stop swearing and pounding his fist on the steering wheel.  He. Was. ANGRY.

Telling the story to our friends had them howling in laughter and immediately saying, “We should call him Angry!”  He’s been branded with that handle ever since.  If you ask me, I think he’s proud of it!

How do I love Thee?

Today is Valentine’s Day.  I enjoy studying history but don’t seem to have a clue what the history for this day is.  I keep hearing that it isn’t a “Hallmark” holiday but I’ll have to research what it’s really all about.  I know there was a St. Valentine but I don’t know (or can’t remember) what he did to deserve a day.

I think I can safely say that it is a day for love.  It’s not necessarily about a husband/wife/partner relationship but about ALL the people you love.  Your parents.  Your step-parents. Your grandparents. Your kids. Your siblings. Your nieces and nephews. Your friends.  Anyone that is important to you.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all those that mean a lot to me.  You all know who you are.  I love you.  You all make my life complete in many different ways.

I’ve been happily married to Angry for almost 20 years (we’ll celebrate that in November).  We've been together almost 22 years.

Honey, listen up.  I want to tell you this on Valentine’s Day:

You are my rock.  If I’m down or sad (or even depressed) you listen to me and help pick me back up the very best you can.  If I’m giggly happy about something, you share in my joy or silliness and make it even better.

You “save” me.  I have a lot of problems with low blood sugars.  You are the one that notices them way before I do.  You force me (using many creative ways) to eat or drink something to correct the problem.  You’ve had to deal with me being close to unconscious.  These times are not pleasant for you.  I’ve punched or slapped you and called you very bad names.  You are the one who helps me feel better after I’ve had a terrible nightmare due to low blood sugar.  These nightmares are truly terrifying for me and you are the one that can talk me down to reality.  You get suddenly awakened by a scared woman who most often thinks she’s going to die.  You handle it like a champ.  I believe that you have truly saved me time and again.  I’m not sure I’d be here if you hadn’t taken care of me in those situations.  It is not easy to be married to a diabetic.  You’ve stuck with it for a long time.

You’re my very own fashion guru (the best that a guy can be, anyway).  When I ask the typical “Do I look fat in this?” question, you have the right answers!  You help me decide which pair of shoes looks best with an outfit.  You help me decide if certain colors look crappy together.  You comment on my jewelry choices.  You shop with me and carry all my bags when I buy stuff!  It doesn’t get much better than that.

You say my cooking is good even though I know it isn’t!  Either you really love me or you have very, very bad taste buds.  I’ll believe you really love me.

You share with me.  When you have something like a tiny piece of chocolate and I give you the “that looks good, I wish I had some” face, you gladly offer me some. 

You put up with my menopausal hormones.  I’ve ripped your head off for many small, silly things when those hormones are raging.  You take it in stride.  I also do a lot of crying.  You don’t laugh at me when I cry about a stupid TV show or commercial.  And, when I’m sad about missing my Mom, you know it’s time to comfort me.

You mow the grass and shovel the snow.  I love that I don’t have to do that junk or worry about it.

You put gas in my car.  I tease you and say, “That’s the man’s job.” but you do it for me anyway.  I can do it; I have done it.  But, I like that you take care of it most of the time.

You still hold my hand after all these years.

You give me a kiss goodbye before you leave for work.  I tell you it’s silly but I really like it!

There are many more things I could list that are special to me.  I don't want this blog post to be a zillion pages long so I'll stop here.

I think you know it but I know I don’t say it enough.  I love you.

Happy Valentine’s Day to the best husband I could ever ask for.

If I write it, it must be so.

Angry and I are chubby overweight fat.  It’s a fact and we freely admit it.

We both have health problems.  I’m a Type 1 diabetic (for 36 years) with slightly high blood pressure and he needs a knee replacement.  The extra weight doesn’t help either one of us.

We have, over the years, lost and gained some weight.  We’ve also tried to diet many times (too many to count).

Problem number one is that we like to eat out.  Who doesn’t like not having to cook or clean up?  ME!!

Problem number two is that we have no sense of suck at portion control.  If I make pork chops and potatoes, we both have two chops and a plate full of potatoes.  Not good.

We’ve both come to the conclusion that we are getting older and need to do something to lose some weight and get into better shape.  We both would like to spend a lot more time together and our health may prevent that if we keep living and eating the way we have.

I’m writing this down so I feel like I’ve written some sort of contract.  If I put it into writing, it must be so.

We have begun our quest to be healthy.  Nothing crazy, just healthy. 

We are going to:

1. Eat at home more.
2. Cook using healthier ingredients.
3. Use portion control to the max.
4. Add more fruits and veggies to the mix.
5. Get some exercise.

Problem number three (and our biggest) is exercise.  I know some people enjoy it but we both find it boring and “unfun.”  Angry also has issues because his knee is so bad.  He’s limited to using an elliptical type machine and no high impact exercise.  We are going to look into a local gym that offers classes I’d be interested in.  I’m hoping that will motivate me to go.  Angry can use the machines while I take a class.

We have a trip to Mexico planned for May and I’d like to drop a few pounds by then (and be “forced” to buy a new swimsuit or two!).  We may also have the opportunity to go to Hawaii next April.  That’s over a year to try to get into shape (and look decent on the beach)!

Wish us luck.  I think we’re gonna need it.

Why didn't I shovel?

In the “Great Blizzard of 2011,” I didn't get to have to help Angry shovel.  Why?  Because I had to work.  I brought my laptop home to do security trades for my firm.  Unfortunately Fortunately, that meant that I had to stay by the computer while the stock market was open.

Angry put in a good four or five hours of work to clear up the walkways, the driveway, and the sidewalks (we live on a corner so there's a lot).  We still couldn't leave the house because the city didn't plow our street until after 4 pm.  Angry then had to go out and clear the huge pile of snow and the end of the driveway that the plow left.  That took over an hour to dig through.

Here's a view of the outside world:



Is there a street out there?

Angry on the way to the garage.



Getting closer to the street!



Good luck getting out.







Walkway almost done!



The unburied front door.



Why didn't I shovel?  That's what I "hired" Angry for!!  It says so in the contract on the license we signed.

He ruined it for me!

I have always been a huge fan of amusement parks.  I have very fond memories of visiting Marriott’s Great America (now Six Flags) many, many times during the summer.  I continued to go all the way through college.  I was also lucky enough to visit Disney World two times with my family when I was a kid.

I loved, loved, loved the rides!  Toss me on anything that twirled, swung, or dropped and I was happy as a clam.  Roller coasters were my favorite and when the developers started adding loops, I was overjoyed.

Thanks to Angry, that all changed. 

On our third date (over 21 years ago) we went to a local church for a festival.  We had a great time doing what one does at church festivals:  eating lots of food, drinking beer, enjoying live music, playing games, and riding rides. 

Angry bought a bunch of a ton of a million tickets for the rides.  After the fourth or fifth go around on the Tilt-a-Whirl, I felt a little woozy.  I told him I’d had enough.  He held up the remaining tickets and said with a frown, “I’ve still got tickets left. We can’t let these go to waste!”  I gave in to that poor, pathetic looking face and figured one more ride would be alright. 

It was the longest, most sickening ride of my life.  I begged him to stop the bucket from spinning the entire time, “Pleeeeeease make it stop!”  When it was finally over, I made it to the exit and tossed my cookies!

Angry took me home to clean up.  I figured since I’d thrown up, that was going to be our last date.  We’ve been together ever since so true love must transcend puke.

From that moment on, I could no longer ride in or on anything that spins or drops.  Sadly, my beloved roller coasters became a thing of the past. 

He ruined it for me!  I guess I forgive him.

Who sings in the shower?

I’m lucky to have married someone who has a great singing voice.  Angry enjoys belting out a tune and I love to hear him do it.  He sings a lot.  Sometimes I think he’s talking to me but I don't hear him clearly.  When I ask him what he said, he tells me: “Nothing, I was just singing.”

One of my favorite things in the world is hearing him sing in the shower (the acoustics are great!).  What I find interesting is his strange way of mashing his musical choices together.  He may start with a snippet of Nelly followed by a few bars of Elvis.  Then, he’ll suddenly break into some Johnny Cash with a little bit of Motley Crue tossed in for good measure.  Sometimes he even hums music that doesn’t have lyrics (maybe something from the Big Band Era).  I often ask him: “Where did that come from?”  His usual response is: “I don’t know; it just popped into my head.”

It’s almost an adventure to see (or should I say hear?) where his songs will go.  One that puts a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

I Will

I hate that statement!!

I've been happily married for 19 years.  However, when I ask my dear husband (let's call him "Angry" as that's his nickname from his friends) to do something as simple as taking out the garbage, the response I get is always, "I will."  After I ask for the tenth millionth time (he'd say I nag, if you can believe that!) the response is the same words, "I will."

Now, don't misunderstand me.  I love him more than anyone can ever imagine.  But, this answer drives me INSANE!!  It makes me madder than an old wet hen. 

I like to point out that if he'd just take care of the task (which shouldn't take much time), he could immediately return to relaxing, TV watching, beer drinking etc.  The job would be done and it wouldn't be hanging over his head.

Oh well. . . I guess it comes with the territory.  Honestly though, I think he knows it makes me mad and says it for that reason.  You think I'd learn and just stop nagging let him be!