Category Archives: This Thing Called Life

My Daughter Has a Boyfriend and He’s Famous

She fell in love with his music when she was just four years old. She would listen to his CD with her dad while they drove around town running errands. They’d walk in the door from a long day and she’d be singing his songs.
Oh, how she sings his songs.


She fell in (4 year old) love with The Man the first time she saw him on TV.
“That’s Keith Urban?” She asked, with her eyes wide open.
“Yes. It is.” I responded. “Isn’t he handsome?”
She giggled. “I want to marry him!”
She would talk about him daily. She would draw pictures of him and for him. She would write letters to him.
“I want to be your girlfriend, Keith Urbin.” She’d scrawl across the blank white paper.
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The day she found out he was married, she was devastated. “You’re lying!” She shouted. “He’s MY husband!”
Once she accepted this reality, she started writing letters to his wife, “Micole.” They were sweet and said things like “I like the way your husband sings.”
But she never stopped loving Micole’s husband. She never stopped singing his songs. She never stopped writing him letters and drawing him pictures.
One night while we were sitting on the sofa watching a Keith Urban special, she asked me to pause the TV. “Mom, if he has a show by our house, will you take me there to see him?”
“Of course I will, love.”
“And after the show, will you take me to meet him? I just want to meet him so bad.”

I explained that it probably wouldn’t be possible to meet him after the show, but you never know! Maybe?
“Oh, I hope I can’t meet him!” She said, with her hands folded as if she was saying a prayer.
*******
“Babe, doesn’t that look like Keith Urban?” My husband asked as we were sitting in the airport waiting to board a flight from Chicago to LAX.
“That IS Keith Urban!” I gasped.
Gabby was sitting next to me. “Gabby! That’s Keith Urban sitting over there.” I said, as I pointed. (Pointing is rude! I know! But I had to show her!)
She wants to meet Keith Urban and there he is sitting just a few feet away from her.
I wanted to go say hello to him, to introduce my daughter– his biggest, littlest fan- to him. I wanted to watch as she met the man of her dreams right there in the airport terminal.
But he was on the phone. And I didn’t want to be rude and interrupt his phone call. So, I sat and waited for the right time.
The right time never came. An American Airlines employee came over to him and walked him over so he could board the plane first. I was bummed for my daughter and quite possibly for myself because there’s nothing more beautiful as a parent than watching your child’s dreams come true.
“Mommy, where did Keith Urban go?” Gabby asked when she noticed his seat was empty.
I explained to her that he had already boarded the plane. I told her that maybe we could say hello to him when we got on the plane, if he wasn’t busy.
“No, Mommy!” She whined. “I was just kidding about loving him! I don’t love him and I don’t want to meet him!”
“You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, but I think it would be so wonderful if you said hello to him. You’ve always said you wanted to meet him.”
She got very quiet as we stood in line.
“Mommy? My heart is beating so fast. Is yours beating fast too?”
I about died right there. HER HEART WAS BEATING FAST.

Sweetie, it’s okay to be nervous and it’s okay if you don’t want to say hello. I don’t want you to be nervous.”
“I do want to say hi to him, Mommy. I’m just so nervous.”
When we stepped onto the plane, I noticed Keith was sitting in the first row. He wasn’t on the phone, so I politely made my move.
“Hello, I am sorry to bother you, but my daughter adores you and she would love to say hi to you.”
He smiled at her and said “Hi, what’s your name?”
“Gabby.” She answered.
“She just loves your music.” I said.
“Oh yeah? What’s your favorite song, Gabby?” He asked.
She was silent and I’m pretty sure it was because her little heart was pounding so hard.
“I Wanna Kiss a Girl.” I said.
“I wanna kiss a girl…” He sang.
She smiled.
I thanked him and we walked to our seats.
Shortly after takeoff, Gabby asked if she could write Keith a note. “I just want to tell him thank you for saying hi to me.” I told her she could write the note, but that I didn’t think we would be able to give it to him. However, I had a fabulous conversation with the flight attendant while waiting to use the restroom. I told her all about Gabby’s encounter with Keith and how much she loved him. I mentioned the note she wanted to write for him.
“Have her write that note and I’ll take her up front to give it to him.”
I practically ran back to my seat to give Gabby the good news.
She wrote her note (I helped make sure she spelled all of the words correctly, but they were definitely her words.)

Dear Keith Urban,
Thank you for letting me listen to your songs. I like you.
Love,
Gabby

The flight attendant walked over, took Gabby by the hand and said “let’s go give that to Keith Urban!”
I sat in my seat and watched as my daughter made her way to the front of the plane. I watched as Keith leaned over and accepted the note she had written. I watched as she smiled and spoke to him. My heart felt like it was going to burst open. IT WAS THE SWEETEST MOMENT. You just have to believe me. It truly was.
When the flight attendant returned my daughter to me, I asked her to replay what had just happened. She told me what Keith had said to Gabby and what Gabby had said to Keith. The absolute funniest moment was when Keith asked her if she wanted his autograph.
“No thank you.” She answered sweetly.
We both agreed she had no idea what an “autograph” was. So, the flight attendant took the notebook to Keith so he could sign it.
This is what she brought back.
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When we read it together, my daughter smiled. Then started to giggle. That giggle turned into laughter.
“OH MY GOSH!” She said while putting her hands over his face. “Why did he call me HIS GIRLFRIEND? He must really love me or something!”
I cried. I did. Because it was the most precious thing to witness.
She stared at that paper for the entire flight. Sometimes giggling. Sometimes asking me questions about it. Sometimes doubting that he was being sincere.
“I think he was just faking it. I don’t think he really wants me to be his girlfriend.”
My husband and I can’t stop talking about how great Keith Urban was to Gabby. It was a late night flight, he had just done a show. It would have been understandable if he didn’t want to be bothered. But he was gracious to our daughter. He was genuinely kind. A true class act, that man.
I’m buying a frame for that note tomorrow and hanging it on her wall. I never want her to forget the day Keith Urban sang to her and called her his girlfriend.
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(Happy, but SO VERY TIRED. Traveling is hard, y’all.)

RIP, Mikey

(edit- I’ve decided to stop taking donations for Funeral expenses. Firstly, I was blown away by the generosity. I honestly had no idea that much money would be raised. $1,205.00! You wonderful people never cease to amaze me with your goodness. Second– I believe we may be able to get a good portion of funeral expenses covered through a program designed for victims of crimes. It won’t cover it all, but I believe with what we’ve raised here and through the car washes, the family will not incur any debt over this horrific tragedy. I can’t thank you all enough. I plan on signing every single name of every person who donated to the card I will give the family this weekend. I simply can not thank you all enough. xoxo)
(updated- Julia made a great point- “Y — if they have enough money for the funeral, they may like to use our
donations for some kind of memorial to honor their son. That would be
nice too.” If you still *want* to give, you can still do so through my PayPal account at mamarosaATgmailDOTcom. Any and ALL money deposited into that account will go to the family.)

Last Friday night, I told my children that we were going to visit Mikey’s parents. (Read about Mikey here.)
I told them that they didn’t have to come if they weren’t feeling up to it. I wanted it to be their decision. If they went, I wanted it to be because thy wanted to be there, not because they were forced to be there.
They surprised me. In a good way.
“We want to go, Mom.” They said.
We drove over to their house, with a heavy heart. What do you say to a mother who lost her son to senseless violence? What do you say to a father who just lost his only son? There simply no words, nothing you can say.
All you can do is be there. Let them know you love them, you’re thinking of them, you’re crying with them and you’re so very very sorry.
I was glad my boys were mature enough to make the decision to be there for Mikey’s parents, even though it wasn’t easy, even though it was going to be painful.
“Sometimes, the right thing is the hardest thing.” I’ve always told my children that.
They get it.
We all stood in the walkway, waiting for his parents to come out. “They’re not up for it.” A family member told us. “We completely understand.” I responded. “Just give them this card and tell them we are thinking of them.”
He said he was going to tell them and he’d be right back.
“Sue is going to come out.” he said.
Sue is Mikey’s mother.
She opened the screen door and collapsed into my arms. I’m not exaggerating. She literally fell into my arms. I did my best to hold her up. She was sobbing. I was crying.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.” I said through my tears.
“I don’t understand. They shot my son in the chest. They left him to die on the concrete.” She wailed. “They won’t let me see my son.”
My husband and my children were standing behind us, as well as some other neighbors and their children. I could hear them all crying.
“And here, I was worried about the war.” She said. “He told me he wanted enlist, he wanted to be a man. I told him no! You’ll get killed!”
I held her up while she cried and wailed and spoke of her hurt, confusion, anger, sadness, unbelief.
It was one of the most *real* moments of my entire life.
When she was finally able to stand on her own, she let go of me and looked around. She saw my son, The Teenager. She walked over to him. “Oh, Andrew” She said as she embraced him tightly. “Mikey loved you so much.” She started to sob again. As did my son. “I loved him too, Susan. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
I was heartbroken and yet, so very proud of my son. Proud that he chose to be there for his friend’s mother, even though it was painful and uncomfortable. Proud that he expressed how he was feeling so openly.
I think about that moment with Sue often throughout each day. I think of how broken she was, I think of how her life, her heart has been completely shattered. I can’t even begin to imagine how painful every waking minute of her days must be.
Although our pain doesn’t even compare to that of Sue and Pete, this situation has impacted our family in a profound way. We all feel as though we’ve lost a member of our family. Mikey was part of our lives, he was like family.
Every weekend, my boys were staying the night at his house, or he at ours. Almost every Saturday night, the boys would pile in The Astro Van for a short ride to Mikey’s to spend the night. It was a familiar scene to see our boys walking up the street early Sunday morning with bed head, a plastic bag filled with clothes and their pillows and blankets in hand.
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He was at every single one of Andrew’s birthday parties.
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I’m devastated he’ll never be at another.
Last weekend, a bunch of Mikey’s friends had a car wash to help raise funds for funeral expenses. They plan on doing another one this weekend. I’ve decided I’m going to try a little fundraising of my own here on this blog. I hate to ask for money from readers, but I hate to think of grieving parents struggling financial due to the expense of burying their child. I know that those of you who read here have generous and kind hearts. I know you’ll understand why I’m doing this.
I have not been asked by any family member to do this. I simply want to do whatever I can to help make their burden a bit easier. If you could find it in your hearts to give, I would be so grateful and I know that his parents will be as well.
I will take donations through Sunday, which is the day of the viewing.
Thank you in advance.

In Shock

This morning I received an email notification that I had a new message on Facebook. It was from a neighbor from my old neighborhood.
“She must be inviting me to a candle party.” I thought to myself.
I opened up the message.
It was in all caps.
“HEY. MIKEY WAS KILLED LAST NIGHT.”
I froze.
I gasped for air.
I screamed “NO!”
I flashed back to a moment in time.
1998.
6 in the morning.
I hear a knock at the door. I open the door. It was Mikey.
He was about 7 years old. His hair was a mess and he was wearing pajamas.
“Can Andrew play?” He asked, while yawning.
I remember thinking– am I dreaming? Or is Mikey really standing at my front door at 6am, asking to play, on a Saturday morning. I was part pissed off. Part LAUGHING ON THE INSIDE.
“Mikey! Do your parents know you left the house?” I asked.
“No. They’re still sleeping.” He replied.
“Why don’t you go home until they wake up. You can come over and play later, okay?”
“Okay.” He said.
I watched him as he walked slowly, barely awake, back home. And I laughed. Oh my God, how I laughed.
That little boy, the one who spent many nights at my house, eating dinner with us, going fishing with us, being a good friend to both of my boys, was shot and killed last night.
He wasn’t so little anymore. He was 18 years old.
But in my mind, he is still that little boy, standing at my front door, half asleep, asking to play with his best buddy– My son, Andrew.
I’ve cried a lot this afternoon.
I’ve cried for the parents. No parent should ever have to bury their child. No parents should ever have to lose their child to senseless violence.
I’ve cried for my sons. I do everything in my power to protect my children. This reminds me you can’t protect them from everything. You can’t shield them from the evil in this world. And that sucks so hard.
I’ve cried for myself. I’ve always taught my children to do “the right thing.” But you know, maybe I’ve been wrong. Right now, I’m thinking “To HELL with the right thing! DON’T GET INVOLVED! WALK AWAY! PRETEND YOU DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!”
I don’t want to feel that way, I truly don’t, but it’s kind of hard not to feel that way when someone who we all loved tried to do the right thing and lost his life in the process.
Rest in Peace, Mikey. Our family will never forget you.

I’m Available For Parties!

On Tuesday I had to go see an ophthalmologist.
(There is something weird happening in my right eye that leads to headaches that my doctor feels I need to have checked out. CT Scan next month. FUN!)
He did some weird things to my eyes that didn’t hurt at all, but totally freaked me out (numbing the top layer of my eye, what?) When he was finished, he didn’t see anything wrong with my eye, but wanted to do a few more tests to be sure. He had to go get the nurse, so he did something kind of dangerous.
He left me alone in the room with his computer. The computer that had my medical history. As soon as he left, I got up to look.
Right there on the screen was my medical history.
The thing that stood out right away was something titled “Problem List.”
You guys.
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The thing is– that’s just a snippet of the list! (Look at the scroll button! So much scrolling!) I wasn’t brave enough to scroll. Too afraid of a) getting busted by the doctor for playing on his computer b) finding out new things that I didn’t know was wrong with me!
I GET IT, MEDICAL RECORD. I’VE GOT PROBLEMS.
And one of them is GERD.
I’m never telling my doctor about the peeing when coughing. I don’t need to see that on the list.
This is why my doctor calls me “a fun mess.” you guys.
Except, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing fun about GERD.

NOT a Piece

The last post that I wrote (Just a Mom) wiped me out emotionally.
It needed to be written. I needed to write it.
I thought I’d never speak of it again. But the comments. The emails. Wow. Each one that I read gave me something to think about. And I’ve been thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
I’ve come to realize that the shame I feel really isn’t about not having gone to college– it’s bigger, deeper than that.
I will write about it again.
And I will call that post My Piece.
But that Piece (ha) will have to wait for another day. Because today? Is National Delurking Day. Do you know what that means? That means today, you have to stop being “Just a Lurker” (see what I did there? That was kind of awesome.) and leave me a comment. Introduce yourself. Tell me a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Do you watch The Bachelor? Cash Cab? Do you have a raging crush on Ben Bailey like I do? ARE YOU WITH COCO?
I look forward to hearing from you!

“Just a Mom.”

(I have tried to write this post many times. I write. I delete. I write. I save as draft. I delete. I write again. Delete. I don’t know why this is so hard for me, but it is and it’s time I write it write it write it and then hit publish. For reasons I do not understand, I cried about this all day. I knew it was time to write it, publish and never look back. I will not edit. I will post it exactly as it type it the first time.)
“What do you want to do after you graduate?” He asked me, during one of our late night phone calls.
“I don’t know.” I replied, as I giggled.
But I knew.
I wanted to get married.
I didn’t need college. In fact, it wasn’t even an option. My parents never told me the important of an education. You don’t need an education when you have Jesus! You just need to love God, find a Godly man. Marry him. Have his babies.
One year and 5 months after I graduated high school, I married the man that asked me that question.
It’s what I wanted to do. It’s what God wanted for me to do.
The full time job I had at a Christian School ended just after graduation. But I quickly found a part time one, working in a public school– after school program. It was perfect. Only 4.5 hours a day, but I’d get insurance, which my husband’s job didn’t offer.
Three years later, we had our first baby.
The baby I always wanted to have. The baby I wanted to take care of and love and nurture. I could take care of my baby all morning long, go to work in the afternoons, come back home and take care of my baby again.
I was a Mom. Such a good Mom. Because I loved being a Mom. I loved it with every fiber of my being.
My life was beautiful and felt perfect for us. We didn’t have extra money, we didn’t have fancy furniture. We couldn’t afford to take vacations. But I had my husband. I had my son. That was all I needed.
4 years later, I was a Mom again.
I couldn’t have been happier.
In 2002, I started a blog. Through that blog, I started to meet new women. Oh, how I loved these women I was meeting in the virtual world.
They were doctors, lawyers, writers. They were comedians, reporters, psychotherapists. They were lesbian, bisexual. They were single moms.
They were kick ass women.
I had lived a sheltered life. One in which I spent almost every waking hour in the House of God. And not your typical House of God. This was a House of God that preached “a woman’s place is in the home!” One that forced women to wear headcoverings when they entered the church to show their submission to God and to their husbands. One that said women can’t wear pants- pants are for MEN! And no make up, wimmins! Make up is for whores! “MONKEY LIPS!” one preacher once shouted at a woman who had come to church with lipstick on.
Swear to God.
So, to meet all of these incredibly diverse, successful women online opened up an entire new world to me.
I no longer could believe for one minute that a woman who had made a career for herself didn’t love her children with the same passion that I, a stay at home mom, did.
I grew to love these women, admire them. Their words inspired me. They taught me. They made me cry. They made me laugh.
They changed me. For the better.
But then, something happened.
I started to feel shame.
Deep, horrific shame.
I didn’t measure up to these women who were now my friends.
I didn’t go to college.
I didn’t have a career.
“Just a mom.” I was just a mom.*
That had always been enough for me and then suddenly, it wasn’t.
But it was.
But, it wasn’t.
The thing that I loved about blogging when I first started was that I could write these stories of my life and people responded. I was embraced by these woman I was in awe of.
But, the shame.
The shame that I could never measure up. The shame that while they were writing “pieces” on feminism, I was writing about my ass eating my thong in aerobic dance class.
That’s all I had to offer.
I started to feel like I need to keep my mouth shut, because, what do I know? I’m just a mom.
The question I fear the most when meeting new people is “where did you go to college?”
I feel so small. I feel so stupid.
I could have went to college after I had the kids, after I realized the errors of my way. But there was always a reason not to. How could I spend money on an education when there was barely enough to pay the bills? But let me be really honest here: It was fear that stopped me. It was shame that stopped me. That fear that I feel in the pit of my stomach as I type this. Fear that I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t smart enough, that it was too late for me.
Recently, I received an email that said I had been chosen to be a speaker for Mom 2.0. I was thrilled, but I also thought it was a mistake. What did I have to offer? Have you seen the speakers list? Accomplished, intelligent, professional women. It HAD to be a mistake.
It wasn’t a mistake. But I ask myself every day. “How can you sit up there with those incredible women? You don’t belong there.”
Last year I was lucky enough to have been hired for a full time/work from home job with BlogHer. I am surrounded by influential, powerful, intelligent, professional women. I feel so unworthy– like, how did I end up here with this fantastic job and these incredible women? I don’t belong here.
I am proud of the mother I’ve been and continue to be to my children. I never regret being their mother. How blessed I am to have them. So very blessed.
I just wish I could say I was proud of the person, the woman, that I am as a whole.
(Now that I wrote this for all to see, I shall never speak of it again.)
*this isn’t how I feel, this is something I heard another woman say. “we’re not JUST moms. We have careers.” she said. “But… I am.” I thought. “Oh, but *I* am.”

To Sum it All Up– Naked, Soapy, Joy, Upgrade.

Last month me and my husband celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. People tend to assume that we must be Really Good At Marriage. “19 years!” They say. “How DO you do it?”
Here’s the thing. We’re not very good at marriage. I mean, we love each other, obvs. We love our family, double obvs. But we don’t nurture our relationship the way that we should.
Let me give you an example: The last time we had spent a weekend alone together was when I was pregnant with our second child– 13 years ago!.
There really isn’t an excuse for this, other than the one we use every time we even THINK about planning a weekend getaway.
“We can’t afford it.”
This year, we promised each other we were going to plan a weekend in Vegas for our anniversary.
“No more excuses!” I said. “We’re doing this!”
Then, work slowed down for PigHunter. And unexpected adjusted tax bills came in the mail.
So, I canceled the trip.
Even though we had money saved.
Even though it was going to cost next to nothing.
“It’s the responsible thing to do!” I said. And PigHunter agreed.
But really, no. It wasn’t. We weren’t taking a luxurious cruise that was going to cost thousands of dollars. We were going to Vegas, where I could get a room for $60 on Hotwire.com. I mean, seriously, what the hell, Us?
Our marriage was worth that $60 room.
I booked the room, got a sitter and off to Vegas we went to make our marriage stronger. ( and when I say “make our marriage stronger” I mean “play quarter slots and have lots of naked sex.”)
The drive to Vegas was smooth, no fights, no arguments. Only lots of excitement about naked sex and quarter slots. And possibly, buffets. However, once we arrived in Vegas, things started to fall apart.
“You know how to get to The Strip, right?” I ask as we entered Vegas.
“No. But I assume the signs will tell us where to go.” He said.
“True, so we should just see our hotel when we’re on The Strip, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He replies, all High and Mighty-ish. “We’ll find our hotel.”
20 minutes and a Lots of Cuss Words later, we were at the end of The Strip and our hotel was no where in sight. Thanks to my G1, we finally found the hotel. However, that’s when the REAL fun started.
We pulled into what my husband, who has a Masters in Knowing All Things, was SURE was the Harrah’s parking lot. I had suggested perhaps, maybe, we were in the wrong place. He assured me that he was right, I was wrong. “I think you’re wrong.” I said. “but, WHATEVER.”
We parked and as we walked to the hotel, I kept asking “are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Suddenly, he was only “95%” sure.
We got into the elevator with all of our suitcases, camera’s sweaters and jackets. I saw a sign that said “Imperial Palace.” I pointed, all “YOU WERE WRONG” like. “So, you still think we’re in the right place?”
He wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. So, we got off the elevator and started walking. Even though we both knew we were at the wrong hotel. I finally had enough, so I verbally communicated my feelings, (something along the lines of “I’M SO PISSED HOLD MY BAGS I HAVE TO PEE YOU JERK.”) he tried not to laugh, we turned around and left to find the correct hotel parking lot.
Long story short. We found it. He dropped me off to check in while he parked.
“Next, please” the man at the check in counter called out. I handed him my credit card, he looked up my reservations.
“Would you like to upgrade to the jacuzzi suite?” He asked
“How much?” I asked.
“$75.”
I thought about it. And as I thought about it, I felt what can only be described as Joy in the Pants. The Cheap in Me was all “don’t listen to the Joy (in your pants.) Be responsible! Say no!” But the Joy in my Pants was all “NAKED SOAPY BODIES FUN NAKED!”
Joy in the Pants won.
I upgraded the room.
I didn’t tell PigHunter about the upgrade. I figured I’d let him be surprised once we got up to the room. I opened the door. We looked around and he goes “wow, this is really roomy. I can’t believe we only paid $60 for this!” I giggled. “I upgraded to the suite… check it out.” I took him by the hand and led him to the jacuzzi.
Instant Joy in HIS Pants!
He didn’t even care about how much! He just cared about “how long til we were both naked and soapy!”
It took about EXACTLY 6 seconds of looking at the jacuzzi for the Joy in my Pants to turn into Fear of Bacteria and Disease. The excitement of I felt (in my pants) when I heard the words “jacuzzi” and “suite” had temporarily shutdown the OCD portion of my brain because not once did the thought of Other Peoples Sex register while I was handing over my credit card to upgrade. But now that I was there, face to face with it, that’s all I could think about. And there’s nothing that will kill sexual excitement quite like threat of getting an STD.
Meanwhile, PigHunter was standing there wondering “how long til we’re naked in this thing?”
I convinced him that we should go out for dinner before getting naked and (possibly, catching a disease.)
We headed out looking for some of the places that twitter had suggested. However, somehow, we found ourselves in line at the Harrah’s buffet. (Which, by the way, WAS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. Next time, I’m listening to twitter.)
After dinner, we decided to take a walk. Just outside of the hotel, there was an outdoor bar. A cover band was playing. “Oh, let’s go!” I shouted, as I grabbed his hand and led him down the stairs. Cover bands are one my favorite things about Vegas. Let me rephrase that. Old Ladies in tight leather pants dancing nastily to cover bands is my absolute favorite thing about Vegas. And man, were there plenty of them at this place. It was pure Vegas Magic.
We stood there for at least 30 minutes, watching, pointing, laughing, but also admiring. I love people who don’t give a shit what other people think and just enjoy themselves. You know?
Something you should know about my husband is that he doesn’t like to dance. (Probably because he is stuck in the 80’s when it comes to dancing.) The only time we have ever danced together was when we used to go line dancing in Orange County. We’d do the Cowboy Cha Cha together (and also the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. NO LIE.) That was years ago. We haven’t danced together since. So, imagine my surprise when I asked him to dance to a Cheesy Cover of Poison (as in Bel Biv Divoe’s song, not Brett Michaels band.) and he said “yes!”
We took the floor and that’s when the real magic happened.
My husband began to dance.
I tried to let him be himself, I tried to just be glad he was out there with, I really did. Who am I to judge? I can’t dance either. However, I also don’t move my arms like I’m dancing at a Hoe Down. So, I kind of felt like I should say something. I walked over and gently grabbed his arms. “Simmah down with the Hoe Down Arms, babe.” I said. He laughed and did it even harder, which made me laugh. (I’m so glad he has a sense of humor. If he had walked up to me and let’s say, grabbed my ass and said “Simmah down with the Ho Ass Movements” I would have BEEN SO PISSED.
I decided to embrace Hoe Down Arms and just have a good time. They kind of grew on me, to be honest. The more I think about it, the more I believe the world would be a little better if we all could be so lucky to have moves like this.

I’m not going to tell you the Juicy Details about all of the sex we had later that night, but I will say that I was able to get over my fear of disease to enjoy the jacuzzi, but only after I made my husband rinse it down for an hour with hot water. (Even then, I was still worried and disgusted and SHUT YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW IF YOU’RE EVEN THINKING OF TELLING ME HOW MANY DISEASES I PROBABLY HAVE NOW.) What I will tell you is that the $75 I spent on the upgrade was possibly the best money we’ve ever spent. Two weeks later, we still can’t stop talking about that night and are already planning another trip to do it again.
ahh, yeah
looking good, mr. husband

vegas
he's all "mmmm, hot dog"
leaving las vegas

To Sum it All Up– Naked, Soapy, Joy, Upgrade.

Last month me and my husband celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. People tend to assume that we must be Really Good At Marriage. “19 years!” They say. “How DO you do it?”
Here’s the thing. We’re not very good at marriage. I mean, we love each other, obvs. We love our family, double obvs. But we don’t nurture our relationship the way that we should.
Let me give you an example: The last time we had spent a weekend alone together was when I was pregnant with our second child– 13 years ago!.
There really isn’t an excuse for this, other than the one we use every time we even THINK about planning a weekend getaway.
“We can’t afford it.”
This year, we promised each other we were going to plan a weekend in Vegas for our anniversary.
“No more excuses!” I said. “We’re doing this!”
Then, work slowed down for PigHunter. And unexpected adjusted tax bills came in the mail.
So, I canceled the trip.
Even though we had money saved.
Even though it was going to cost next to nothing.
“It’s the responsible thing to do!” I said. And PigHunter agreed.
But really, no. It wasn’t. We weren’t taking a luxurious cruise that was going to cost thousands of dollars. We were going to Vegas, where I could get a room for $60 on Hotwire.com. I mean, seriously, what the hell, Us?
Our marriage was worth that $60 room.
I booked the room, got a sitter and off to Vegas we went to make our marriage stronger. ( and when I say “make our marriage stronger” I mean “play quarter slots and have lots of naked sex.”)
The drive to Vegas was smooth, no fights, no arguments. Only lots of excitement about naked sex and quarter slots. And possibly, buffets. However, once we arrived in Vegas, things started to fall apart.
“You know how to get to The Strip, right?” I ask as we entered Vegas.
“No. But I assume the signs will tell us where to go.” He said.
“True, so we should just see our hotel when we’re on The Strip, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He replies, all High and Mighty-ish. “We’ll find our hotel.”
20 minutes and a Lots of Cuss Words later, we were at the end of The Strip and our hotel was no where in sight. Thanks to my G1, we finally found the hotel. However, that’s when the REAL fun started.
We pulled into what my husband, who has a Masters in Knowing All Things, was SURE was the Harrah’s parking lot. I had suggested perhaps, maybe, we were in the wrong place. He assured me that he was right, I was wrong. “I think you’re wrong.” I said. “but, WHATEVER.”
We parked and as we walked to the hotel, I kept asking “are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Suddenly, he was only “95%” sure.
We got into the elevator with all of our suitcases, camera’s sweaters and jackets. I saw a sign that said “Imperial Palace.” I pointed, all “YOU WERE WRONG” like. “So, you still think we’re in the right place?”
He wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. So, we got off the elevator and started walking. Even though we both knew we were at the wrong hotel. I finally had enough, so I verbally communicated my feelings, (something along the lines of “I’M SO PISSED HOLD MY BAGS I HAVE TO PEE YOU JERK.”) he tried not to laugh, we turned around and left to find the correct hotel parking lot.
Long story short. We found it. He dropped me off to check in while he parked.
“Next, please” the man at the check in counter called out. I handed him my credit card, he looked up my reservations.
“Would you like to upgrade to the jacuzzi suite?” He asked
“How much?” I asked.
“$75.”
I thought about it. And as I thought about it, I felt what can only be described as Joy in the Pants. The Cheap in Me was all “don’t listen to the Joy (in your pants.) Be responsible! Say no!” But the Joy in my Pants was all “NAKED SOAPY BODIES FUN NAKED!”
Joy in the Pants won.
I upgraded the room.
I didn’t tell PigHunter about the upgrade. I figured I’d let him be surprised once we got up to the room. I opened the door. We looked around and he goes “wow, this is really roomy. I can’t believe we only paid $60 for this!” I giggled. “I upgraded to the suite… check it out.” I took him by the hand and led him to the jacuzzi.
Instant Joy in HIS Pants!
He didn’t even care about how much! He just cared about “how long til we were both naked and soapy!”
It took about EXACTLY 6 seconds of looking at the jacuzzi for the Joy in my Pants to turn into Fear of Bacteria and Disease. The excitement of I felt (in my pants) when I heard the words “jacuzzi” and “suite” had temporarily shutdown the OCD portion of my brain because not once did the thought of Other Peoples Sex register while I was handing over my credit card to upgrade. But now that I was there, face to face with it, that’s all I could think about. And there’s nothing that will kill sexual excitement quite like threat of getting an STD.
Meanwhile, PigHunter was standing there wondering “how long til we’re naked in this thing?”
I convinced him that we should go out for dinner before getting naked and (possibly, catching a disease.)
We headed out looking for some of the places that twitter had suggested. However, somehow, we found ourselves in line at the Harrah’s buffet. (Which, by the way, WAS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. Next time, I’m listening to twitter.)
After dinner, we decided to take a walk. Just outside of the hotel, there was an outdoor bar. A cover band was playing. “Oh, let’s go!” I shouted, as I grabbed his hand and led him down the stairs. Cover bands are one my favorite things about Vegas. Let me rephrase that. Old Ladies in tight leather pants dancing nastily to cover bands is my absolute favorite thing about Vegas. And man, were there plenty of them at this place. It was pure Vegas Magic.
We stood there for at least 30 minutes, watching, pointing, laughing, but also admiring. I love people who don’t give a shit what other people think and just enjoy themselves. You know?
Something you should know about my husband is that he doesn’t like to dance. (Probably because he is stuck in the 80’s when it comes to dancing.) The only time we have ever danced together was when we used to go line dancing in Orange County. We’d do the Cowboy Cha Cha together (and also the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. NO LIE.) That was years ago. We haven’t danced together since. So, imagine my surprise when I asked him to dance to a Cheesy Cover of Poison (as in Bel Biv Divoe’s song, not Brett Michaels band.) and he said “yes!”
We took the floor and that’s when the real magic happened.
My husband began to dance.
I tried to let him be himself, I tried to just be glad he was out there with, I really did. Who am I to judge? I can’t dance either. However, I also don’t move my arms like I’m dancing at a Hoe Down. So, I kind of felt like I should say something. I walked over and gently grabbed his arms. “Simmah down with the Hoe Down Arms, babe.” I said. He laughed and did it even harder, which made me laugh. (I’m so glad he has a sense of humor. If he had walked up to me and let’s say, grabbed my ass and said “Simmah down with the Ho Ass Movements” I would have BEEN SO PISSED.
I decided to embrace Hoe Down Arms and just have a good time. They kind of grew on me, to be honest. The more I think about it, the more I believe the world would be a little better if we all could be so lucky to have moves like this.

I’m not going to tell you the Juicy Details about all of the sex we had later that night, but I will say that I was able to get over my fear of disease to enjoy the jacuzzi, but only after I made my husband rinse it down for an hour with hot water. (Even then, I was still worried and disgusted and SHUT YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW IF YOU’RE EVEN THINKING OF TELLING ME HOW MANY DISEASES I PROBABLY HAVE NOW.) What I will tell you is that the $75 I spent on the upgrade was possibly the best money we’ve ever spent. Two weeks later, we still can’t stop talking about that night and are already planning another trip to do it again.
There is so much more to tell you, but honestly, this post is officially Too Long. So, I give you a few pictures instead of an actual ending to this post.
ahh, yeah
looking good, mr. husband

vegas
leaving las vegas

October 14

Someone asked me how I planned on honoring my Grandpa today (the one year anniversary of his death.) The question knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t given any thought to how I’d honor him today. In fact, I hadn’t even realized a year had passed since he died. It feels like it just happened yesterday. Because it still hurts my heart that he’s gone. I don’t cry as much, but the pain is still there. I feel guilty that I didn’t plan a beautiful way in which to honor his memory today. I decided to post something I had written early this morning while thinking of him. These are not the beautiful words he deserves, but they come straight from my still broken heart.
I miss the sound of your voice.
I miss the way you smiled at me.
I miss the way your eyes lit up when you saw my children.
I miss the way you wrapped your arms around them.
I miss listening to your stories. Even the ones you told over and over again.
I miss the smell of your hair gel when I hugged you hello and goodbye.
I miss calling you in the middle of the day for no reason at all.
I miss the way you’d get angry when someone dared to wear a hat inside of your house.
I miss your sarcasm.
I miss the way you’d look at me when I talked with nothing but love and admiration in your eyes.
I miss the way you’d spend hours talking to my husband.
I miss the white hankies you carried in your shirt pocket.
I miss the candy drawer.
I miss seeing your comb on top of your sink when I’d go to visit.
I miss the way you’d go through at least 10 names before you get the name of the person you were talking to right.
I miss the way your tongue stuck out when you laughed.
I miss the way you’d say “I love you, Y.”
I miss worrying about you when you walked up the driveway because I was afraid you’d fall and hurt yourself.
I miss asking my Mom how you were when I hadn’t talked to you in a few days.
I miss kissing you goodbye whenever we’d part.
I miss seeing your can rest beside you while you sat on my sofa.
I miss your surprise visits.
I miss your generosity.
I miss hearing you talk about Hank.
I miss the way you’d talk about your mother and how wonderfully she took care of you.
I miss your hands.
I miss your awful jokes.
I miss your perverted comments about women.
I miss you eating the turkey neck at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I miss the way you sat in your chair.
I miss sending you pictures of my children in the mail because I knew it would make your day.
I miss watching you enjoy Gabby singing a song, or the boys telling you a story.
I miss the way you’d get upset with me when I waited too long in between visits.
A year later, I miss every little thing about you, Grandpa.
And I think I always will.
My Opa.

The Day I Turned 38

I woke up at 5:30 to a kiss from my husband. “Happy Birthday, Mama.” He said, as he caressed my butt cheek. He can’t help it. He loves my butt so much. I said thank you and went back to sleep. At 6:15, The Teenager woke up to get ready for school. Normally, I’d be up and working already. But it’s my birthday, so I took the day off. He walked over and said “Happy Birthday, Mom.” And then, he kissed me on the forehead. It was the most precious thing, because he’s very reserved with his emotions. So the unexpected kiss got me RIGHT HERE in the heart. As he walked away, I thanked him and then I cried. BECAUSE MY SON KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. Ethan and Gabby woke up shortly after and both wished me a happy birthday. Ethan’s wish came with a hug and a “let’s go out to dinner!” Gabby’s came with a beautiful handmade card that said “RRSW Y AHAFFAB” Which she explained means “Happy Birthday, Mom. You’re the best Mom in the world and I love you so so so so so so so so so much.”
I only told you that story so that you would know that’s “It’s my birthday today!”
scan0011
Normally, I don’t like to make a fuss out of my birthday. I don’t walk around drawing attention to it. I’m not all “hey, everyone! It’s my birthday!” But when someone pointed out that this year my birthday falls on 09.09.09, I went All Nerd and was like “I’M GOING TO TELL EVERYONE IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” because 09.09.09 is awesome.
So, guess what, everyone? It’s my birthday!
A few people have asked me if I’m doing anything special and the answer is no. Not today. I love my husband, but he’s The Worst at Planning Things For My Birthday. For instance, he just called me right now and goes “so, what do you want for your birthday? I need to know so I can take the boys after school to get you something.” That’s pretty much my birthday every single year. And every single year I’m like “why did you wait til the last minute to get me a present” and every single year his answer is “I ran out of time yesterday.” Because, you know, the day before the birthday is THE ONLY DAY OUT OF THE ENTIRE YEAR that he can go shopping for my birthday present. It’s not a big deal though, really. I stopped crying and being sad about it around the 8th year of our marriage. I just accepted that was how it’s going to be. And I started reciprocating. This year, I drove to Target the day of his birthday and bought him a CD and was all “Happy Birthday!”
We’re good at marriage.
So. Yeah. It’s my birthday. And there’s really nothing else to say about that. Except that I think you should write me a poem.
No. Seriously. You should.