Ladies, choose your husbands wisely!

I got married young.

Not so young that I couldn't drink champagne at my own wedding, but young by most people's modern standards. I didn't care. Anthony and I dated for almost four years before we finally wed, but either one of us will tell you that after only three short months into our very young and carefree relationship, we both knew that our dating careers had come to an end.

Prior to my wedding, I received about forty six thousands bits of unwanted advice from strangers and friends alike, most of them warning me that marriage, in a word, SUCKED. Don't do it, they said. Enjoy your youth and put marriage off as long as possible. As if it was an expensive, one way ticket to a black hole of drab, confined misery.

And after almost three years of relatively trouble-free marital bliss, I have to say - What kind of craptastic marriages are all of these people in?

I LOVE being married. Our relationship has changed in so many wonderful ways. We knew each other very, very well before we wed, but living together as man and wife has given us endless more opportunities to learn about each other and I wouldn't have it any other way. And I certainly didn't expect that I would learn so much about myself in the process of living with my better half - like how to control my temper and the delicate art of compromise. Of course, it's not always cupcakes and rainbows - some days I want to grab him by the throat and squeeze. But then there are those shining, outweighing moments when he does something monumentally sweet to remind me of why I married him in the first place. Marriage is about finding balance. Somehow, despite our crazy life and endless responsibilities, we manage to find that balance and thrive in it.

Here is a small example:

Monday, my back was acting up again. I knew it was going to be one of those nights, so I spent most of the day playing phone tag with my doctor's office, trying to get a prescription filled. Finally, at 5:30, when I was leaving the office, they called to let me know that they had called it in. Score!

So I drive through traffic to get to the Walgreens by my house, only to find that it wasn't ready. What was supposed to be a 15-20 minute wait turned out to be an hour and a half. Grr... So, when I get home at 8:00, having been working all day and stuck at the stupid pharmacy, and my husband had been home doing NOTHING all day, I expect that he would at least have dinner made, right?

Wrong. I walk in the door and immediately notice that the house is completely and totally wrecked. Dishes in the sink, crap all over the floor, opened mail scattered on the dining room table. Even Chewy looked dirty. The sink is running so I know that whatever meat I reminded him to take out is still defrosting, and in my ears, the unsettling echo of gunshots and explosions, sound effects from Anthony's favorite pastime - Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare.

I will give you a brief moment to register the extent of my horror at this scene.
.
.
.
.
.
.

The resulting outlash of pure, unadulterated rage (including, but not limited to: name calling, tupperware throwing, and I may or may not have told my husband to shove his partially defrosted fish up his a$$ and then proceeded to make myself a tuna sandwich) was not my proudest moment as a wife. I was blinded with fury at his inexplicable laziness, tempted to throw his god forsaken XBox out the window along with his feeble apologies. All in all, one tuna sandwich and a very strong, numbing painkiller later, I had cooled down and decided to forgive my (very lazy) husband.

I know what you're thinking: "Isn't this post supposed to be about how awesome marriage is?" Well give me a minute, I'm getting there.


Yesterday, I had another long day at work, more back pain, and when I was dreading having to clean the house and worry about dinner. But - when I walked in the door, I see that the dining room table is set, candles lit, dinner is already served and ready and the house is CLEAN!

::sigh::

See? Marriage has its ups and downs. But the ups definitely make up for the downs - having someone to share your life with is worth the occasional meltdown. I realize that not everyone is as lucky as I am and I know it's because my husband just happens to be wonderful, understanding and considerate. And I thank God for sending him to me every day!

Sweet success!

Quick update - the diet of misery is working. I've lost 8.4 lbs! (And that does include three weeks of half-ass dieting I did prior to the weekend of gluttony.)

Aaaand, in addition to feeling pumped about those 8.4 lbs, I'm also feeling the "get skinny" pressure now that Anthony and I have decided that we're going to take a 7 day cruise to the Carribean to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. We still haven't decided exactly which crusie we're taking yet, but I have my eye on the Liberty of the Seas, a Royal Carribean ship that sails to Jamaica, Mexico, Grand Cayman and Haiti.

If all goes as planned we'll leave around mid-June, so that leaves me approximately two months to get bikini-ready!

Day 2 - Carb Deprived Hell

After the gluttonous weekend I enjoyed, I decided to start a hard-core diet yesterday. The actual diet is preceded by a "fat flush" of sorts, where you basically starve yourself silly for three days so that by Day 4, the idea of a strawberry (or anything with sugar, for that matter) is akin to manna from heaven.

At the moment, my usual cheery demeanor has been starved into oblivion, replaced instead by a ranting, raving bitchiness that is being fueled, I hope, by dripping heaps of excess fat melting away from my body. The amount of food I am allowed is meager - disheartening, even. For example -- my breakfast consisted of a hard boiled egg; my lunch consisted of 4 ounces of grilled chicken and lettuce; my dinner will probably consist of the same, and maybe I will treat myself with half of a grapefruit. I know it works, because I tried this diet before my wedding and lost more than 30 lbs.

I am in carb deprived hell. And for now I may be a bitch, but at least I'll be a skinny bitch!!

::cue deranged laugh::

Wish me luck!

Ode to the World's Unhealthiest Burger

I know how ironic this post sounds in light of my recent frustrations with dieting - but, to be fair, it is literally impossible to diet while at a county fair. It was a very last minute outing, as knowing that I would become a half-crazed-carb-and-grease-scarfing machine at the Fair, I had been avoiding it like the plague. That all seemed to have slipped my mind Saturday afternoon, though. I did think about attempting to eat healthy, but then kept having visions of myself collapsing into shrieking sobs, clinging to the base of the elephant ear vendor. Don't judge me.

And so, I gave myself a little break (okay, maybe not so little - more like, approximately, a 5,000 calorie break). Do not fear, I have picked up the dieting again today, though with much less crankiness to date as I bask in the memory of what was, quite possibly, the most delicious, indulgent morsel I have ever put in my mouth.

The Doughnut Burger
 .
.
.
.
.
.
Yes, you read that right. A hot, delicious, greasy burger patty smothered in salty bacon, cheese, lettuce and tomato and nestled snugly between two sugary, sticky grilled Krispy Kreme doughnuts. A little slice of heaven, wrapped neatly in tin foil and boasting at least 1,500 calories to boot.

I know what you're thinking. My thought was the same when my friend Joyce described this remarkable confection to me - Uhm, Gross? Doughnuts and burget meat?? She assured me that it would be incredible, and me being the adventurous spirited eater that I am, I decided to split one with her.

Oh. My. God.

I cannot really describe to you how truly magnificent this "burger" is. Thank God the fair left town last night, or I would probably become their new best customer and my diet would be completely shot to hell. But if you have not yet tried this amazing creation, I urge you to attempt to create your own doughnut burger as soon as possible!

Chewbacca, the Alpha

My little bugger turned five last month. He's older than me now - 35 in dog years - so by my estimate, Chewy should be having a mid-life crisis right around December.

Actually, Chewy was none the wiser that we were celebrating yet another year of his life last Saturday. He is oblivious to pretty much everything except
1.) where his food is kept;
2.) whether my pants smell vaguely of foreign dog hairs or food;
3.) the distinct sound of a Kraft American cheese single wrapper;
4.) where his food is kept; and
5.) where his food is kept.

I wish dogs could get as excited about their birthdays as we bipeds do. I could tell that he was somewhat suspicious of all the activity surrounding him Saturday morning - his hair brushed (quite the pain-staking ordeal), his UM bandana attached to his neck, his food and materials getting packed away in a big travel bag.

My BFFs Charriza, Joyce and I had planned a picnic lunch at the Tropical Park dog park. Charriza brought along her furbaby, Roly, and her (our) brother Bryce. Joyce brought her expensive, nifty camera.  Everything was fine and dandy as we secured the dogs to our bench, unwrapped our food, unpacked our bags and settled to eat cold cut sandwiches and baked Cheetos by the lake. It seemed like it would be a blissful afternoon.

And then... the barking started.  And not the tolerable kind of barking. Not even reasonable barking. No, it was the incessant, annoying, vicious barking at Every. Single. Animal. that walked by. Noises were coming from my dog that are usually reserved for exotic carniverous animals, or what I would imagine a baby T-Rex might sound like. The disapproving, accusatory looks were coming from every angle - from nearby picnicking families, from the quiet, well-behaved dogs who were ::gasp:: leash free, even from the ducks haughtily scooting past our little bench of shame.

And then we realized. Our dogs are those dogs. The babies crying on the airplane. The kid in the movie theater everyone wants to drag out by their ear.

Eventually, we managed a system to calm them down. When a nearby animal would approach, I'd distract Chewy (by quickly covering his eyes) and Charriza took her Roly into her lap and showered him with attention.

This wasn't even in the actual dog park.

After we finally finished eating, we took our spoiled brats into the caged area where you are allowed to let your dogs off their leash. We claimed a little bench in the middle of the park, where our dogs started to act exactly like the alpha males they are. Oh yes, the both of them. It was exactly like the little bench was their "turf" and no other four-legged creature was going to get anywhere near it. Chewy was quiet, at least, but he promptly began pissing on every available visible tree or post and quickly established himself as the ring leader of the "butt sniffing conga line" while Roly stood guard, angrily howling at any dog that got within two feet of our little bench. Apparently, to our dogs, we are their "gang".

It was quite entertaining.

Here are a few pictures from our outing:

Chewy watching Roly in awe as he scares away pesky intruders...

It appears I have only pissed her thirteen times. Once more cannot hurt.

Sacre bleu, I have missed one!

Don't mind me. Your butt smells fantastic.

All in all, they had a great time. When Chewy got home, he was so pooped out that he crashed for the rest of the night. Charriza and I decided we need to bring our perfectly misbehaved dogs to the park more often, to interact with other animals that aren't ridiculously spoiled and see if their good behavior will rub off on our heathen furbabies.