i hear the secrets that you keep...

Apparently I talk in my sleep.
I wasn't made aware of this spectacular talent of mine until after I was married and shared a sleeping space with another human.
A light sleeping human.

Thank God for sacred wedding vows until death do us part, because without them, I might have frightened my bedfellow away and back into a bachelor's domain.

There was one night, when in a fitful slumber, I snatched my husbands pillow from under his sleepy head and yelled,
"That's MY pillow!"
Contentedly happy and dreaming my cares away on two overstuffed pillows, I slept peacefully, while my poor husband rested his head on a solid, cold mattress.

Another night, after a day of heavy cleaning, I crept out of bed in the middle of the night, walked across the room and started tossing clothes left and right. My tired husband woke to the ruckus and asked what I was doing. In a pissy, 'mind your own business' voice, I replied,
"I'M CLEANING!"
sigh, humph, mutter.
"Well, actually, I'm not cleaning, I'm organizing."
toss. throw. slump.
"You know what, just don't even ask."
And then I sulked back to bed, turning my back on him because 'he just didn't get it'.

During our bathroom remodel, after pulling out flooring, sinks, toilets, tubs, drywall, plaster, wallpaper, etc, etc, I had another sleeping 'moment'. We had the help of my little brother that day to tear down the plaster and lathe. He did a mighty good job, that boy. I must have thought so, because his great work made me dream and walk a fury that night...

At an ungodly hour during slumber-time, I sat up in bed, tore the covers off and stared at the wall. My husband, growing accustomed to this charade, sighed and asked what I was up to.

I turned to the wall, swept my hand across it's embossed wallpaper and said,
"I know. We'll have the kids do it."

Wiping sleep from his eyes, my husband replied,
"What??"

"We'll have the kids do it. They know how to do it right. You see? The last owners didn't know how to do it right and that's why we had to do it. We have to do it right this time."

"Honey, you're asleep. Go to bed."

"NO. I promise you, I am not asleep right now. Here, let me show you how to do it right. I'll just go grab the crowbar..."

"Um. No. You need to go to sleep, you're asleep right now, just lay back down..."

"NO! I. AM. NOT. ASLEEP. I PROMISE!"

"Go to sleep."

With a huge and overly dramatic sigh, I slumped back into bed and said with all the sass I could sleepily muster,

"Fine. But you're going to feel very silly tomorrow morning when you realize I am not asleep right now."

As you probably guessed, the next morning when I went downstairs to greet my husband and his steaming cup of coffee, he had a smirk like the Cheshire Cat himself.

With a light kiss I asked,
"How did you sleep, babe?"

Jaw dropping and walking away he replied,
"Well, I slept like crap, but I sure don't feel silly this morning."

And, in a rush, it all came back to me.

In conclusion, I think that my subconscious dream state is trying to tell me something.

I need two interchangeable pillows to keep my sleeping self satisfied.

I need to spend more awake time cleaning and organizing.

And the next time we plan a room remodel, I'll just leave it entirely up to the creepy ghost children, because, after all, they know what's best.



Oh, and also, in order to keep things spicy and surprising in the bedroom, I need to continue talking in my sleep because my husband says it's freaky.

Freaky in the bedroom is good, right?

my favorite day...

Two years ago I had the best day of my life. 

My wedding.

My sister helped me dress, held my hand, and whispered sweet blessings.

A bed of petals were scattered to soften our steps...

My dreamy husband-to-be waited patiently...

Someone told me to stop crying, the music had started, and I needed to pull myself together and take my long awaited walk down the grassy aisle...

I felt like a princess in the veil my mom hand made for me.

Both my parents supported me as I took each slow step towards my future...

But then I saw him, his bottom lip quivering as much as my shaking legs. 

I fell in love with this man, my man, over and over and over again.

The women I love stood next to me, crying with me, and loving me.

Friends sung for us, and celebrated us.

And then, after vowing to each other the rest of our lives and the depth of our hearts, we walked away to "Bittersweet Symphonies"...

My new mom in law (who promised she wouldn't) cried with me out of joy.

We cuddled each other...

And I was so, so happy...

I surprised my new husband by recording myself singing "our song" and playing it as our first dance...

I laughed.

And then he held me.

And then my sister, my heart, spoke a stream of love and made me cry, again.

Then came my baby brother, my hero, and I had to stop my new husband from choking on his laughter...

Then, my brave husband tried to speak, but got choked up. 

It made it better.

Then we cut our cake! A funky Lithuanian cake, 'cause, we're like that...

We laughed...

And grooved...

And then my dad held me.

And I'll never forget it.

For a moment, I let it all soak in...

I'm a wife. I have a husband. We have a life together.

Forever.

And then it was over...

But we still danced.

And loved.

Now, two years later. 

Nothing has changed. 

His lip still quivers and I still get wobbly knees.

I don't feel like I have a husband.

I just feel like I have the coolest roommate ever.

All photos taken by the amazing David E. Jackson.

what is this feeling?

I didn't think it could happen to me...

The obsession.

The fixation.

The excitement.

I read, "Twilight".

"What's the big deal?"

I thought.

"Really, what is this all about? Is it really something great? or is it just a prepubescent fetish?"

I fluttered through the first few chapters, enjoying the plot, the characters, the settings, all the while trying to place Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson in the mirror of my mind, acting the story out on the tiny big screen in my head. Mostly that just made my mind drift, wondering what Kristen and Robert were doing right now in real life...didn't I hear they got married? I wonder if they shop at Walmart? Do they wear socks when they're home, or go barefoot?

Less than mid way through, I really sunk my teeth in.

I was always thirsty for more...

The passion, the lust, the drama!

Instead of picturing Kristen, I pictured myself as Bella.

Instead of picturing Robert, I pictured my husband as Edward.

(Okay, not really...I still pictured Robert. You can judge me, I don't care.)

During the day, in the time away from my new favorite book, I pretended someone would be there to swoop down and stop me from tripping, or block a runaway car about to hit me, or blast a bad guy to smithereens!

I wondered,

What would I look like as a vampire? Could I really get any paler??

Wouldn't I look so pretty being all sparkly when I stepped into the sun?

I finished the first book last night.

Sliding into bed, sipping the last few slurps of my tea, I read the final pages.

I closed the book, and sighed, long and heavy.

Tucking myself deep down into the comforter, I glanced over at my sleeping husband, my icy toes curled under his.

Pulling the sheets up to my chin, and batting my pouty blue eyes, I said,

"I wish I could be a vampire too"

Not so asleep, my charming husband replied,

"Shut. The. (I can't say that word.) Up."

Okay. Maybe I have gone overboard.

"Dear husband...

...would you still love me

if my face really did get stuck like this?"

"Dear wife, of course I would still love you...

...your face is pretty much stuck like that..."

True story.

my husband is driving me crazy...

Absolutely nuts.

I think I might go insane.

I'm so mentally preoccupied with him.
Night and day, I just can't seem to get him out of my head.
And he doesn't make it easy for me either...

First of all, how am I supposed to manage seeing this everyday?

Seriously. Stinkin' hot.

Then, after an extensive interchange of emails between ourselves last week, he sent me the most sweet and tender sentence I've ever received. It read:

"You make me happy every day."

 Yesterday I was gloomy.
Yesterday I was teary.
Yesterday was an especially yucky day.
Yesterday he sent me flowers.

And yesterday, and the day before, and the days before that, he hugged me until I let go.

Which took a long time...

Everyday, I'm reminded of how lucky I am.

Because he drives me crazy.

And I love him for it.

as per request...

Enlarged photos of our Christmas Card Extravaganza...

Enjoy.

For cereal. Have a bodacious Holiday.

Merry Christmas...

Because Walmart wanted almost one hundred dollars from our already light pockets for Christmas cards this year, we decided to email ours instead. Besides, it's trendy to "be green", so, we're going for that too.

And in the spirit and tradition of our ever unconventional Holiday greetings,

I now present you with this...

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

circa 1989

(...this is a joke, by the way. My husband does not have a mullet and a mustache. Nor do I run around in tinsel colored sweaters and leggings. Just FYI)

boots.

Do you ever feel like you're having 'one of those days'?

Nothing goes right.

No one is on your side.

Nothing fits right, looks right, feels right.

You can't remember things.

You're tired and uncomfortable.

You're clumsy, fidgety, and awkward.

Constantly off balance and bumping into things.

Consistently annoyed.

And burnt out.

Well, I have, for about two weeks now. I don't know what it is, but it's a funk that I can't climb out of. Maybe it's stress. Maybe I'm just tired. Whatever it is, this feeling washes over me every year around this time.

I miss the sun.

It's dark by five o'clock. Everything is a dull and dismal grey. The colossal dump of snow we had last week isn't pretty, and light, and beautiful anymore. It gave me a sore back and numb feet.

I want to go camping.

On our honeymoon, between bouts of  soaking in the ocean and soaking in the sun, when we were too tired to drink just one more all inclusive margarita, we would go to our ocean-view room, lay on the over sized bed and watch the only English station on TV. Morning to night, seven days a week, back to back episodes of CSI played in our native tongue.

I know what you're thinking,

"CSI in Cacuun?? You couldn't think of anything better to do??"

Okay, maybe you're not thinking that, but my mom is. I bet you five bucks.

We were in Mexico for ten whole days. At a resort. There's only so much you can do.

For       ten      whole      days.

The swim up bar was awesome the first couple of days. Until flocks and flocks of people started showing up that weekend. And suddenly, it became a cesspool of disease. Thick, green sludge coated the blue tile and formed spinning whirlpools that floated past our unobservant, slightly submerged noses.

After that it was a completely ruined effect for me, swimming up to a bar.

Then there was the bus, which was awesome for the first couple of minutes. Until we realized it was not awesome, and we didn't know where to go. The bus was probably the most dangerous part of our trip. Never mind the repelling into a bottomless cave, zip lining across a gully, and canoeing in alligator infested marshes that we partook in while we were there, no, the bus scared me the most. Lumbering down the too narrow streets and careening round the corners, the bus bounced us up and down fiercely in our seats. We didn't know where to get off, we didn't even know what we wanted to do. We just wanted to get out of the resort and actually see something. We debated our next course of action. This stop? the next one?

The bus driver yelled,

"Aeropuerto! Aeropuerto! Last stop!"

and the bus came to a deliberate halt. We scurried off having no idea where we were or where to go, only knowing that we didn't want to be anywhere near the local airport hosting single jet planes. So we walked, and walked, and walked. Hailed a cab, and said the only thing that we knew would be universally understood,

"Walmart."

We managed to make it back safe and sound, but were really unwilling to do any kind of sightseeing or pool lounging after that. And it is so that we discovered the wonderful American marathon of our all-time favorite show.

It was during one of these 'breaks from vacationing' that we saw it. A music video from a popular Spanish musician, Luis Miguel. It was absolutely hilarious to me. I couldn't stop watching. Which was good, because it played at every single commercial break. Sometimes they didn't even have other commercials, they would just stop the show and play the music video, it was...just...hilarious.

My husband thought the same thing. Whenever it was on we would grab the closest hairbrush or remote and lip synch the unknown words. 'Corny' is an understatement. We hammed it up big time.

He pretended to be the serenading adulterer, matching all the gestures on tv. Pointing his finger, tossing his head back dramatically and clutching his heart. I pretended to be the tempting seductress and would flip my hair in rejection. It was a fun, amusing game we would play, acting out the fate of the star crossed lovers.

We left Mexico feeling like we were leaving a new home. A big, fancy home with every meal prepared for us, fresh towels every day, friends at the bar, slippery newly mopped floors, a delectable backyard equipped with four pools and an entire ocean, and warmth, mmmmm, warmth.


So, you see, with such memories engraved in my mind, I know the feeling of peace and tranquility. I know at some point not too long ago in my life, that I felt complete serenity.

I miss my freckles.

I miss my brown skin.

I miss the ocean and the sun.

And when you miss those things already, but you have a bad day, or week, or weeks, you miss them even more.

Yesterday marked day twelve (not that I'm counting) of my bad, 'in a funk' moodiness. I started feeling like I should just get over myself and shake it off, but then I discovered them. My boots. My brand new boots, only two days old, gnawed beyond wear. Compliments of my darling dog.

I cried. But that's not too surprising...

I just sat on my big red couch and cried. Defeated.

Annoyed.

Pissed off.

But then, quietly at first, I heard it. The familiar piano tune.
Louder, the crooning voice of a Puerto Rican.

I turn, mascara staining my cheeks, and see my husband with a goofy grin plastered on his face.
Luis Miguel playing on iTunes.

He swoops over to me, scoops me up off the couch and whisks me across the room. We waltz, we laugh, we make fun of one another. He holds me in his arms and lets me cry. I let go off all the bad thoughts and feelings, and...I play.

A veil of weight lifts off my shoulders.

And I have a good day.

To witness the greatness of Luis and his jezebel, go here.

operation: rogue orange retrieval...

A friend politely suggested we make a serious effort to remove the lodged orange from the heating vent. Because, it will indeed invite bugs, critters, and, believe it or not...the undead.

There was no way I would be sleeping soundly with that information.

So, we decided to delve into the unknown. A world creeping beneath our floorboards, humming with hot, stale air and thick with dust. And by "we", I mean, not me. I mean him. Master of the house.

I wasn't about to plunge my arm into that dark and dingy abyss...

The operation required the following:

One flashlight

One shop vac

One compact mirror

An assortment of miscellaneous kitchen utensils

One fish net

One random dowel

One flashlight

One bottle of clear eyes

A roll of electrical tape

And a Miller Lite, for encouragement...

INSTRUCTIONS:

First, remove heating register grate. Wrench the upper half of your torso into the vent. Realize you can't see. Back out. Place flashlight at the bottom of the vent pointed in the direction of the orange. Fashion a see-it-all mirror out of electrical tape, dowel, and compact. Resume crushed position in heating vent. Repeat this phrase:

"By-God, I think I see it!"

Back out. Fashion long extension arm out of cluster of kitchen utensils. Enter vent again. Blindly feed the extension into the heater and fumble around inside until you have a mental imagine of where you are. Somehow squeeze second hand into the vent, holding the see-it-all mirror contraption. Realize you'll never reach. Keep trying anyway. After 30 minutes...

Come up with a better idea.

Find a fish net. Fasten the fishnet to the end of the utensil arm. Try a swing and swoop method. Try again. And again. Okay...try one more time. Give up. Ask wife for a beer. Receive beer. Curse once...maybe twice. Enter shaft again. Exit shaft immediately. Turn off heat and wait for hot air to subside. Find bottle of clear eyes. Apply liberally.

Get shop vac.

Feed hose through vent. Wonder how you managed to fit inside anyway. Tell wife to "HIT IT" and wait for suction action to begin. Try to pry suction action away from wall of vent. Try again. Pull hose out and fasten new hose attachment. Lose hose attachment in vent. Realize you are now fishing for two lost items. Use second hose attachment to scoot the items closer towards you. Repeat this phrase:

"By-God, I've almost got it!"

Scoop hose attachment out of vent. Slide mirror into vent and behold the orange hath rolled. Get a sudden burst of energy. Fasten fish net to hose attachment and slowly nudge and prod orange until it is within a very uncomfortable arms reach. Reach into vent with arm. Reach. Reach. Grab. Got it. Pull dusty old rotten orange out of vent and toss into garbage delightfully. Take out of garbage so wife can take a picture. Take picture unwillingly. Toss in garbage again. Never let wife put anything near heating registers ever, ever again.

                                         

And that, friends, is your step by step tutorial on how to remove a decorative citrus fruit from your furnace.

Now you know.

And, you're welcome.

In case you're wondering, I did learn my lesson. Never put things where they don't belong. Do oranges belong in heaters? 

I now know not.

the wonders and woes of widow's weekend...

I'm alone this weekend. I love my husband more than anything, but I long for this weekend every year. I get to do whatever I want, and it is so incredibly selfish of me, but it's rejuvenating.

This weekend, I promised to bury myself away in my house and write, and dream, and color.

This weekend is all about me.

I got my Netflix in the mail.

iTunes will be strictly playing my 'calm and thinking' music.

I went on my own hunting extravaganza and found my bright red nail polish.

My sketch pad is within arms reach at any given moment.

I get the couch and bed all to myself. I can sprawl out in odd, strange, and unbeknown areas.

I don't have to cook.

Two big novels sit in front of me just waiting to be cracked open.

And my parents even let me borrow their bus, I mean, blazer, so I could go anywhere I want, whenever I want.

It's just me, my puppy, and Carrie Bradshaw.

Girls weekend alone.

I am so excited.

I get home from work, and, since I don't have to worry about my husband needing to back out in the morning, I park across the entire driveway. There I was, taking up the whole dang thing, not a worry in my mind.

I unlock the door, greet my squirming pup, and turn on the heat.

It's late already, so I decide to relax in front of the tube. I put my Sex and the City into the player.

I'm hungry. Nothing to eat. Call Chinese.

My feet are cold.

Tired. So tired. Going to bed.

Get up at 5:30, take pup downstairs, morning ritual.

Go to work. Late.

Late, why?

Late, because nothing went as easily as previously stated.

I parked the car carelessly, all because I thought I had the freedom to do so, since I was the only one occupying it this weekend.

And it took me twenty minutes to back out of the driveway.

I didn't sleep well. I forgot to lock the door behind me, and didn't have anyone to go down in the middle of the night to double check.

I also forgot to turn the heat down.

Not to mention, I didn't sleep well, because the natural balance of my body kept waking me up warning me that I was ready to fall off the bed.

There was no barricade on my right side to prevent me from straying too far. I nearly rolled out of bed three times.

And when I was hungry and wanting to relax the night before?

I couldn't figure out the DVD player, and Chinese only delivers a $15 minimum.

I had to order $15 dollars worth of take-out food. That's almost four meals.

Lena, my puppy, was so incredibly annoying, that I couldn't relax at all. She kept whining, and pacing, and nudging, and it drove me absolutely nuts.

I let out an exasperated sigh.

But it fell on absent ears. There was no one there to interpret my anxiety and take the responsibility of letting her out.

Any time I tried to write, she was directly below me, chewing, and whining, and nudging.

She refused to walk up the stairs to bed by herself.
I had to carry my 50-something-pound wriggling Labrador to her royal sleeping chamber.

When I let her out the next morning, she refused to go outside. Instead, she just sat and cried.

I couldn't figure it out.

I finally realized...

I'm not doing it right.

My husband lets the puppy out every morning. Her routine is the only thing she knows.

And the only thing I know.

She eats first, and then goes out...

But, only he would know that.

I forgot how much I rely on him...

He would have known how to back the car out.

He would have investigated the bumps in the night, and made sure the doors were locked so his girls were safe.

He would have been on the other side of me, on the couch, or in bed, to make sure my feet had his spare body warmth or protect me from catapulting off the edge of the mattress.

He would know how to work the DVD player, and he would have eaten more than half the order I was forced to place for take out.

He would have interpreted my profuse sigh and dealt with Lena without dispute.
He would have carried her up the stairs, or used his deep, booming man voice to order her off the floor.

He knows her morning protocol and knows what makes our pup happy and content.

He knows what makes me happy and content.

I miss my man, everything is a lot easier when he's home.

these things i love...

My tiny little family is a cuddly bunch. They break my heart in a million little pieces. And I love them.