Similar Names and Awkward Text Messages

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I have a problem.

My husband and my best friend have very similar names. Well, kind of similar in the fact that in both their names the first two letters are the same and in both their last names the first two letters are the same.

My husband is Jeff Mitchell and my bestie is Jen Mil… (not sure she wants her name on the Internet so I’ll protect her innocence from you all crazy stalkers)

See, not exactly the same but very close. It confuses me and has produced a some awkward situations.

These two people are the people that I text most so they are both on the top of my texting list. I have been know to send a bitchy text about my husband meant for my bestie to my husband. Or a sexy text meant for my husband to my bestie. Or worse a text about how I want to jump the hot construction worker that just winked at me meant for my bestie but sent to my husband.

It’s all good. Jeff will just text me back saying, “Are you sure you wanted this to go to me?”

I can almost see the eye roll through the phone.

Another way I get confused is that by their responses. Since I am constantly texting these two, I will often not pay close enough attention to the sender.

If I just sent Jeff a text and then my phone beeps with a new text message I just assume it’s from him when  a lot of times it’s actually from Jen.

This just happened recently.

I had texted Jeff something about something he needed to do after work for the kids. I don’t remember specifically but probably something along the lines of ‘Hey dude. Don’t be a dumbass and forget to pick up our kids’ or ‘Can you get milk because our kids guzzle it by the gallon daily and we really need a cow’.

I hit send and then went back to scrolling through Facebook to pass the time.

As I was scrolling a text banner flashed across the top of my iPhone meaning I had a new text message. I glanced up, quickly saw a ‘Je’ and then part of the message that said “my dress keeps riding up when I sit down…”

Not exactly the message one would get from their husband but my brain processed it and I said to myself, “Huh, I don’t remember Jeff wearing a dress this morning. I wonder which dress of my dresses Jeff borrowed to wear to work?”

I paused for a moment.

This is didn’t make sense. I probably needed to read the whole message. I felt like I was missing something. Something was off. I wasn’t getting the whole picture.

I closed the app I was using and opened my text message.

“My dress is riding up when I sit down and my vagina is acting like a suction cup on the stool.”

Well now this was weird. I know my husband does not have a vagina. I checked that this morning. So I looked more carefully at the message and that’s when I realized, it was my bestie sending me the text and not my husband.

Whew.

Glad, I cleared that one up because I really didn’t want to share my dresses with Jeff. He just doesn’t have the boobs to make them look good.

 

The Wine Pour Battle

“Ok, they are all ready for you,” I said with a sigh as I walked down the last two steps.

Jeff didn’t look up from his computer but only grunted.

“Did you hear me? They are waiting for you.” I said, slightly annoyed.

“Yeah. I’ll head up in just a minute,” he answered me.

Since he answered me, I knew that he heard me so I walked into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and pulled out a wine glass.

It was my favorite time of day. The kids were finally in bed, sure they were still messing around and I could hear them giggling but I didn’t really care. The day full of constant, “Mom. Mommy. Mom. Momma. Mom. Mommy” was over. It was time for me.

It’s not that they are bad kids or anything or are constantly misbehaving. Quite the opposite, for the most part they are pretty good. They make me smile and laugh They show me the world in a different way. I do enjoy them. I like them. It’s just that by 8pm, I am done. I want time to have a complete thought or no thoughts. I want to just be still and not have to get anyone anything. I’ve been up and moving, constantly doing something for someone for almost 14 hours and since nap time is long a thing of the past, I’ve had no break.

Yeah, their bedtime will always been my favorite time of day.

I chose a bottle of wine from the wine rack and rummaged around in the drawer for the cork screw. When I found it, I opened the bottle and poured a glass. I took a sip and exhaled. I felt the warm red wine coat my throat and I could feel my body relax.

“All tucked in?” I asked as Jeff returned from upstairs.

He nodded as he too went to the cupboard and removed a glass.

I watched him intently.

“What are you doing?’ I asked.

“Um…isn’t obvious?” he began, “I am going to have a glass of wine. Is that alright with you?”

I snickered, of course it was alright with me, him having a glass of wine didn’t bother me, him pouring the glass did.

“Yeah, that’s fine… can I pour it for you?” I asked.

Jeff rolled his eyes at me.

And thus began another round of the longest standing argument in our marriage. ‘The Jeff Pour’ vs ‘The Jen Pour’.

wine pour battle

I like to pour a smaller glass and have more of them and he likes to pour a larger glass and nurse it longer. We normally share a bottle which means about 2 glasses of wine each.  The problem with this is that is larger glass sometimes means there is less wine for me. It’s selfish I know and I suppose we could just open another bottle but then I’d want some of that wine and mixing two bottles of wine is just not right.

In the grand scheme of things, I realize this is a silly argument. I know I should not care but I do. It’s just my thing. Just like I like the light switches all up or all down, I care about how much of an over pour Jeff does.

I didn’t know what we are going to do about this. I tried not to care. I tried just not to look but I can’t stop. My annoyance grows and grows. There has to be a solution.

And one day while walking in the grocery store down the wine aisle, as I sacrificed my body to save a bottle of wine one of the kids was about to knock over, a solution presented itself, literally right in front of my face.

Black Box Wine.

I was skeptical at first. Being kind of a wine snob, I had always turned my nose up at boxed wine. It was cheap and usually not very good but I need a solution to this problem. I didn’t know if I could have another ‘Jeff Pour’ vs ‘Jen Pour’ argument.

I picked up the black box and studied it.

The description, “This wine blends Merlot grapes from California’s finest regions which combine to make a blend brimming with redberry fruit, soft tannins and a smooth concentrated finish”  woo’d me and made my mouth water. The shiny award labels made me smile.

And the fact that it contained 4 bottles in one bag made me place that box in my cart.

Then later that night when I tasted the wine, the flavors of  plums, sweet red currants and cinnamon spiced oak danced on my tongue, I was completely won over.

Curious, Jeff walked over to investigate. I allowed him a sip from my glass.

“Nice,” he said, “That’s really good.”

I nodded, smiled and then handed him an empty glass.

“There are about 4 bottles  in there. So you can ‘Jeff pour’ away.” I said as I walked away with my glass.

It was over. The pour battle was finally over.

Thank you Black Box Wine, thank for ending a many year long argument in such a beautiful and blissful way.

Black Box Wine

It’s time to think inside the box. Available in ten delicious varietals and two sizes (3L and Tetra), Black Box Wine will have you ready to lose the bottle! Black Box Wines is perfect for all your summer gatherings!

This is a sponsored conversation written by me on behalf of Black Box Wines. The opinions and text are all mine.

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Lock the Door, Baby

I recently realized that I was a woman, perhaps even a sexy woman, and not just a mom.

This didn’t happen during a moment of deep reflection. I’m a busy mom, the only reflecting I do is about  what kind of wine to drink.

No, when this epiphany happened, I was bending over to pick up a toy while getting dressed and defending my backside from the dry humping my husband was giving me. I pushed him away and acted disgusted that he wanted me. He winked at me and kissed my neck and left me in our room to dress.

I heard him call to the kids to go outside with him which meant that I would be totally alone.

Why did I push him away? I liked that he wanted me. I wanted him to want me but yet, I push him away?

I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a frumpy no make-up, no bra, stains on her tee shirt, yoga pants wearing mom looking back at me. The clothes hung on me and did nothing for me. I looked like a box.

How could anyone find me sexy?

I sighed and opened my underwear drawer to pull out a clean pair. I pushed around a sea of white cotton granny panties that had become my norm. I sighed again but then I saw a small fleck of black way in the back of the drawer.

I reached for it and pulled out a black lace string thong. I laughed at it. I couldn’t remember the last time I wore it. I had visions of sumo wrestles run through my head. Had I really worn this piece of dental floss as underwear? It seemed like a lifetime ago that I had worn something that sexy. I was pretty sure if I put it on now, it would get lost.

I threw the underwear, if you could even call it that, back into the drawer and took out a my comfortable white granny panties. Sure, I had had these since my son was born about 8 years ago but they sturdy and comfortable and covered me.  They also made my ass look three sizes bigger than what it was, but so what.

As I turned on the water and waited, I asked myself, “When was the last time we had sex?”

I never wanted a sexless marriage so I always made sure that we had sex at least once a week. Giving myself the right to skip a week if I was PMSing or feeling fat or tired.  Not that my husband asked for it but I wanted to try and keep our sex life alive. This wasn’t an easy task after the birth of triplets, four kids ages two and under doesn’t really make a girl feel like giving up the nappy dugout.

But I did. I picked one night a week, I’d get naked, kneel and bend over on the bed, butt in the air and say “Go for it, dude. Do it quick so that I can sleep.” What kind of sex life was that? I’m pretty sure there were senior citizens in nursing homes have more and better sex that I was.

In the shower, my thoughts drifted to a conversation I had with a girlfriend. She told me that she had sex with her husband at least once a day.

“Damn!” I remembered yelling in shock. “And your vagina hasn’t fallen out? Do you suffer from a lot of chaffing?”

She laughed at me because she thought I was joking but I wasn’t. How was that possible with kids. She was a mom, she worked, ran a household and here she was having sex like she lived in a college frat house. I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was a little jealous. I wanted that.

I toweled dry. I reached for my pair of granny panties on the counter and put one foot in, ready to pull them up when something stopped me. I looked at my underwear drawer. I walked over and opened it and found the black string thong I had shoved in the back corner.

lock the door

“I’m wearing this,” I said to myself. I pulled it up and looked at myself in the mirror, for all intents and purposes, I was naked. And I didn’t look like a prized sumo wrestler.  My body wasn’t the same as when I was in my twenties but I wasn’t a girl any more. I was woman.  I had had children, an almost 11lb baby and triplets. My hips were wider, my breast were fuller, and sure hung a little lower, I had curves and a tummy but, damnit I was beautiful. I lived with a man who sure thought I was as evidenced by the rubbing his crotch on my thigh or ass I received every time I bent over.

And that’s when I remembered that I was a woman and not just a mom. And if I wanted to have sex at least once a day, I was going to. Somewhere inside me was a libdo… it was about to get dusted off and given a jump start.

I put clothes on over my sexy undies and appeared in the kitchen where the kids had reentered the house and were begging to watch TV.

“Let them”, I said trying to give him my best sexy smile.

I was a little rusty on the art of seduction so he didn’t pick up anything from my smile. I slide my yoga pants down my hips a little more, hoping he would notice the black string thong peeking over the top of my pants. I couldn’t remember if a ‘whale tail’ was sexy or trampy but if I wanted this to happen, I had to pull out all the stops.

I bent over the dishwasher and started unloading, banking on the fact that he would notice. I held my ass in the air a little longer than normal but the man seemed to be suddenly oblivious. I knew the window of the kids being glued to the TV was closing. If there was going to be sex, good sex, in the afternoon then it was time to be direct.

I felt a tingle all over my body. This must be what it’s like to be turned on. Hot damn, I like it.

I walked over and pressed myself to him and kissed him. I put his hands on my hips as I worked my kisses down his neck. His fingers found the strings of my thong and I could feel his arousal.

“Mommy, can I have some apple juice?” a child asked

I almost cursed the child out but stopped. Yes, I was a woman who wanted sex but I was also a mom. I bent over to get a sippy cup from the drawer and I could feel him watch me. I was now fully aware that he wanted me.  I poured the juice and then handed it to the child. As the child left the room, he was on me once again on me  like white on rice.

“Bedroom,” I said

He took my hand and I giggled like a horny teenager. This was happening. We are going to have sex in the middle of the day. He pushed me back onto the bed and attacked. Clothes were flying off and hands were everywhere. I opened my eyes and saw the door and the child standing there.

“Shit,” I whispered.

My husband, being the ever quick thinker and still mostly dressed, jump up in the line of sight of the child and ushered him out of the room, “Mommy and I were just hugging.” I heard him say as they walked away.

I laughed and pushed the feelings of embarrassment away. Sex was normal, natural and we weren’t doing anything wrong. So what if the child might have seen a little skin and kissing. I told myself that he’d probably forget in about 5 minutes thanks to having an attention span of a gnat and if not, that’s why we have a therapy fund started for each one of the kids.

The click of the lock on our door brought me back to the here and now. That’s right, we had a lock on our bedroom door. Awesome.

That afternoon was the breath of fresh air that our sex life needed. Sex didn’t have to be scheduled or once a week.  It could happen at any time and in any room where there was a lock on the door. The kids are older and can be more self sufficient if needed. They were no longer the demanding babies sucking the life out of everyone.

“You know, some day the kids are going to realize what we are doing in here when the door is locked,” I said as Jeff walked in on me changing a few weeks later and locked the door, signalling what he wanted.

“That’s why we buy their love with chocolate and toys.” he said as he pulled me close, “Now let’s get naked.”

 

Being Married to a Directionally Challenged Wife

I have a terrible sense of direction. Not so terrible that I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag but pretty damn close.

I took a map reading class in college for one of my PE credits and I had to take it three times because I just couldn’t pass it and ended up dropping the class to take knitting instead.  I just couldn’t get past the fact that when I was told to go north that didn’t mean I had to go literally up. North is ‘up’ on a map but apparently when you are not on a map, it means something else, I think. I don’t know, it’s all very confusing.

When someone tells me to go north or south, I am lost. That means nothing to me. I look at you like you have two heads. I need to be told left, right, up, down and if you could add a few landmarks that would be fabulous.

This has been a slight point of frustration to my husband.

directionally challenged wife

Jeff had picked a new restaurant for us to try for a family night out.  Since I wasn’t sure where it was and I was already driving, it seems like the easiest thing to do to call him for directions rather than fumble around with my GPS.

“So where is this place?” I asked when he answered the phone.

“It’s up by the movie theater.” he said.

That was good, I got that.

“Ok, where by the movie theater, in the same little strip mall?” I ask for clarification.

And here is where things got a little messy because my mathematical man brained husband said to me, “No, the movie theater is north of the restaurant.”

I paused on the phone.

“So you mean that it is up from the movie theater?” I said.

“No, if you go to the movie theater you will have to do a Michigan left and then go south to get to the restaurant.” he said.

“I don’t know what that means. Is the restaurant before or after the theater?” I asked.

“It’s south of the theater.” he repeated himself.

“Does that mean it’s on the road closer to home or like more towards your dad’s house who lives up north?” I asked.

“It’s not near dad’s” he said and I could hear the frustration rising in his voice. “Do you know where the Wendy’s is by the movie theater?”

“Um…” I said thinking, trying to get a picture in my head of the area, “Kinda.”

“The restaurant is south of the movie theater and then west of the Wendy’s.” he said.

I rolled my eyes and sighed, he might as well have been speaking French to me.  “I don’t understand what you are saying to me.”

I could hear his eye roll through the phone.

“The restaurant is south of the movie theater after you do your Michigan left turn,” he said

I wanted to beat my head of the stirring wheel but since the kids were in the van with me, I thought knocking myself out wasn’t my best plan. This was getting us no where fast.

“Ok, fine. I’ll just drive around and try and find it. I’ll pull into the movie theater and I’m sure I ‘ll see it.” I said in a huff.

“No.” He said, “Then you will be too far north.”

If he said “north, south, east or west” one more time, I was going to scream. My brain hurt and he wasn’t making any sense.

“Whatever. I’ll find it. I’ll stop on the side of the road and ask a hobo if I need to.” I said.

He took a breath. I knew he was calming himself, not one to give up easily, I knew he was going to try one more time.

“Do you remember that restaurant where we had dinner with Jack and Ann a few years ago for New Year’s Eve?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, that place had the best martini’s and Ann wore the cutest little gold and silver heels,” I answered.

“This restaurant is right by where that one was,” he said.

“Oh, I know exactly where that is.” I said, “That is just down from the movie theater. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

I could hear the face palm over the phone.

“Ok, yeah…” he said through gritted teeth. “See you soon.”

As frustrating as that whole conversation was, it was kind of his own fault. For when you are married to a directionally challenged wife, you should just skip north and south and talk in landmarks and cute shoes.

It wasn’t Because of the Interent

My new laptop doesn’t have a clock that can be easily seen in the corner like my old one did. This is not a good thing since before when I could see the clock, I still lost hours surfing the web.

I know this about myself and the Internet. I know that I can get sucked into rabbit holes faster than a turtle pulls it’s head inside it’s shell when it sees my kids running after it to pick it up.

So I obsessively check the clock when I’m on the computer, especially around 3:30pm.  Because at 3:47pm I have to get my kids off the bus. Who wants to be that mom that forgets to get her kids off the bus because she looses track of time while watching flash mob marriage proposal videos on YouTube.

Not me.

computer not to blame

I had shut the computer earlier in the day because I got this wild hare up my butt to do some cleaning. I was in the mood to vacuum, dust and wash the baseboards. This is very rare for me. At first I didn’t know what I was feel until the vacuum touched my hip when I went into the pantry and I got all excited. I decided to just go with it and before I knew it, I was cleaning.

After about an hour, I was exhausted. Cleaning is hard work so I decided that I would just continue with laundry because I could lay on the couch and rest in between loads. I saw no reason to push myself so hard. And who washes baseboards anyway?

I turned the TV on and found some day time drama, ok fine a soap opera, and like a kid being given a lollipop, I was totally sucked in. I glanced at the clock to check the time because I knew the bus would be coming soonish and then settled in to watch.

About 30 minutes into the show, the dryer buzzed and I got up to fold and put away the clothes. Before going upstairs, I glanced at the clock, “2:47pm… Plenty of time,” I told myself.

As I was hanging all Claire’s clothes in her closet, I heard my phone ring downstairs. I didn’t feel like racing down to answer it so I let it go to voice mail and finished my task. When I returned downstairs, I picked it up and the message display read something that sent my heart racing.

“Bus Garage”

I looked at the clock… 3:58pm.

‘What the hell!?” I said and then, “Shit. I missed the bus.”

I grabbed my purse, phone and keys and ran out of the house like someone tied dynamite to my tail. I started the van and threw it into reverse as I sped away down the street. I drove one handed and called the bus garage back.

“Hi. Hi. Yes, this is Jen Mitchell. I’m here. I want my kids, where can I meet the bus?” I stumbled to get my thoughts out.

The dispatcher had me hold as she radioed the bus driver, “Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you can meet the bus at Blankens Bobbit Dr.”

“OK, thank you,” I said.

I ended the call and hit my Siri button and said, “Directions to Blankens Bobbit Dr.”

“Ok,” she began, “Here are your directions to Blankens Bobbit Dr in Enigma, GA.”

“GEORGIA!?!” I screamed, “I am in Michigan.”

Siri said nothing. As it turns out, she doesn’t like being yelled at.

I stopped the navigation and used my old methods of getting me around before GPS and Siri, I called Jeff and work.

“ImissedthebusandI’mtryingtogettopickupthekidsbutIdon’tknowwheretogoandSiriisn’thelpingme,” I spilled into the phone when he answered.

“Hi,” Jeff said.

I took a breath, “I need you to help me get to Blankens Bobbit Dr so that I can meet the bus there and get the kids. I missed the bus at our stop.”

“You couldn’t just type it into your phone?!” he asked.

“I don’t know HOW TO SPELL IT!” I yelled.

I could feel him rolling his eyes at me.

“Just help me. Please!” I whined.

“Hang on, I will call you back on a desk phone so that I can look it up on my phone.” he said and then hung up.

I hated how calm he was. I forgot to do my one important job that day, pick up our kids. He should be pissed off at me. I was pissed off at myself, that’s for sure. I sped down the road not really know where I was going when feeling that I had to go fast when I realized I was going away from where I should maybe be.

I slammed on the brakes and did a U-turn. I raced back in the direction I came when my phone rang.

“Ok, where are you?” Jeff said after I answered it.

I gave him the name on the street I was on and the name of a cross street.

“You are close,” he said, “Like two more streets and then you should see it.”

“Ok, thank you,” I said as the street came into view and I saw the bus pulling up, “I see the bus.”

“Good. Now, after the kids are home will you please tell me what happened that made you forget to pick up our kids?” he asked.

“It wasn’t the Internet ” I blurted out.

“Uh, huh,” Jeff said, not believing me.

“It wasn’t,” I protested. “But I will tell you after I make homemade chocolate pudding for the kids to ease my mommy guilt and ease all furture emotional scars.”

Just Call Him

“This time of year sucks. Every girl in the hall has her face buried in some guy trying to what I can only assume is clean off his uvula. Why doesn’t every one just get to class. School is for learning, not uvula face sucking.”

That was the internal monologue that usually went through my head every day as I walked to class. Being that is was almost Valentine’s Day just made things worse. The hormones of those around me were so thick you should smell them and the fact that the annual Valentine’s Day dance, which was ladies choice, was that weekend didn’t help.

I had assumed that at least one of the three guys that I hung around with would have said yes when I asked them to go with me but they didn’t. They said I was too much of a ‘friend’. Well, screw being the ‘friend’.  What I really wanted to be one of those girls getting their faces sucked off in the hall.

But for whatever reason, none of the boys in my school saw me like that. I was not girlfriend material. I was the friend they all came to for advice on what ‘to do’ with said girlfriends. And because I hated that, I usually gave them bad advice.

I put up such a strong exterior. To the world, I didn’t care that I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t need one but every night when my prayers told a different story, “Dear God, please please please get me a boyfriend. Please. I’m 17 and never been kissed. That’s a movie title, God and that’s just sad.”

Well, I was tired of waiting. And it seemed like God wasn’t answering so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

There was this guy. He was cute, shorter than me, but cute. He saved me from the mosh pit, covered me in his coat when I was cold and rubbed my feet.  He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen but he wasn’t calling me. 

Well, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

“Jen! I got it. I got it,” my friend Wendi squealed as I walked into her kitchen. “I got his number.”

She handed me a scrap piece of paper with seven numbers written on it. I looked up at her.

“Now what?!” I said in a daze, all my confidence pulling an Elvis and leaving the building.

“You call him, silly” she said.

“What?! C-c-call him? M-m-me?” I stumbled, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” she said. “You like him. You want to go out with him. You’ve been obsessing about him for two weeks, call him.”

“What am I going to say?” I asked, “No. No. No. This is a bad idea. I can’t.”

“Too late,” my friend said with a smirk and it was then I realized that in my stooper, she had taken the piece of paper from me and was shoving the phone in my direction, “It’s ringing.”

I looked at her with eyes wide as saucers. Ringing?! The phone was ringing. Holy crap!

My friend smiled at me and then as if reading my mind, she said, “Say hello and ask for Jeff.”

The phone rang for what seemed like an eternity, each ring seemed longer than the last. What was I doing? This was crazy. Did I really like this guy? What if he didn’t want to talk to me? And worse of all, what if he didn’t remember me?

Suddenly, someone saying  “Hello” cut through my panicked thoughts.

“H-h-hello,” I stumbled, rolling my eyes at myself. “Is Jeff there?”

“You can do this. You can do this,” I repeated, giving myself a silent pep-talk, “You are a strong, independent, modern woman. You can do this.”

“This is,” Jeff said on the phone.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard his voice and for the next two hours, I didn’t think. I just talked to this boy, this man, like I had been talking to him for years. I don’t remember what we talked about but just that we never lacked for words and I laughed.

Finally, there was a pause in the conversation and I remembered the reason I called in the first place.

“Listen, I know that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and you probably have plans but if you don’t do you want to go see a movie with me?” I asked, my heart began to race, feeling like it was going to beat out of my chest.

There was a long pause on the phone and I thought that I was going to die.

“Well, I would… I would like to go out with you,” he paused and I knew there was a ‘but’ coming. I just knew we was going to say that he had a girlfriend or he just wanted to be my friend. I prepared my heart for the worse while trying to still be cool, “but I kinda have mop the kitchen for my mom first,” Jeff said.

“What?” I asked, shocked, trying to process what was going on.

“Yeah, I told my mom I would mop the floor for her tomorrow.” Jeff answered.

“Will that take all nigh?” I ask, bluntly still confused. Did he say, yes?!  Oh my! Oh my! What was happening here?

“No. I can still go see a movie. It’ll just have to be a little later,” he said.

I smiled. I smiled so hard I looked like a clown with perma-grin.

“Awesome, how about we go see Scream at 8:30?” I asked

“Yeah, that sounds great. Maybe we can get something quick to eat first. I can mop fast.” Jeff replied.

“I can’t wait,” I said, “See you then.”

And with that I hung up the phone and removed it from my ear, feeling for the first time the throbbing in my ear from being on the phone so long.  I walked into the main room of my friend’s house to find her watching TV. The smile on my face said it all and she ran up to hug me.

“Looks like you have a date for Valentine’s Day.” she said.

“Yeah, I have a date… ” I said breathless, “Oh. My. God. I have a date!”

And 16 years later, he is still my date.

7 Household Jobs My Husband Must Do

Jeff and I have an equal partnership in our marriage.

This also carries over to the household jobs and parenting duties. Over the years we have kind of set what tasks each person takes care of. For example, he mops the kitchen and I vacuum the living room. We have something similar for caring for the kids, he bathes them, I set out clothes and pick up wet towels, and the cats, I fed them, he changes the liter.

Yup, we make a  pretty great team.

That being said, and even though I am all for feminism, equal rights and girl power, there are jobs around the house that I just think should be Jeff’s jobs. Like hands down, no questions asked,  forever and ever amen Jeff does them.

Cleaning the Toilets: He was the one that flooded my womb with Y chromosomes creating more boys than girls and it is those boy parts that put the pee every where but in the toilet therefore he should have to clean them.

Fixing Things: Anything that is broken, needs repairing or needs to be assembled should be his job. Yes, I can use a hammer, drill and screw drive but I don’t have time for that and would rather being drinking a screw driver than using one.

Penis Maintenance: Yes, I am a nurse and have seen and dealt with more penis’s than a five dollar hooker. This does not mean that I want to do this at home. I do not have a penis and therefore, don’t know the inner workings. So when a child asks, “Mommy, is my penis supposed to do this?” I will send them to their father. Besides, I take full responsibility for all vagina maintenance and there is a hell of a lot more effort that goes into that.

Snow Blowing: There are many things that I will blow… balloons, candles, *ahem, wink wink* but not snow from the driveway. It ruins my makeup.

Dead Animal Disposal: No matter how the animal died, be it from the kids cooking a frog by accident in the sun or from the cats hunting in the woods and leaving it for us on the porch, my husband should always take care of this clean up. Because I will throw up.

Unclogging Things: Whether it be a drain, pipe or toilet the unclogging should be done by my husband. I think it’s only fair since I make sure the kids eat enough fiber to stay regular and when they don’t, I work to unclog them. He should do the same with all the other things.

Car Maintenance: I don’t understand cars. I don’t want to understand cars. I just want to put my key in and have it work. Also the ‘hole in the ground’ oil change places freak me out because I fear driving the car into the hole instead of over it. And I have no idea what to say when the service men ask me what kind of oil I want… ‘Olive’ is not the answer they are usually looking for.

So there.  Now tell me, what would you add to the list.