This boy’s delusional

I’m convinced, somedays, that my husband lives in an alternate universe from the rest of the inhabitants of the planet.  Today is one of those days.

This morning I hop into the shower just as my delusional hubby is lathering up.

“Be careful,” daydreaming man warns me, “I’m dangerous to be around now.”

The strange look on my face prompts him to show me this.


“Um. Ok,” I say.

Skip forward about an hour as fantasy-land man is heading out the door…  “I guess this is goodbye.  I’m heading out to my meeting and when the chics there get a whiff of me, it’ll all be over.  They’ll devour me.”

“We’ve had a good run.  I’ll miss you.”  (Insert image of me rolling my eyes and shaking my head.)

I sure hope he returns.  I might be too embarrassed to fill out that missing person’s report.

‘Well officer, he used to Axe body wash and then I let him leave for a meeting….’



I live with a family of allergy babies.  And by babies, I mean whiny, cry-baby, wimps.  It’s a beautiful spring day.  Can I open the windows and let the breeze in?  Nope.   “Close that window!  You’re going to let all the pollen in!”  Owww… There’s an extra couple of bucks in the check book, maybe I can buy a new read or some yarn.  Nope.   “My throat itches.  Where are the allergy pills?”  There goes another $30 on stupid allergy meds just so you can breathe better, whatever.

I’ve always felt pretty lucky to have escaped the trappings on their season pity party.

Unfortunately, it looks like they are going to have to make room at the table for one more runny nosed, itchy, sneezing complainer.

I was pleasantly minding my own business on Sunday night when it all began.

Rub eye.  Rub it again.  Blink, blink, blink.  Rub eye.  Rub other eye.  Eye begins dripping.  Drip, drip, drip.  What the hell?

Itch arm.  Itch arm again.  Scratch the heck out of arm.  What are those bumps on my arm?

Drip, drip.  That darn eye.  Wait, that’s my nose.  Oh hell….

I’m going to go to bed and pretend none of this is happening.

Wake up Monday….  Sniffle, drip, sniffle, drip.  How can a nose be clogged and runny at the same time?  Itch, scratch, itch, scratch.  Great, the bumps are still there.  If the bumps are on my arm, why does the back of my throat itch?  Can I even scratch that?  Crap, now my eye is leaking again.

This is stupid.  I don’t have allergies.  This is NOT happening to me.  It’s just a spring cold.  People still get those, right?  Yes, spring cold.  I just need some extra sleep.  I’m going to bed.

Wake up Tuesday….  Now I know I’m awake, so why can’t I see anything?  What’s on my eyes?  Sweet, they are crusted shut.  Is crusted a word?  It is now.  I lose few eyelashes, but I finally get my eyes open.  Now I’m wishing I hadn’t.  Not only are my crusted over, but they are also swollen.  The left one more so than the right.  Uneven, swollen, puffy, crusty eyes….very attractive.  And to add to the look, the crustys have traveled to my nose where a mixture of a running and bleeding nose has created a Jackson Pollack-esk rendition on my face and hand.  My throat still itches and I still can’t scratch it.  Plus, now my head feels like it’s in a vice grip.  Ugh!

At that exact moment, my super sensitive husband walked in.

Me – “I feel like shit.”

IP – “You look like shit!”

Me – “Thanks”

I see IP has been attending his charm school classes again.  Heck, with wooing words like that, he could teach the courses.

Now, could someone please point me in the direction of the nearest bottles of Zyrtec and Allegra…. and close that window while you’re at it!


Be careful what you wish for

“I wish he’d put the seat down.”

“I washed the clothes.  The least he could do it fold them.”

“Would it kill him to wash a dish every now and again?”

Ask any woman and she will tell you that she would love to have her man help out more around the house.

Well I have a confession to make.  As much as I like to make IP the butt of my jokes, he does help out around the house as much as he can.  Unfortunately, it’s not always as much as I’d like it to be, but, hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Ever since the beginning of our wedded bliss, IP has been the duster of the family.  He was born with a dominant ‘love of dusting’ gene.  Which is good, because I carry a ‘I could care less how much dust is on the end table’ gene.  My vice is vacuuming.

In equal symmetry, IP prefers to cook dinner, especially Sunday dinner, if his schedule allows.  This trait meshes perfectly with me since I loathe cooking.  Maybe, if I was good at it or could dream up inventive meals, I might care more, but I don’t.  Strangely enough, as much as I hate cooking, I equally enjoy doing the dishes.  (I know.  I know.  There is something wrong with me.  Heck, we remodeled our kitchen and I didn’t even put in a dishwasher.  I still scrub everything by hand.  Add it to my list of issues.)


Well, yesterday I came around the corner and found this sight to behold in my kitchen.

photo copy 6

Marinara anyone?  Who wants a meatball?

What they don’t tell you

As I walked around the corner into the kitchen this morning, my eyes were assaulted by the sight of IP sipping his coffee while picking lint out of his belly button.  

(I apologize for the lack of picture, but I assumed NO ONE else wanted to see that.  You’re welcome.)

Me – “Oh the joys of marriage.  Why wasn’t this discussed in anywhere in the marriage manual?”

IP – “Hey Babe.  Just think how lucky you are to have all of this.  There’s a line of women out there dying to have all this that you get to enjoy everyday.”

Me – “Lucky me…..”




Such a charmer

He’s at it again ladies and gentlemen.  These are the first words my lovely betrothed said to me this morning.

“Wow!  You look like 60!   Could you shower and put some make-up on.  I mean.  You’re supposed to look hot.  That’s what I said yes to at the altar.”

Does anyone remember where I put my shovel?  I’m suddenly feeling the need to do some gardening…..

Brusha, brusha, brusha

An occupational hazard of being a video guy is that IP is occasionally hired to produce productions outside the boundaries of our hometown.  As I type, he is stuck in sunny Florida, while I’m single parenting it for the week.  Not only am I the only taxi on duty, but we are adjusting to being back in school and work, plus we are in the final stages of some bedroom remodeling.  (Because why wouldn’t one start bedroom remodeling in August, when we are preparing to go back to school.  Sure, I’ve got tons of sanity to spare.)

IP and I dropped the mini-mes off at school on Wednesday and he jetted out-of-town.

I woke up on Thursday morning and was barreling through the morning routine solo when I was stopped dead in my tracks….. my toothbrush was MIA.  Now, I a firm believer in the whole ‘Toy Story‘ phenomenon.  I know that when I leave a room, my kid’s toys get up and boogie on down.  But I don’t believe those characteristics apply to my hygiene products.  At least I hope they don’t….

A quick scan of the counter and I realize not only is my toothbrush missing, but IP’s is still very present.

Great, he took my toothbrush to the beach and left me at home.

So I handled the situation the best way I knew how.


Not liking being the fodder for my jokes, IP fought fire with fire.

photo copy

Damn, I think he wins!


Packing Master?

To know me, is to know that I am a crazily, obsessive planner.  I make daily To-Do lists.  I talk to myself about what I need to get accomplished.  I double check after I’ve done things to make sure I really have them in the order I want them done it.  I drive myself nutty.  I stress and worry and, then stress some more.  IP does not.  He has more of a grab and go persona, not seeing the point in wasting time stressing out or worrying.  In his mind’s eye, it will be what it is.  Being laid back has it’s advantages sometimes, but not always…..

Peter once went to Baltimore

He packed as he ran out the door

Day two came around

No new shirts to be found

Stinky traveler in the same shirt on day four

Summer means vacation.  Being the Type A I am, I began my pre-pre-planning by making lists of the things we would need to pack for an upcoming trip.  IP takes a quick peek at my list and begins to mock me.

“You actually put ‘clothes’ on your list.  Do you really think that was necessary?”

“This from the man who flew to Baltimore without any shirts.”

(Insert image of IP sticking his tongue out at me.)

FYI ~ If this whole blogging/parenting/social working/household managing/trip planning thing doesn’t work out for me, I think I have a future in limerick writing.


Only in his dreams

You know those last previous moments of pillow talk before you drift off to dream land?  You and your significant other whispering sweet nothings into your ear.  Well here are mine.

IP – “Good Night”

Kerry – “Night”

IP – “I’ll see you in my dreams.”

Kerry – “What am I like in your dreams?”

IP – (Smiling) “You have bigger boobs.”

Kerry – “OK….I’m I smarter or dumber?”

IP – “You don’t talk.”

Kerry – “Nice.”

IP – “Shhhhhhhhh”

Keep dreaming babe, keep dreaming.

For better, for worse

For better, for worse…

For richer, for poorer…

In sickness and in health…

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I got all that jazz and I’m cool with it.  I wouldn’t give up IP for anything or anyone.  Well, maybe Donnie Wahlberg.  No.  Yes.  No….. I’ll get back to you on that one.

Anyway, I’ve come to realize, after 15 years of marriage, there needs to be an additional section in the vows where your beloved has to lay all their cards on the table, all those annoying habits and weird nuances, giving us all a little pre-warning upfront of the future we face.

Now I could talk about farting, clothes on the floor, and the likes, but those are the obvious issues one faces with a husband.  I mean these.

1.  Your future husband does not share your obsession to detail.

IP doesn’t usually carry cash.  He’ll use the debit card if he’s out and needs to buy gas, pick up lunch, etc.  He tries to remember to tell me when he’s done this, so I can write it in the checkbook.  This is our typical conversation.

“I bought gas today.”

“How much was it?”

“57.87 or 57.07.  I don’t know.  57 something.”

I’m one of those ‘balance the checkbook to the exact penny’ people.  57 something doesn’t go in evenly into my calculator.  I’m also not ok if you say 57.87 and it really turns out to be 57.07.  So, I end up digging through this.

photo copy 9

Silver lining….at least he keeps them.  Plus, while I’m trying to figure out the something missing from the 57, I usually find the lunch receipt he forgot to tell me about too.

2.   Your beloved is a tree-hugger….sort of.

Everyone goes green in their own way.  I’m all about recycling and saving the environment.  I have an extra weekly recycling bin and try to recycle everything that I can.  But I do have limits.  IP is convinced that you cannot throw batteries away when they die; that they will hurt the landfill.  When batteries die in our house, they go here.

photo copy 8

What, you say?  You don’t have years worth of batteries lying around in your basement?  What kind of person are you???

He claims there are places that recycle them.  I do not know of such places.  So, I have this collection.  I wonder if there are any boards on Pinterest for ‘Fun Things to do with dead batteries’?

3.  Your betrothed adheres to a strict “waste not, want not” philosophy on everything….well except one thing.

IP will wear the same shoes for years.  He’ll scrap the bottom of jars to get out every last bit.  He’ll drink the last…um wait, scratch that.  IP’s taste buds believe that, despite when it was originally opened, the last few fingers of a 2 liter bottle of pop are flat, fizz-less, tasteless, potentially deadly, and, therefore, unconsumable.  I frequently come home from work and find this scenario in my fridge.

photo copy 7

Somehow, I have managed not to die my drinking the last of all of these 2 liters.  It’s a miracle!

For better, for worse

For richer, for poorer,

In sickness and in health

In lost receipts and missing digits,

Knee-deep in dead batteries,

In flat, fizz-less soda,

Til death do us part

(Anyone see Donnie Wahlberg yet? No?)


I Do.


It’s hard to get sympathy somedays

When I started this blog, since I am an obsessive, Type A personality, I made it very clear with myself (Yes I talk to myself, don’t judge) that I wasn’t going to give myself any ‘rules’ or ‘have-tos’ regarding posts.  I don’t have a defined list of blog topics, which should be obvious by my range of topics.  If it strikes my fancy, I blog about it.  I also didn’t require myself to post a certain number of times a week.  Some weeks I’ve ended up with three posts and some with one.  I didn’t want to force myself to post if I hadn’t been inspired.  Even I know that, despite how much I might want to , I can’t schedule being creative!

You might have noticed that I had a two-week hiatus in posts during February.  (You didn’t?  Imagine me crying!)  Well, I had a really good reason for it….. I WAS IN CANCUN!

Now, before to go getting all crappy with me.  I was FORCED to go to Cancun on a business trip.  That’s right, forced.  IP was hired to shoot a wedding there, so we had to fly all the way to a tropical paradise in the middle of February and suffer through 87* heat, day long sunshine, and breathtaking sunsets.  I mean really, who wants to deal with this everyday???


It was horrible.  And then, to make matters worse, the whole time we were there, people kept doing things for us: cleaning our room, turning down our bed and leaving chocolates, bringing us endless drinks while we lounged poolside alternating between swimming, tanning, reading, and napping.  I mean really.  It was just terrible!


~ Sidebar…. When one is in Cancun, receiving said endless free drinks and soaking in the tropical sunshine, please be careful not to end up like this lady.


Nothing will spoil a mid-winter get away like drowning in a resort swimming pool.  Plus yakking up the entire contents of your stomach on the pool deck will not endear you to the other guests! ~

Anyhoo, while away, I may or may not have burned my pale, February skin to a crisp while relaxing on the white sand beaches near the equator.


Ok, I did.  I burned the hell out of my skin.


And do you know what I learned, no one really wants to hear about mid-winter sunburn you received while they were stuck digging out from the nine inches of snow they received while you were gone.  No love, no sympathy, no concern for the heart-wrenching ordeal I am having to endure.  In fact, they take sick pleasure in watching the top layer of my skin flake off.  Sick bastards!

photo copy 6

For those of you that do care, I am recovering slowly for this whole ordeal, getting a little better a day at a time.  Despite the pain and trauma we suffered through, we are currently accepting applications for any other couples who want to get married in Cancun.  For their joy and dream wedding, we would be willing to endure the whole experience again.  That’s just the kind of people we are!