Husband Dearest – Southbound35

This Past Wednesday, a Billion Years Ago

Internet – This week, approximately one billion years ago, Husband Dearest was born, thus changing the trajectory of my life not quite yet but forever.

I say not quite yet, because I wasn’t born yet.

Because I am much, much younger than he is.

Like at least seven months younger.

So, while I get to be Mrs. Robinson’s pool boy for a little longer, Husband Dearest gets to enjoy the blessings of being 30 years old. Presents are great and everything, but hooking up with a 20-something – priceless! At least I would imagine it’s priceless. I mean it would probably be more priceless if I was like 20, but hey, next time you’ll be more specific with the whispers you make when wishing on star, now won’t you!

For this milestone birthday, I got him his dream gift – a water bottle and a picture of me (well, us, at our wedding, but he’s facing away, so it’s pretty much a picture of me). I also tried to make him his favorite dessert – the Ice Box Pie from Hibiscus in Dallas, a delicious concoction consisting of vanilla ice cream, Butterfinger candy bar, touches of caramel, and an Oreo cookie crust. I go to the effort of secret grocery shopping, patting my basketball belly in mute explanation under the slack-jawed gaze of the checkout clerk as they put 8 candy bars into my reusable bag. I wait until Husband Dearest is out of the house and use my culinary skills to whip up this masterpiece and place it in the freezer, hiding it under piles of frozen spinach until I can take it to his birthday dinner and share with Husband Dearest and his family. I imagine his smile as he sees the effort I have gone to in order to bring him this, his favorite dessert, and while my purchased presents were small, this homemade, heartfelt gift would make up for it.

So image my excitement when, as the waiter cleared the table, I bring in my ice-packed surprise from the car.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts and a well-meaning ice chest, Husband Dearest got not the birthday ice cream cake that he was expecting, but a pie plate of Butterfinger soup. Literal soup.

Every single ice-cube in that chest is perfectly, frozenly formed, and my surprise cake-pie is a mess of melted ice cream, which in its meltiness has bled the color from the Butterfinger and now is a puddle of orange diabetes.

Not to mention, as we’re preparing for this grand dessert, I tried to shake up the ice cream caramel topping – you know – to drizzle cutely on top of each, ahem, slice of the pie, and what do you know? The seal that you’re supposed to remove before you drizzle isn’t quite as sealed as advertised. Caramel’s in my hair, on my face, on Husband Dearest’s shirt.

I am a sticky, horrified, pregnant mess sitting next to the sweetest man trying valiantly to spoon liquid pie onto a plate and eat it.

I guess in the grand scheme of things, I should be glad I didn’t compound the issue by trying to put a candle in it or something, but this totally did not go as planned. Poor 30-year-old Husband Dearest. Guess this year I’ll make it up to him by letting him get to fourth base.

Happy Birthday Babe!

Passing First Base

Dear Internet,

I now realize why, when asked how far along they are, pregnant ladies always answer in weeks. As a non-pregnant person in the past, I was always a little confused by their answers – smiling, nodding, walking away trying to divide in my head. Now I realize pregnant ladies answer that way because they have no idea how many months they are either! Truly, the whole date of conception, date of implantation, due date, you’re this far along, but the baby is technically a week behind you thing is danged confusing!

So, don’t be surprised if, when you ask me, I will answer you with “I am 17.5 weeks today.” What that means, dear Internet, is that the Second Trimester is firmly under way – goodbye to all of those charming First Trimester symptoms and hello to, well, the calm before the storm. And also the period where you are no longer terrified you are going to look pregnant – you’re begging for it, because at this point you still look like you had too good a time at the Gattitown pizza buffet.

It’s also a fantastic time to notice things. Like, hey, we should probably think about buying this kid some furniture. Or, man, I hope this kid does not inherit my flying squirrel arms. Most recently, I have noticed that having dogs is probably great training for having kids. And here’s why:

Why Dogs are Excellent Training for Having Kids:

You Must Feed Them – an easy one, I grant you that. But how many times have you looked your dog in the eye at 2:30 p.m. and realized they aren’t following you around all day because they love you – they’re doing it because you forgot to feed them breakfast, and they have no thumbs to do it themselves?
You Must Potty Them – sure, the methods may differ, but the truth of the matter is if you don’t let the dog out, or change the baby’s diaper, there will be a mess in your house. Likely on you, your clothes, your carpet, you name it. I swear to the heavens above, though, that if I ever have to pull a 14-ft long piece of grass from my kiddo’s hindquarters, I am saving it in his baby book to show him and his date on prom night.
You Freak Out When They’re Sick – they can’t talk to you and tell you what hurts. They just lay down a lot, looking pitiful and fevery-hot, not wanting to eat or play, and you’re willing to plop down your mortgage to fix it. Luckily so far, this usually resolves itself with a delayed bowel movement containing at least one stuffed animal ear or tennis ball parts. Let’s hope kids are this easy too – “Look Husband Dearest, I found your headphones!”
You will never go to the bathroom alone again – I know about doors, and their purpose in keeping others out while you attend to some thangs. However, I also realize it is almost worthless to try at my house, because it is a heck of a lot easier yelling at Husband Dearest to get the bejeezus out of here than it is to keep little doggie noses from battle-ramming their way in. Sometimes I give up and the little one sits on my lap. I am pretty sure that’s why, of the two of us, he likes me more than Husband Dearest – and I’m not afraid to exploit that.

Now that your mind is sufficiently blown, I will leave you with this amazingly brilliant and artistic cartoon and the happy dance that is sure to follow:

Prunes, Stretch Pants and Doggie Eye Conversations

Well, I started this blog as the tales of a childless mommy blogger, and have since found myself with child – thanks a lot, Husband Dearest! Not that I’m not excited. I am. And terrified, in denial, in expectation – wait. What was I saying again?

Which brings me to my main point today. The joys of the first trimester. Allow me to list them: Nausea, forgetfulness, impromptu nap-taking in public places, number one-ing all the time (and wanting to even when there’s nothing there) and not going that other number all the time, without help.

I knew about morning sickness, which has mostly passed. I could guess that you may be tired, you know, growing a person and all that. However, being stopped up in the (eyebrow raise – eyebrow raise) region is a pregnancy side effect not as highly publicized. Maybe because people don’t like to say words like “constipated.” However, if the World Wide Web is any indication, words like “placenta,” “womb” and “birth” are just fine to say. Anyone else think these words are grosser than Rush Limbaugh’s sex tape? Ugh.

Now, pregnancy brain is something I have seen first hand and believe in. I just can’t believe it starts this early. It does, Internet, it does. I cannot count the times I have walked into the room knowing I had a mission, doing an eye-lock with the dog – willing the beast to tell me just what I was doing in this room.

Sometimes they answer. Don’t judge me.

I think they’re just going off of a bank of sure-fire answers in the hopes they’re right:

“Well, Mama, you are here to get me a treat. It’s right there in that cabinet next to where you’re standing. I am also standing right here, and it would be incredibly efficient if you were to just go ahead and give it to me now.”
“Well, Mama, you are here to pee. I don’t know how in the life of me you manage to balance yourself up there and do that, but I have resigned myself to the fact that I can’t explain why you do the voodoo that you do. Just don’t forget to flush.”
“Well, Mama, you are here to eat something. Probably something sweet with extra fiber added to it, because of the you know what. Try prunes. I don’t like them, but the old folks swear they’re like magic. You aren’t fooling anyone with those Fiber One bars – you know they’re practically cookies.”

Self-flagellation and P.S. I Love You

Back in the day, when Husband Dearest would be away – business, bachelor party..whatever – I would take my chance to watch scary movies with my friends or all the random ghost shows that come on after dark on the weekend. I would do this knowing full well that I would watch just enough to start believing there are ghosts in my own house, friendly or not.

Wouldn’t be too long before I would be sure they weren’t friendly, and every time my dogs barked at nothing, I would be more and more sure I was right. Those nights were probably the bulk of that month’s electricity bill, because every light, and sometimes more than one television would be on the whole night. From the street, my house very likely looked like Thomas Edison’s field lab.

Knowing I was choosing to scare myself witless was literally like cutting my own switch and grabbing for my ankles.

As I near my thirties, my choice of punishment has evolved. I seem more and more prone to the sappy, woman movie. Yes. It’s true. When normally I can’t sit still for longer than an hour show, I keep finding myself in the middle of these wonderful, horrible, sometimes Lifetime-related, woman-targeted movies like “P.S. I Love You” or “My Sister’s Keeper.”

These movies seem designed to make you weep. Not cry, weep…seep? Whatever crying it is when your eyes drip of their own accord, long after you have told them to cut it out. These story lines are fantastic, sad and moving. You know what you’re getting into and just can’t help but watch anyway.

Guys, I know you don’t get it. We don’t get it either. I will sign off by trying to explain it with Man Language:

Imagine you are offered two choices: A) a massage or B) a massage with a happy ending
What if they told you that the massage would be great, the happy ending even better, but at the end the session, the massage bimbo would take your money and kick you in the nuts.
You know there are plenty of you out there that are still thinking B is looking pretty good…

Swiss Family Gristmill

I’m a little behind in posting, but on Monday evening, Husband Dearest said – let’s go check out The Gristmill – I hear the sunset is amazing.

Now, Internet, there is something you have to realize about me – I have been 80 years old my entire life. My first instinct on a Monday evening is to be at home.

Why? Duh – because it’s a school night.

But then I realized something – I had no reason not to go.

LIFE (The Next Chapter) has given me a gift of being in charge of my own schedule. So off we went. Gruene (“Green”) is such a fun, lovely place – the best of small town culture with historical route. This town very well could have had a “square”. People park – then people walk. Around town.

Or, like us, to The Gristmill.

Husband Dearest and I both had the Tomatillo Chicken, one of the healthier options. The meal was great, but the view and the people were what made this a place to come back to. One of the restaurant’s best assets is a lovely lady named Heather who went out of her way to know our names and make sure we had a great first Gristmill experience.

The view is phenomenal – you’re sitting in the trees, watching the water flow down below as the sun bleeds all the best colors into the sky.

Well, sue me for waxing poetic. Judge for yourself.

Thank you, Gristmill and thank you, Heather.

Sweat is Fat, Crying

Ok, so my last post probably doesn’t make sense without some background. Like why we moved away from a house we own, successful jobs, wonderful friends and the Dallas life. As of September, Yours Truly, Husband Dearest and our partner Bri-Bri took ownership of a set of Anytime Fitness clubs along I-35.

We saw an amazing opportunity in these clubs and their people. The opportunity is both a smart business partnership with a successful franchise and a chance for all three of us to take the reigns of our futures and make fitness and health a part of our daily lives.

Oh yeah, and did I mention the Anytime Fitness annual users conference in Chicago? Loved it. Learned a lot.

One week in and we are living on the Kool-Aid, Internet.

Husband Dearest and I met some great people – and saw a lot of them get tattooed with Running Man, Anytime’s corporate logo. While I didn’t stand in that line, per se, I did buy myself a nice, new, purple Anytime Fitness fleece – with thumb holes. These apparently have something to do with running while wearing the fleece…yeah.

Apparently, I need to learn more about fitness fashion. It’s not just spandex and sweat bands anymore. T-shirts, dry-fits, T-backs, fleeces, sweatshirts, long T’s, sparkly-Affliction-esque apparel and so, so much more. The Fitness Fashion world is my oyster.

Oh yeah, and can anyone tell me where I can get some supplements?