I'm writing a book to celebrate my anniversary

Tim and Shana, April 2012

As Tim and I celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary today, I am working on an outline for a self help guide to having a successful marriage. Chapters include:

Chapter 1: Choose Wisely: Avoid Marrying a Pretentious Douche (see Appendix A)

Chapter 2: Laugh together. A LOT.

Chapter 3: Good sex can help make up for a myriad of small offenses (see Appendix B)

Chapter 4: Compromise, Motherfucker.

Chapter 5: Get on the same page with regards to finances and child rearing (see Chapter 4)

Chapter 6: Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so GET A LIFE, MAKE SOME FRIENDS and DO YOUR OWN THING on a regular basis

Chapter 7: Dance together. OFTEN.

Chapter 8: Never go to bed angry. Seriously, hash that shit out until 3 a.m. You have a much better chance of winning the fight making your point if your opponent spouse is loopy from exhaustion.

Appendix A: Signs of pretentious douchery include ironic mustaches, pipe smoking, and skateboarding as primary mode of transportation after age 30. NOTE: indicators of douchery may vary regionally.

Appendix B: Small offenses include leaving the toilet seat up, not putting the new roll of toilet paper onto the roll holder, putting the new roll on the roll holder but BACKWARDS, and a host of other toilet related offenses.

DISCLOSURE: This is my second marriage, so I have had some practice. I know from good. And I've got it good.

Yesterday was My Birthday

"The moon was full and bright the night she turned 45...."

Doesn't that sound the start to a great novel?

I had a fabulous birthday. Today I will revisit Tim's facebook page and tally up how many birthday wishes he received in December (is that even possible?) to make sure I received more. Which I am sure I did, but which he doubts.

To celebrate, here's my list of 45 things that do not annoy me, and that, in fact, bring me joy. And I am not including the obvious, like having a happy marriage, healthy children, yada yada yada. These are just random things that I love.

In no particular order...

Mountain views

Beer

Tivo

A full moon

Food Carts

Diet Coke

Crawfish boils

Oysters

Dresses with semi twirly skirts

The beach

Boat rides

Tall boots

Fresh babies

Crafty pursuits

Live music

Sunshine

Midcentury anything

My lamps

A clean car

Having help with housework

Popeye’s famous fried chicken

Ballroom dance performances

Estate sales

Bodies of water

Justin Timberlake

iPad

ebooks

U2

Sunday drives

Techy gadgets

The Highlander tv series

Baubles

Chuck Taylor All Star’s

LASIK

Coconut M&Ms

Girlfriend movie night

Don Draper

Owls

Vintage maps

New Orleans

Denis Leary

Reading books

Flannel sheets

Tabloid magazines

Stationary

My Marital Secret

My cozy bed, taken at 7:58 a.m. this morning

Time for me to let you in on a shameful secret that I've been keeping for quite a while now. Brace yourself.

My husband? Has been sleeping on the couch.

But wait. It gets worse.

I like it. There. I said it. I like it.

I like having the bed to myself. I like using the extra blanket AND having the heat on, both, at the same time (this is an either/or proposition if Tim is in the room). I like sleeping in the middle, diagonal across the bed.

It all started back in late November, when Tim early gifted himself with a PS3 for his birthday, and he would stay up late shooting zombies, and he ended up sleeping on the couch.

And he liked it.

He now swears that the back problems he's been experiencing for the last year or so are because of our mattress (our mattress is fine, just FYI) and when he sleeps on the couch, he wakes up with zero back pain.

Whatever. The point is, this arrangement is working out well for all involved. He's spending half of his nights on the couch, and we both wake up happy. In fact, just the other night I was snugly camped out in the middle of the bed with my laptop and my extra blanket and using all of the pillows when he walked into the bedroom with his book in hand, looking ready for bed. And I said, "What are you doing?" and he said "Coming to bed." And I was like, "Oh," and had to completely rearrange my perfectly arranged self and, frankly, it was kind of annoying.

And don't think this is just me being a greedy bed hog. You should see the smirk on his face when he's encamped on the couch in his Snuggy (for real) with his game remote in hand and his book at the ready (for post-gaming wind down). He's a happy camper too.

There is talk of mattress shopping and new couch shopping within the next few months. The current couch is cozy for sleeping on but ugly and worn. The mattress is fine, but whatever. The point is, this violation of the sanctity of the marriage bed is probably temporary. So I've got to enjoy it while it lasts. Wherein "enjoy it" = sleeping diagonal with the extra blanket and my laptop.

Be Careful What You Wish For

When I encouraged my husband to try ballroom dancing, I had something like this in mind...

Look at them. Sweet, romantic, cozy. Really, you cannot spend as much time in the ballroom as I do (with Carlie) and not get the urge to dance. It's just not possible. The energy, the glitz, the fun... it has an allure.

Tim went into this whole ballroom thing with zero dance ability. ZERO. Like, can't clap to the beat on a scale of "has rhythm" to "doesn't." As such, he also had ZERO self-confidence on the dance floor, which translated into ZERO interest in dancing.

But I'll hand it to my husband, he does tend to "go along" with things pretty well. So when I suggested we try some very affordable entry-level lessons through the parks and rec department, he got fully onboard. Wherein "fully onboard" = oh, my God, I think I have created a monster.

Fast forward a few sessions of lessons and he now wants to do stuff like this...

and this...

You'll note that I am the only one risking life, limb and panty flashes in these particular dance moves. Granted, he risks throwing his back out, but still, when it all goes horribly wrong, I am going to be on the bottom of this heap.

So we are now in dance lessons twice a week (east coast swing and foxtrot) and engaging in social dancing once a week (Friday nights). And practicing at home. Almost daily. And Tim is the initiating force behind all of it.

Sadly, even with all that practice, the reality is, we still look more like this....

In search of the BIG ONE

I heart Seth Aaron

My husband left this morning to spend a week in Alaska, fishing for the BIG ONE. While this would not exactly be my idea of a fun vacation, he is as excited about this adventure as I would be, if, say, Seth Aaron called and asked me to fly to Milan with him for fashion week. And that? Means really, really, really excited.

Under the guise of someone needing to cover his work commitments, he forwarded his phone calls to his secretary. Which means he has a cell phone, but I can't call it. If I call it, his secretary, here in town, will answer it. Tim can call me. But I can't call him. Frankly, I find this quite unacceptable. Also, wherein *under the guise* = he basically told me, neener, neener, you can't call me as he did the dance of sweet freedom.

What if there is an emergency? What if I can't find the checkbook (already happened)? What if I need to know what that song was that we both said we wanted to download from iTunes (already happened)? What if he forgot to take out the garbage and recycling before he left and I want to let him know that he forgot (already happened)?

Do you see what I mean? Unacceptable.

Last night I told my husband that I would miss him while he was gone for a week. Like, really, really miss him. Like, miss him so much, I probably need some kind of distraction to keep myself busy while he's gone. He thought that it was sweet, the fact that I would miss him, because he doesn't plan on missing me. At all. Let's set that aside for the moment, though.

At the heart of this conversation is the fact that he didn't tell me NOT to buy an iPad to distract myself from my lonliness. Which basically means that he probably WANTS me to go out and buy an iPad in his absence. Right?

I'd call and ask him, but, yeah, that whole phone thing.

I also heart the iPad. Plus? I would totally read the NYT, like, every day, if I had an iPad, and not read, like, James Patterson and Janet Evanovich novels. At all.

Jealous

My nest. Emptier, but not quite empty. Yet.

In unrelated events, recently two of my friends posted old photos of their fabulous college-aged selves with their now-spouses. And it made me jealous --

When Tim and I met, I had two kids, he had one, and by our first wedding anniversary, we'd already welcomed Carlie to the family.

-- And I found myself envious of those friends and their days of being young and in love and not a parent and enjoying that time together and having it to look back on in later years when life becomes harried and crazy with kids and schedules and drop offs and pick ups and OMG how did this become my life. In my envious fantasies, I imagine meaningful, knowing glances as you pass each other in the hall, calling out, "I'll be home by 6:00, don't forget to drop her off at dance," and having those memories of way back when to pull from when you're looking for something to hold on to.

All of our memories, Tim and I, are of a family. We were never a couple. That's the way it is when it's your second time around and you've already lived a life. It's not a bad thing, it's just a different thing. And thank God we're old enough to have the empty nest in our near-future (seven years!), and will still be young enough to enjoy it when it happens.

Carlie is currently obsessed with my high school year book and old photos of mom and dad as teenagers, which only adds fuel to my what if I knew you then fire. Of course, the reality is, things would not have worked out between this troublemaking chick and that churchgoing boy circa the 1980s. But still, it's fun to think about. Maybe I'll write a story...

Meanwhile, I can't get enough of Swell Season this week. I don't know why.

Because Tomorrow is Valentine's Day...

Things that I love (in no particular order):

Stinky cheeses.

Girlfriend movie night.

Sleeping in.

The river.

U2.

Facebook.

"The Breakfast Club" and

"Sixteen Candles," in equal measure.

Holding babies.

Bulldogs.

Tim.

Jeans that fit right.

Oysters on the half shell.

Snuggly covers.

A clean house.

That "new car" smell.

"The Way We Were."

Tomato soup.

High school stories.

Magnolias.

Johnny Depp.

My kids.

Flannel pajama pants.

Boiled crawfish.

Vaseline lip therapy.

"Project Runway."

Diet coke with lime.

Watching "How I Met Your Mother" with Carlie Belle.

Going home.

My Kindle.

Chocolate.

The Saints.

Pajama days.

Iris on Skype.

Kayaking for wussies.

Mushrooms.

My Blackberry.

Happy Valentine's Day Eve.

Resolutions

2008 was a year of self-focused physical improvement for me, working on the self, making health and fitness part of my norm. In 2009, I want to turn some of that focus outward and focus on hearth and home and recapturing the sense of "safe haven" that this house once held for me... as opposed to the current sense of "never ending money pit" and "sty."

In 2008, I practiced my unlistening skills. That voice in my head? Yeah, she's kind of a nit-picky bitch. In 2008 I learned to stick my fingers in my ears and sing "nanner nanner boo boo" until she was drowned out. But ignoring her did not make her go away, and sometimes when I am not paying attention, she pipes up once again, finger-pointing to the "would haves" and should haves" and "could haves" not taken.

In 2009, I want to banish her. For good. Like dead and gone. Nothing good comes from the criticism and the "not good enough" mantra. So while I participate in 365 Days, she dare not rear her naggy head to point out crows feet and laugh lines and a double chin. Not only am I not going to listen, but I am going to shut her ass down. For real. And if I muster up the courage to actually write something besides blog posts, she will have no editorial license with me.

So that's it. Pretty simple and straightforward resolutions. Focus on getting this home back in shape, focus on getting my psyche in shape. Oh, and I'm running a half marathon in April. Because 13.1 miles? Half my ass. Just feeling like it's OK to register for this mutha is a full-on accomplishment.

2009 is going to be the bomb. Seriously. I'm ready to kick some ass this year.