Fourteen Years Ago Today

It was 14 years ago today that we:

• Walked down the aisle in our dress and tux.

• Nervously said I do.

• Cut the cake.

• Threw the bouquet and garter.

• Posed for pictures.

• Pledged our lives to one another, forever.

Happy anniversary, my darling Ty-man. It's been an amazing 14 years of marriage (not to mention 21 years of friendship and love) and I wouldn't trade one single second of it for anything.

Vous et nul autre.

CMG's Mustache

There is one extremely embarrassing moment in any marriage that cannot be avoided. A defining millisecond that makes you just want to curl up in your ratty, coffee-stained terry cloth robe, under your bedsheets that haven't been changed in three weeks, behind your well-worn copy of Dune and never come out.

Nope. It's not when you fart in front of your husband.

Nope. It's not when he walks in while you're making your I need more fiber! face.

And nope. It's not even when he walks in while you're changing out your chartreuse flamethrower*.

It's when he breezes through the bathroom and spots the bleach/hair remover cream on your upper lip.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that was the moment yesterday when I wanted desperately to crawl into a hole and die. To admit that I have unwanted facial hair and that I have to deal with it on a regular basis is a conversation I have avoided for almost 21 years. And to "get caught in the act" by the Ty-man? Oy.

In order to avoid any future embarrassment, I have decided to just damn the torpedoes, damn the secrets, and damn that Sally Hansen bitch to Hell and grow myself some honest-to-Tom Selleck upper lip pubes.

I'm trying to decide on my new look. What do you think?

I could just let it grow however it wants to grow:


Get something a bit more manicured:


Then there's the whole handlebar thing:


And let's not forget the classic 20th century European dictator look which may get me on Avitable's masthead:


And speaking of Adam:


What do you guys think?

*Berkeley Breathed? Bloom County? Opus and the gang? Never mind.

Sticking the Neck Out

From My Big Fat Greek Wedding:

Tula: Ma, dad is so stubborn. What he says goes. You know, “The man is the head of the house.”

Maria: Let me tell you something, Tula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck and she can turn the head any way she wants.

Our yard is an absolute mess. After all the work we had done last year, the "lay of our land" is great. The weeds? Overtaking us moment-by-moment.

Back in 2004 BK (Before Kids) and earlier, I had the weed thing down and under control. I was out there every friggin' day keeping the little bastards at bay. Now? With three kids? And this house? The yard has suffered greatly and I am absolutely embarrassed regarding the state of it. (I keep waiting for the covenant Nazis to knock on our door and kick us out of the neighborhood because the weeds are taller than most of the kids around here.) Ty-man has some nasty outdoor allergies that keep him from mowing the grass. So, we've got a service but that's all they do is cut the grass. We need something more.

I've pestered Ty endlessly about calling our landscaper from last year's backyard overhaul and he kept putting me off. After watching the weeds reach epic heights, the neck finally moved the head. I called the landscaper. I got the quote. I found out that he charges less for mowing and weeding compared to what we're paying now for just mowing. I flatly stated that the weeds aren't going to get any better and that we need to hire the new landscaper. Finished. Done. There will be no discussion in committee.

And? Our old grass service has been dismissed. Donnie (the new landscaper) is on the job this Thursday. And the neck? I'm feeling pretty strong and ready to move the head any. way. I. want.

Ty-man has been warned.

Happy 13th Anniversary!

On May 27, 1995, after seven years of dating, a broken engagement (my bad), a re-engagement, a dress and cake made by my mom, and a hot, humid day, we were married in Suches, Georgia. We had a small wedding in a small, country church, officiated by Ty-man's Baptist-minister uncle. It was a wonderful day full of family, friends, BBQ, and some wonderful cake!

Happy Anniversary, Ty-man, and I love you! It's been 13 wonderful years and I can't wait to see where the next years take us!

(Dang! Don't we look young in that picture? Friggin' young-uns. Thinking they can get married at 23 and that it's all easy-peasy. Sheesh. Stupid kids...)

Preparations

As of next Tuesday, the Ty-man and I will have been married for 13 years.

Wow.

Thirteen years of bliss, joy, heartache, stress, insanity, happiness, joy, laughs, and tears. In those 13 years we've gained beautiful children, understanding, patience, and weight. It's been a strange and wonderful trip, this marriage thing, and we're lucky to be on it together.

For the first time in 10 years, we're taking an honest-to-God vacation on our anniversary. For our third anniversary, we hit all the Florida high spots. We had vowed, at one time, to return to our honeymoon destination (Seattle) for our 10th. Alas, I was large with children. This year is different because we're headed to Antigua from which we felt the pull of the Caribbean, remembered the lure of the sand, and heard the siren song of an all-inclusive resort with endless alcoholic beverages.

You guessed it. Drunken anniversary sex with no kids to interrupt us. Woo hoo!

So, I found out that Sandals is like a cruise on land. "Cruise on land" literally translates to "dress your ass up for dinners." Um, yeah hi. I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Heather, a mom of three, and my wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts, skorts (Mother of Christ), and 20 Old Navy t-shirts in varying colors, Crocs, and mommy-hair that is never styled. And you want me to dress up every night? For dinner? With make-up, decent hair, and a dress?

Mother. Puss. Bucket.

You all know I bought a dress on Sunday. That's one dress. I still have six more outfits to go and a limited budget 'cause this trip has broken the CMG bank. So, off I went, digging into the disaster that is my closet, looking for something that will pass for Sure, I'm a stylish and reasonably fashionable woman who does this everyday and isn't at all concerned with her ever-widening ass or her flabby upper arms. Definitely.

Allow me to share with you my inner closet-searching monologue.

OK, bought this dress two years ago. It's a size four. Will it fit. YES! If I don't wear a bra and if I suck in my gut. With a bra, it's not going to zip. OK, no bra means nipples. Remember to pack band-aids for that. Now. How about these pants with that top. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Why is that top in here?!? It's a size 2. Only if I shave the boobs off and wear a corset. These crop pants? Yeah, they scream, "Somebody! Please! Spit-up on me!" What about these heels with those trousers. Oh, God. It looks like I'm trying too hard. Wait, I am trying too hard. I suppose it's decent.

As you can guess, this went on for 90 minutes and I can tell you that my pale, flabby butt and arms managed to find seven, count 'em, seven proper dress-up-for-dinner clothes for this trip.

I'm spent. Where's the chocolate?

Dialog

Ty-man: "I lied to you."

Me: "You did? About what?"

Ty-man: "We do have Colby cheese. It's in the vegetable drawer."

Me: "Oh, OK. I thought you were going to tell me you were actually a woman trapped in a man's body."

That's what Ty-man gets for marrying a pessimist.