hole-y matrimony | Playgroups are No Place For Children

Category Archives: hole-y matrimony

Off Waivers

Written on October 19, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, jennifer and tate battle

Some of you are going to be in shock when you read this. Others of you may question whether or not you feel like we can continue being friends.

I hope this doesn’t change things between us.

I do not really care for chocolate or sweets. I KNOW! Shocking! It’s like I just told you that I actually have a pen!s.

I can say with 100% certainty that I despise plain milk chocolate, but when forced (like when it’s sitting in front of me and my husband bought it for me as a “gift” and looks at me with wide, expectant eyes), I will eat it.

Chocolate with some sort of nut accompaniment is preferred, though it’s still not as delicious to me as a big plate of nachos with melting cheese and jalapenos. I do enjoy candies and pies and cakes and ice creams occasionally, but if given a choice, I’d prefer prime rib and a baked potato with butter and sour cream. I actually have an entire list of Chocolate and Sweets Consumption and the Enjoyment Thereof Bylaws that can be obtained for a nominal fee of $27 plus $9.95 shipping and handling, in the event you are curious as to my specific preferences and whims. (Bylaw #314b: I adore all things gummy, when the tide is out on the third Tuesday of every other month during leap years.)

I’m telling you all of this because I’m a superior wife and blogger that feels as if you need to know the aforementioned information before making a final judgment regarding an argument I’m having with my husband.

Every so often, or rather, too often, Tate comes home with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for each of us. He prefers the chocolately ones, I like Cookies & Cream or Raspberry Cobbler. In the past, I’ve shamefully eaten every last bite of my pint of ice cream. Since I’ve been trying to be wiser about my eating habits and become a better friend to my thighs, I’ve tried to eat only 1/4 to a 1/3 of the pint, while Tate continues to snarf down all of his. I put the remainder of my ice cream in the freezer to save for another night.

Imagine my shock and horror when a few days later I discover the scent of MY ICE CREAM on Tate’s breath and find the tell tale ice cream soiled spoon on the counter. Alright, that may be hard to imagine since I just basically told you that I’m just not that into sweets, BUT!! It was MY ice cream that I WAS going to eat eventually. AND!! Having saved ice cream in the fridge meant that Tate wouldn’t have buy MORE when he inevitably went out to get Ben and Jerry’s. Also, why can’t Tate figure out how to open the dishwasher and place dirty dishes INSIDE???

Tate rolled his eyes and sighed his exasperated sigh when I yelled at him for eating MY ice cream. He explained that once the ice cream pint goes back into the freezer uneaten, it becomes fair game and that he has every right to pick up the ice cream off waivers.

“It’s not like you even really like it that much,” he retorted, getting in the last word. He then stole the remote control from my hands and forced me to watch American Rifleman, while I sat in stunned silence, mourning the loss of my ice cream. (I just made up the events in the last sentence.)

I feel that once I’ve started a pint of ice cream, particularly when he originally had his very own pint, that the ice cream remains mine for my personal consumption whenever I feel like eating it. There is no rule stating that I MUST finish the whole pint of ice cream in one sitting. I also feel that I should not have to live in fear in my own HOME that my saved ice cream will be robbed, never to be seen again…(well, you know what I mean.)

So. If you were able to work past the fact that I’m not a superfan of chocolate and sweets and read this, what do you think? Does Tate have the right to eat my ice cream off waivers because “It’s not like [I] even really like it that much?” (Am refraining from capitalizing the word “MY” in the previous sentence and not using the word “steal” in the place of “eat” because I want to be a RESPONSIBLE and FAIR blogger and not sway your decision in any way.)

67 Comments - Leave a comment!

It was like looking at a mom, or something.

Written on September 15, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Men?, Pictures

I recently mentioned my neighbor who doesn’t have anything covering her windows, allowing us lucky neighbors to peer inside. My husband Tate, who leaves for work ridiculously early in the morning when it’s still pitch black outside, has seen our neighbor naked twice.

“You saw her naked again!” I asked, both appalled and oddly intrigued.

“I couldn’t help it,” Tate reasoned. “Her light was on, it was dark outside, how could I not look? And there she was! Completely naked.”

“Welllll…,” Of course I had to pry for details. “Was she hot?”

“It was like looking at a mom, or something. It’s not like she was hot.” Tate said, his disgust apparent until he saw the look of shock on my face.

“Oh! Wait! That’s not what I meant…”

There are some things that just can’t be taken back.

For those of you reading and concerned about Tate’s well being, I’d like to assure you that he is still alive and with all of his parts intact. Barely.

50 Comments - Leave a comment!

Revenge in yellow

Written on July 6, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Little Monkeys

Tate and I have been going through a rough patch lately, the kind where the fact that we simply breathe in the same room as one another is more than enough to send smoke steaming out of our ears and invisible daggers to be shot from our eyes.

I certainly don’t keep score, NO! NOT ME! Why, I would NEVER EVER count the number of times he’s been late coming home from work, or the number of weapons he’s bought in the past year, or the child-free time he’s had, away from the children, away from responsibilities, away from THE CHILDREN (oops, sorry for the redundancy there), or the socks that, OH MY GOD THE DAMN SOCKS, he’s left lying in the middle of the floor. That would be really immature.

I’m obviously the better spouse in this relationship. *snort*

One of the things that has been bugging me lately is that Tate starts these routines with the kids that I end up having to uphold because I always hate being the bad guy I want to be the cool parent, too I can’t stand the crying from the children. One of the things he’s started is that every night as we go downstairs for bath time, Tate offers to carry Carson on his shoulders. Poor Ella stands at the top of the stairs, heartbroken and wailing. “I wanna ride! I wan *SOB* na *SOB* ride *SOB*!” Tate will call to me, “Ella wants to ride on your shoulders, Mommy!”

Nevermind, I’m just trying to finish cleaning up the dinner dishes or cleaning up SOMEBODY’S socks or *gasp* trying to steal a moment alone. My hand, well my shoulders really, have been forced. I can’t just let her cry like that! She’s immediately scooped up and placed on my shoulders so that her wee little heart can be mended.

Carson, my beloved, beloved Carson, evened things out for me the other night. Occasionally when Carson gets really excited, he hates to take a break to use the potty. Sometimes he has a little accident before getting to the toilet. The other night, atop Tate’s shoulders, Carson had one of those little accidents and peed on Tate’s neck.

Man I love that kid!

(Doesn’t Carson look like he saying the f-word?!)

47 Comments - Leave a comment!

I might as well just go ahead and sell my uterus in the garage sale

Written on May 14, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Little Monkeys, marriage, Men?, Mommydom

Tate and I recently have a very serious discussion.

“You’re not going to sell that breast pump in the garage sale, are you?” asked Tate.

“Well, yeah,” I gave him the what-the-hell-do-you-mean look. “I’m selling the baby stuff, I thought we decided we were for sure done having babies. I thought that selling the baby stuff was the whole reason for having a garage sale.” Again with the what-the-hell-do-you-mean look.

“I know, but…” he didn’t finish his sentence.

“If you want another baby, you better say so now because I’ve just priced 320 onesies.”

“No, no, it’s not that I want another baby, it’s just kinda sad to sell the breast pump. And it was really expensive, what if we needed it someday?”

“Unless we have another baby, I don’t really think we are going to need a breast pump. It’s not like I’m going to spontaneously start producing milk, you know.”

“But wouldn’t it be cool if you did? Think of the money we’d save over all that organic milk we buy?”

“What?” I shook my head in irritation. “First, I’m not your own personal milk-producing cow and two, wouldn’t it be kinda weird to pour breast milk on your Cinnamon Life cereal everyday?”

“Oh, well. Yeah. There’s that.”

End scene.

So this upcoming Saturday, we’re having a gigantic garage sale. We’re selling almost all of our baby items, minus the breast pump, JUST IN CASE!

I’ve been feeling really melancholy, sorting and pricing my babies’ itty bitty pink and blue clothes and crib sheets, their baby bathtub and high chair. It feels so…final.

Don’t get me wrong, Tate and I are both in agreement that we feel like our family is complete. We’re a year away from EASILY being able to go to Disneyworld without having to plan around naps, for goodness sakes! If we had another baby, we’re looking at three more years before we could do something like that.

There are a myriad of reasons that we’re done having babies besides vacationing. We live in a 3 bedroom house, three kids means three cars, three college tuitions, another mouth to feed…

Of course, we’re not so sure that we’re Tate’s-getting-a-vasectomy-tomorrow! sure. We’re merely selling a few easily replaceable baby items in a garage sale. We could always change our minds. And luckily we’ll already have that breast pump, you know, JUST IN CASE!

54 Comments - Leave a comment!

Coffee cake battle

Written on February 25, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, jennifer and tate battle, Men?

It has been a good long while since I’ve settled a debate between Tate and myself here on the ol’ blog. (This is in no way a reflection of fewer arguments between Tate and I, DEFINITELY NOT, but a reflection on the lack of even slightly humorous debates recently.)

This is so dumb, I want to thank you all ahead of time for clearly being on my side for this one. Because REALLY. THIS IS SO DUMB.

On Monday, I had to bring the breakfast for my bible study/just moved support group. Growing up in my house, a quick and easy breakfast for such an event would most likely have been a store bought coffee cake, courtesy of everyone’s personal chef (AND LOYAL FRIEND), Sara Lee. Sara Lee makes a lovely assortment of coffee cakes which EVERYONE is familiar with and enjoys. Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee! Or is it Nobody does like Sara Lee!

Our group this past Monday was small, with only a few of us able to come so I had a lot of coffee cake left over. I brought it home and that evening when Tate got home, he was curious.

“What is this stuff?” he asked.

OBVIOUSLY he was just asking a rhetorical question because DUH! If you looked at it, it was CLEARLY a coffee cake.

Tate could see that I was looking at him like he was an idiot, so he repeated the question. “No seriously. What is this stuff?”

I explained that it was coffee cake with as much annoyance in my voice as I could muster because having to explain coffee cake to someone is like explaining chocolate or beer!

After my “explanation,” Tate floored me when he just shrugged like, “huh! Coffee cake. Interesting idea.” Like, he’d never HAD COFFEE CAKE.

(Background information for fairness to Tate: His mom isn’t a Sara Lee coffee cake breakfast serving kind of woman. She handmakes the most delicious Stollen in cases that require a breakfast bread sort of dish.)

(But still, I bet even his mother won’t believe that he hasn’t HAD or at least HEARD OF coffee cake.)

Please help me settle this debate, that coffee cake is COMMON and most people have HEARD OF it and they have EATEN it.

106 Comments - Leave a comment!

How five bucks at happy hour at a Mexican restaurant can get you eternal love

Written on February 16, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, Lucky Me, marriage, Men?

My husband is not what I would call romantic, but he is a character. At least he has that going for himself.

Valentine’s day morning with barely opened eyelids, I walked into the kitchen. I began my daily routine of sleepily emptying the dishwasher. Tate stood obtrusively around, clearing his throat and doing odd head bobs. Finally I realized he was trying to get my attention.

I turned around and saw a single rose in a vase on my kitchen counter.

Everyone together now…”Aaaaaah!”

I hugged Tate and thanked him for getting me a rose. While hugging him, I noticed that the rose seemed a little…unreal, a little velvety.

Tate saw my quizzical scowl and asked me if I noticed anything special about the rose.

“Well, it looks like it’s a velvet rose.” I was trying hard not to sound annoyed (or to start crying, because A VELVET ROSE???? Could there be anything more UNromantic???).

Tate was beaming from ear to ear. “Yes, dear, it is a velvet rose. It will never die, just like my love for you. This rose is a symbol of my eternal love for you.”

Everybody together now…*eye roll* and “Puh-leeze!”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, again trying not to sound too annoyed or to cry.

Tate went on to explain how he came to give me a velvet rose. For Valentine’s Day. That was supposed to symbolize his eternal love. And how this was somehow a good idea.

The previous evening, Tate had gone to happy hour with some of his coworkers to a Mexican restaurant (even though he never gets home before 7PM most nights and he knows how much I’d appreciate him getting home early JUST ONCE, but who’s keeping score? Oh no. Not me, no siree.). I’m not sure if Tate had had too many beers or if he was struck suddenly mentally impaired, the details were sketchy, but he had the “good” idea to buy one of the velvet rose centerpieces on the table of this Mexican restaurant to give me as a Valentine’s Day gift.

*Heavy sigh*

Tate asked the waitress how much they would charge him for the flower and vase set. She went to go ask the manager and returned with the price of five dollars.

“Sold!” Tate had proclaimed.

The manager apparently thought that Tate had a death wish and told him so. Since he was such a big spender, the manager said that he could choose any flower in the restaurant just for me. For laughs, the manager threw in some bags of decorative blue and yellow glass rocks to make the velvet rose presentation even fancier.

“Did you notice how I layered the glass rocks in the vase? Yellow, blue, yellow?” Tate beamed as he pointed out his artistic creation.

“Well. It’s very, um, thoughtful,” this time I was trying not to laugh.

“This rose symbolizes my eternal love for you,” Tate explained. Again.

“Yes. You’ve already mentioned that.”

“Do you really not like it? I thought you’d think this was funny?” he asked, feigning the sound of disappointment.

“Actually, I love this Tate. You’ve given me something to blog about.”

Now if giving your wife blogable material isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

40 Comments - Leave a comment!

Out of focus

Written on January 15, 2009 by Jennifer in hole-y matrimony, marriage

I never forget to tell my children how much I love them. Every single day, without fail, they are smothered in kisses and wrestled to the ground with mommy bear hugs. In every voice imaginable, I tell them how much they are loved. It is automatic and I do it whether the children have behaved or have told me that dinner was yucky and screamed at me because I had the nerve to put them down for a nap.

Married love is not like this. At least it is not anymore. There was a time that the love was automatic, in the early days when our love was new and I could really feel the weight of our love in my heart and it still filled my stomach with butterflies. I don’t know exactly when it happened, maybe it was before kids, maybe after Carson was born, but I know at some point I started to forget to tell Tate that I loved him, to tell him everyday.

Now those three little words, “I love you,” are said only sporadically, when Tate doesn’t need to right some wrong I’ve imagined or when I’m not too tired. (I’m always too tired.) Married love is not automatic, it is constant work, filled with reminders of patience, reminders that we LOVE each other. There are strings attached.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t want it to be this way. Forgetting to tell Tate that I love him can be likened to forgetting to put ketchup on the grocery list. My mental to do list waits to fulfill this intention, but by the time I see him in the evening, I’ve moved on from the thought of a kind gesture to whining, pants tugging children and dinner boiling over on the stove.

58 Comments - Leave a comment!