Marriage is an adventure, like going to war.

The other day I was talking to my friends about blogging of course, and expressing my longing to post about the basic events of my daily life. For whatever reason this seems to be beyond my capability and I am only designed to create emotional, cerebral accounts or at least have a moral and purpose behind my story. It almost seems silly because I don’t necessary expect people to appreciate my comings and goings but for whatever reason I want to attempt this challenge. There are regular moments of anecdotal humor that needs some record or acknowledgment.

For instance, as I type , I’m sidelining a text fight with my husband. Being the smarty pants I consider myself I put my foot down on gift purchases. I was sick and tired of purchasing registry gifts for our friends. I was doing all the work and spending but only getting partial credit. The real issue is that I have a hard time buying things and not grabbing a fair few desirous items for myself. Here we are a mere two days away and nothing was been done…and it’s killing me! Then hark, an incoming text, my husband got a gift. What in the what what? After pride and shock pass, I dare ask the question that will only end badly, what did you get them? Dish towels. Eek! Yes, they are on the registry. Yes, they are functional. But how can I explain the Emily Post-esque etiquette to him that they are an additive gift, not the singular, stand alone type? I know this is my fault but seriously? This never crossed his typically ostentatious spending habit self? Oh and being the big spender he is be had them gift wrapped. Hmph.

This very same man, whom I knew was eccentric upon marrying him though admired it more in an endearing way, made me dinner the other night. I’m still trying to grasp the concept. If you haven’t heard me say this, this is my husband that doesn’t even heat up his own leftovers. I can’t entirely blame him because I witnessed a déjà vu with his mom and dad about the microwave and I’m convinced it must be hereditary. Turns out I had an unexplained high fever and was miserably poached on the couch and after whining I managed to convince him I needed pecan pancakes. Leave it to me to be difficult even when fighting a staggering 102 fever. I watched him and corrected ever possible misstep I witnessed until my talking privileges were revoked and my dinner held ransom. He was paying particular attention to them cook, which was a relief since I would soon be ingesting them. As he walked my plate over he slipped out a mischievous giggle. Being the astute wife I am, I knew. How could I not have suspected? There so delicately designed were two pecan pancakes one in the shape of a bunny which he anxiously pointed out the nose, ears and tail and the other not to be overshadowed was the R-rated illustration of anatomy that present company doesn’t possess. Sometimes I forget I’m married to a 13yr boy.

I cannot make this stuff up but hey this is me and I gotta say these are regular occurrences and I personally get a kick out of them, that is after I move beyond my agitation.