Scrapbooking can be hazardous

We narrowly averted some drama on Wednesday. I knew when I made the scrapbook page several years ago that it was risky. I felt like the story should be told though. The whole family knew it already but I wanted it preserved somewhere for historical purposes just in case I got hit by a bus.

I thought maybe I should hide the page away somewhere until Amanda was a bit older because my hope was that she’d be flipping through her books and reading these stories whenever she felt like it and I was already picturing the exact embarassing scenario that almost happened this week.

But knowing how un-sentimental my husband is, if I did actually get hit by a bus, any pages not permanently affixed to the scrapbook would certainly be lost in the Everything Must Go! sale that would be held while the funeral home was still trying to figure out how to disguise the tire marks on my forehead.

So I made the page and put it in her scrapbook and from time to time Amanda pulls the book off the shelf and asks me to read her the stories. I thought I’d only given her the very PG edited version of this particular story, but apparently she knew the specific detail I didn’t want her to know.

So as we were getting ready for school I suddenly remembered, “Oh, today’s your sharing day. Do you have something to share?” They called it show-and-tell when I was a kid, now it’s just “Sharing.” And before they reveal the item they give three clues about it and let their classmates guess what it might be.

Amanda pulled the hot pink stuffed frog out of her backpack to show me and said, “Yeah, I’m taking this and I already know my clues!”

I was only slightly nervous when I said, “Okay, let’s hear ‘em.”

She said, "Okay, 1) It’s pink. 2) It’s really soft. And 3) When I was little I couldn’t say its name right so I really embarrassed my mom in the middle of the store because I yelled out,
“Fok, Fok, FOKKKKKKKKK!!!”

"Umm, we're going to have to rethink that third one. Your principal seems like a nice guy but I don't really want to get a phone call from him today."

Crisis averted this time but there are years worth of opportunities for humiliation ahead of us. I don’t think it would have been as bad as the time the son of a distant relative announced to his classmates during show-and-tell that, “My mommy was wounded in battle!” and then pulled out a pair of his mommy’s bloody panties as evidence.

(In case you missed it, the original fokking story can be found toward the bottom of this post.)

Happy birthday to me

Scott managed to surprise me for my birthday Saturday night. For the record, being surprised by my husband on my birthday is not necessarily a good thing. But this year he arranged for his mom to come down to babysit the girls so we could go out. That alone was surprise enough. Making plans. In advance. Arranging for a babysitter? Really? Yep, I'm still talking about Scott.

So he asked me what I wanted to do and I was vague. I wanted him to make the plans, that's what I wanted. He said he was thinking maybe we would go to the city. Wow. Okay. He hates going to San Francisco. Hates fighting the crowds and the traffic. So I thought he's really going out of his way for me.

So he told me we would leave at five and that I should dress sexy-casual but warmly because it might be cold.

Huh? My husband is giving me fashion instructions? He never does that. And where did he come up with the term SEXY-CASUAL? Do I even own sexy-casual but warm? What is that anyway? Like low-rise sweatpants so my butt-crack shows if I bend over?

I threw on some jeans and a shirt that showed a bit of cleavage and figured that would have to do. He actually made me spin around and said he approved. That alone made me nervous. But I figured we would end up having a nice kid-free dinner and movie and I was ready early. Because I was just itching to get out of there. I was looking forward to an actual date with my husband.

Around five-ish his friend, Brian, shows up. He walks in like he was expected. I flash Scott a weird look and he says, "Yeah, we were gonna head out in a few minutes." Brian says, "Oh no worries I'll get out of your hair in a few minutes. I was in the neighborhood so I decided to swing by. He's a world champion mudslide maker so he made one for each of us and then Scott said, "Hey, I really don't want to drive... Brian, would you drop us off at BART?" Err... okay...

So we jump in the car with Brian and since I'm totally directionally challenged I rarely question anybody else's directions but I knew we weren't going to the closest BART station. I figured maybe he was heading somewhere and wanted us to keep him company and he'd drop us at another station. I really wasn't thinking much about it. But finally Scott asks, "Have you figured out that we're not going to the BART station?" and then, "Hey, did you get a buzz from that mudslide? Do you want to know where we're going?"

Then he says, "We're going to a swinger's club!"

Go ahead. Read it again if you must. I said a SWINGER'S CLUB. And not like swinging a baseball bat or swinging on a big old tire swing hanging from a tree. Because I asked. I'm talking about the kind of swinger's club that people admit to frequenting on the Oprah show only while wearing disguises and having their voices electronically altered. That kind of swinger's club.

And then I was like, "Ha! Very funny. Yeah. That's a good one. But where are we REALLY going?"

But Scott said, "No, really... It'll be fun."

And Brian throws in, "You don't have to participate. You can just watch."

And it goes on like this for quite some time while my head is spinning in pretty much every direction you can imagine and some that you really shouldn't. Both of them continue talking as if going to a swinger's club is just the most ordinary thing in the world.

Brian says he hopes traffic lightens up because you can only get the white wristbands, which indicate you're ONLY WATCHING if you get there before 7:00. "If you get there after 7:00 you'll have to have a red wristband, which means you're PARTICIPATING. But they'll be nice since it's your first time." He goes on to say we should have brought some of those cheapie rain slicker things because, "If you're in one of the front rows you might get wet."

Scott, trying to keep me calm, said it was really no big deal... that he'd been to one of these places before, a long time ago when he was married to Ioana, but she didn't go with him. He said he couldn't remember why she hadn't gone with him and I said, "Well it probably wasn't her birthday."

I kept saying, "I know you guys HAVE TO BE KIDDING." I was doing my best to be a good sport. Then one of them says we should stop for something to eat because they don't have food in the club, only alcohol. Brian says, "Stop me when you see something good... There's a Red Lobster. And there's a Quiznos..."

I think it may have been when we stopped at Safeway for sandwiches that I officially started to freak out. I mean I figured that wherever we were going, at the very least we'd be having a nice dinner. Nothing against Safeway sandwiches... but no seriously...SAFEWAY SANDWICHES?!?

Oh but I always think it's important to be a good sport in these situations... because you never know how these things will turn out. And you don't want to turn into an insane raging bitch right before you discover this was just an elaborate set-up and your husband is actually surprising you with, oh, say a diamond necklace or a trip to Cabo. Then you have to do all that back-tracking and apologizing.

This is why I was such a good sport that time we went to visit Scott's ex-wife on my birthday. And this is why I was such a good sport when I was pregnant with Alyssa and Scott had me down on my hands and knees picking rocks out of the dirt on Mother's Day. Because I just kept believing there had to be a pony hiding under all the crap. Except that we all know by now that when it comes to MY HUSBAND there is occasionally a pony but often there is just a bunch of crap. That birthday was really just a visit with his ex-wife and that Mother's Day was just a day spent yanking rocks out of the dirt.

So it was while we were there at Safeway that I realized I had to face the possibility that my husband might actually have thought taking me to some skanky sex club so that I could watch a bunch of naked middle-aged people get it on while I attempted to choke down a Safeway sandwich was a perfectly wonderful way for me to celebrate my birthday.

I.Was.Nervous. I went to the bathroom and briefly considered making a run for it. Then it popped into my mind that Amanda had almost slipped and told me something. She didn't tell me anything but started to and then said, "Oops... Daddy told me not to tell you 'cause it's a surprise."

Hard as I tried I just couldn't imagine Scott whispering to Amanda, "Daddy's going to take Mommy to a special place where we can watch other mommies and daddies get their freak on! But don't tell Mommy because it's an extra special surprise for her birthday."

So it was at that point that I decided to calm down and just go with it. Because this just HAD TO BE A JOKE. And it was. We ended up at the Colbie Caillat/John Mayer concert at the Shoreline Amphitheatre! I had mentioned to Scott months ago that I would LOVE TO GO. And then I forgot about it and moved on.

It was an awesome concert and we had a great time. Trust me it was even more enjoyable considering where I could have ended up instead. He got me good! So my husband scored lots of points in the thoughtfulness department this year.

Apparently I was too much of a good sport about the swinger's club thing though... so much so that both of the guys decided I was nowhere near as freaked out as they expected me to be... so secretly I must actually want to go. I'm afraid I may be in for a REALLY BIG big surprise next year!

Ten Minutes

These pictures were taken last weekend while the girls and I were waiting to go to Costco with Scott. They were going stir-crazy by the time I finally managed to pry Scott off the couch to start his ten-minutes-to-out-the-door routine. So to entertain them for a bit, we headed outside and took some self-portraits with the remote for my camera. Mostly the girls just fought over the remote, which is supposed to be so tiny that you can't see it in photos but it didn't turn out that way. I guess I could edit the remote out of the pictures but right now it makes me laugh because I spent so much time telling the girls to keep it down and out of view and then I notice that I'm the doofus holding it up to the camera for all to see.

"I can be ready in ten minutes."

I’ve heard that line approximately three million, four thousand, five hundred and forty-six times during my relationship with Scott. I don’t know if it’s a guy thing or just a Scott thing but he swears that he can be ready for ANYTHING in 10 minutes. From a prone position in front of the TV or sound asleep in bed he can be showered, shaved, dressed and out the door in 10 minutes. Whether it’s a trip to the mall, or the end of the world. Just give him 10 minutes warning. He will be ready.

AND he would prefer that the girls and I be completely ready to go before the 10-minute warning is given. If he could have it his way we would not only be READY but sitting in the car with the engine running. Because nothing on earth is worse than sitting around waiting for your wife to get ready. Because you never know how long that could take.

Because after your wife says she’s ready she always has at least eight more things to do before she’s actually ready… And even then she probably won’t really be ready. She’ll have to run back inside for the sippy cup she left on the counter or run to the bathroom just one last time or SOMETHING.

You might be wondering if he can actually get ready in ten minutes, and yes, he can. Because anything he can’t actually achieve within ten minutes can simply be delegated to ME.

In the early years of our relationship, many a battle was fought during the 10 minutes before we were supposed to walk out the door before a wedding or Thanksgiving dinner, when I would already be running around like a crazy woman and he would say, “Could you find me some brown shoe polish?” or “Can you find me some black socks?” or “These grey pants don’t fit me anymore, can you find me something else to wear?” or my personal favorite, “Hey, could you iron this shirt for me?”

Can I iron this shirt for you? Are you f*#ing nuts?

Those might sound like reasonable requests to most people but being ready on time has always been something I’ve struggled with. A lot. I know this about myself so if I’m going somewhere important I do as much preparation ahead of time as possible. This includes getting clothes, shoes, jewelry and any other random accessories all lined up and ready to go. During that preparation time I ask Scott, usually multiple times what he’s going to wear and almost invariably he will say, “I don’t know. Don’t worry about it,” or “I’ll figure it out later.”

Uh huh. I know exactly when you’re gonna figure it out.

But that particular battle ended long ago when I started telling him if he needed anything found, washed, shined or ironed he better tell me long before it was time to leave because I would not be available at ten minutes before take-off.

I knew just how far we’d come when shopping for work clothes for the job he’s doing now. He carefully checked all the labels and wouldn’t buy anything unless it was marked “wrinkle-free” or “no ironing.” When he told the sales guy “My wife doesn’t like to iron,” other women might have been embarrassed but I wanted to kiss him right there in the middle of the department store. Ahh, look at him, he’s come so far!

And as long as I’m wandering off in random directions I will never forget when maybe a year or two into our relationship, we broke up for a while. It was a friendly break up that we’d both agreed was for the best and in a very un-Scott like moment during the big break-up speech, he wanted to talk about what we’d learned from each other.

Anyone who knows us knows that Scott is an extremely practical guy and I am his polar opposite. So I guess it makes sense that when he reeled off his list of what he’d learned from me they weren’t practical things at all… they were in fact very warm and fuzzy things… I wish I could remember now what they were, but imagine Scott saying something like, “I’ve learned to look for the good in people and to stop and smell the flowers and that sometimes it’s okay to let people go in front of you in line at the store, and always take your shoes off when walking through the grass…” It was total sunshine and puppies stuff. Totally not Scott, but totally me.

I was STUNNED. But then when he asked what I’d learned from him I just blurted out: “OH! I learned that if you fold or hang up your clothes as soon as you take them out of the drier you will never have to iron again!”

He was also stunned. But not in a good way. “That’s it? That’s what you’ve learned from me?” he asked, totally deflated and sad.

"Well no of course not. But that’s one of the big ones. I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Not at all. I mean do you know how many hours of my life I’ve wasted IRONING? I totally could have spent all that time smelling the flowers or running barefoot through the grass. It’s big. But I’ve learned other things too. Like do tons of research before making any large purchase. Never buy anything unless it’s on sale. Coupons are our friends. Max out your retirement plan. Never ever use the ATM at someone else’s bank…Open an IRA. Lots of stuff! Really, I’m a better person for knowing you, okay?"

But the ironing thing? That's huge.

Parenting Mistake 4,768: The Loft Bed

We just passed our crib and changing table on to Cara and Rick who are anxiously awaiting the arrival of my newest niece in April. (YAY!) To fill the empty space, we bought a loft bed, which just might be one of my biggest parenting mistakes so far. Also on that list would be choosing to parent my children with a man who apparently believes he is completely indestructible and that he somehow passed on that genetic wonder to his two daughters.

The loft bed was Scott’s idea. My husband is a big fan of furniture that performs more than one task. A chair that is just a chair is just STUPID. We couldn’t get the coffee table that only held a few magazines and your drink. We had to get the coffee table that has storage underneath and a top that extends up and out to become a table so you can sit on the couch and comfortably eat your dinner in front of the TV.

Somewhere I have a photo of Scott sitting on his fantasy couch, this hideously ugly enormous blue microfiber sectional thing at Sears that must have comfortably seated at least 47 with two reclining seats (yes, one for each of us because he loves me like that!), built in heat and massage units, beverage holders in the arm rests, a storage compartment for the remotes, a built in ice chest and an optional sleep section. All we would need was one end table that turned into a microwave and another that turned into a porta-potty and he could have lived out his life happily without ever leaving his big screen TV.

So it’s not at all surprising that when considering a new bed for the girls’ room, the one Scott wanted was an all-in-one unit, a loft bed with a trundle bed below, seven drawers, a built in desk with a bookshelf and a large closet area extending the length of the bed. I had to agree that it made sense for us in terms of storage space which we’re in desperate need of in their room. What didn’t make sense was the potential it held to break the necks of one or both of my children.

A bit of marriage advice: if you’re married to someone, you might want to actually talk to them every now and then. You’d think after eight years of marriage, and even having noted in our wedding vows that we are total opposites, I would have figured out that we are likely to see things quite differently. But no, there are still times when my point of view makes so much sense to me that I can’t imagine Scott feeling any different. Meanwhile he is feeling the very same way about his totally opposite point of view.

After we bought the bed from someone on Craigslist (Please note that means it’s non-returnable), dismantled it, hauled it home and reassembled it in the girls’ room, it turns out that Scott and I have very different visions of how this bed will be used.

In my mind, it was obvious that my thrill-seeking two-year-old shouldn’t have access to the top bunk with all of its potential for jumping or falling. Call me crazy, but I like my children completely intact and unbroken. I asked Scott at least ten times if the ladder was as easily removable as it appeared to be and he assured me that it was. So from that I assumed that he and I were on the same page and that the ladder would be hidden away most of the time and only placed there permanently when Alyssa was much older.

Our disconnect became obvious when I noticed he’d bolted the ladder to the bed and wanted Alyssa and Amanda to sleep on the top bunk together on the very first night. He said I was crazy and overprotective and I said well maybe but at least I’m not trying to kill the children. There’s a warning right there on the bed itself that says to avoid serious or fatal injuries, children under six should not be allowed on the top bunk, and that there should never be more than one person at a time up there. There is no little asterisk with a note saying "Unless they're Scott's children and then it should be okay."

Yes, it’s probably true that I’m overprotective. When I said we weren’t taking the training wheels off of Amanda’s bike until she turned 23 it might have been a BIT overly cautious, but I think I’m being very reasonable when it comes to this bunk bed thing.

Scott insists all we need to do is teach Alyssa the basics of ladder safety, have her practice a couple of times and tell her not to lean over the side and everything will be fine. I say perhaps he hasn’t noticed that this is ALYSSA we’re talking about and we can talk to her for days about safety and then the second we turn our backs or more likely right in front of our eyes, she’ll be jumping off the side, swinging from the ceiling fan or worse.

We’re still in deliberation over the matter and will continue to be until he manages to see things my way. I’m hoping we can come to a peaceful agreement soon so I don’t have to set fire to the ladder while he’s asleep.

The Great Debate

When you start thinking about having kids there are all kinds of things you’re supposed to discuss and come to agreement on. How will you pay for them? How will you discipline them? What about religion? Education? Childcare?

What’s the one topic nobody ever warns you about?

Play-Doh.

At our house we’ve been arguing about Play-Doh. Here’s the thing… I LOVE Play-Doh. I love how it smells. I love how it feels. I love that it comes in so many fun colors. For me Play-Doh represents fun, creativity and endless possibilities. In my mind Play-Doh is critical to the childhood experience.

Scott, on the other hand, HATES Play-Doh. Play-Doh is messy. Play-Doh is stinky. Play-Doh is a choking hazard to the baby. Play-Doh is evil.

Huh? What? How can we possibly be talking about the same thing?

Did you know that it is difficult to argue about Play-Doh in an adult manner? They say one whiff of Play-Doh can make you feel like you’re right back in Kindergarten. In our case this seems to be true. When Scott said he didn’t want Play-Doh in the house I kept wanting to say: “Oh yeah? Well you’re not the boss of me!” And when I asked why he didn’t like Play-Doh he said, “Because, just because,” to which I wanted to respond: “Oh yeah? Well I’m gonna tell my mommy on you!”

Of course I can’t actually tell my mom. Because I know if I called her right now she would say, “I HATE Play-Doh.” It’s true that I might be in need of intense therapy regarding my Play-Doh issues. And of course I blame that on my mom and try to make her feel guilty about it whenever the opportunity arises. This seems like a good one so bear with me.

Play-Doh wasn’t allowed in our house when I was a kid. I longed for it; begged for it; put it on every Dear Santa list I ever wrote. But Play-Doh was off-limits until the day my friend, Stephanie Lysett, showed up to my sixth birthday party with the gift to top all other gifts, the Play-Doh Fuzzy Pumper Play Set. Yes!!! Mine, it was all mine, the best toy in the world! Or it would have been the best toy, if my mom had ever allowed me to play with it, that is. But I had these shelves in my room that went right up to the ceiling. And the very top shelf is where my Play-Doh lived, taunting me, torturing me from its cellophane wrapped box.

I’m sure I asked the question “Can I play with the Play-Doh today, Mom?” at least a billion times and I’m sure I risked breaking an arm or leg more than once to climb up and fetch the box so I could drool over it up close. But I was a goody-two-shoes and never dared to actually tear off the cellophane and play with it because I knew I’d be in big trouble. I don’t remember playing with that Play-Doh even once. Clearly I’ve been permanently scarred too. Hear that, Mom? Scarred. Permanently.

So fast-forward 30 years or so to when I hear my darling husband say things like, “NO Play-Doh. I don’t want to see it in the house ever again.” And my inner 6-year-old starts twitching. “Umm. ‘Scuse me? You’re kidding me right? Am I on Candid Camera? You can’t be serious. Did my mother put you up to this?”

But he was indeed serious and when I realized how much it bothered him I tried hard to be reasonable. I thought I would compromise and not let Amanda play with it in the house (well umm, at least not when he was around) but I brought it with us on our last camping trip and again, he flipped out. I responded with, “Yeah… you said no more Play-Doh in the house. We are not in the house.” But then I figured he was worried about the precious Eurovan. He can be kind of weird about The Van and I try to be sensitive. Because I suppose I’d get a little tense if he tried to use one of my scrapbooks as a coaster. So I put the Play-Doh away.

But the other day when I was desperately searching for something, I made the mistake of opening The Cabinet. The Cabinet is where all of the off-limit (and therefore most strongly-desired) toys are kept: the slippery high-heel princess shoes I’m afraid they’ll break their necks wearing, the washable paints that aren’t as washable as I would like, the annoying whistle, the toys that come with a hundred teeny-tiny choking hazard pieces, the toy hammer used mostly to bang on the furniture or each others' heads… and, of course, the Play-Doh.

I’m starting to think that when I open The Cabinet it emits some kind of low-decibel sound that only my children can hear. I honestly think that even if they were in a deep sleep the sound of The Cabinet would awaken them and bring them scampering as fast as they can to throw their little bodies in between the open door and The Cabinet making it impossible for me to close The Cabinet until they’ve made several emphatic requests. Alyssa starts pointing at the ball and chanting, “Bah, bah, BAH!” and Amanda screeches, “PLAY-DOH!!! Mommy, can I play with the Play-Doh, pleeeeeeeease Mommy?”

Since I can totally relate to the intense longing to play with Play-Doh and since I don't want Amanda to be Permanently Scarred like I am and since Scott was gone for a while I let Amanda play with some Play-Doh outside on the patio. I honestly didn’t think he would care since it was outside. But I was wrong.

She was still playing when he got home and… did I already mention that we seem to have a difficult time acting like grown-ups when it comes to this subject? Well I’m not even going to tell you about how he marched out to the table and picked up the tray of Play-Doh and unceremoniously dumped the entire thing into the trash while Amanda and I looked on in horror. I also won’t tell you about the tantrums that followed, except to say that Amanda was not the only one who had one.

We talked about it later and finally agreed that we would put the Play Doh on hold for a while since I can’t really argue the fact that it could be a choking hazard for Alyssa. Even though I didn’t let her near it… wait, I said I wouldn’t argue… So anyway, have to tell you my favorite part of the story…

While Amanda was playing with her Play-Doh I said, "Hey, what are you making?" and she said,

"I'm building a toilet for the birds because I'm so sick of them pooping on my slide!"

If you ask me, this is exactly the kind of creative thinking that our world needs more of...The kind of thinking that is encouraged and nurtured by a lump of fragrant, neon-colored, moldable dough. Just think, maybe 30 years down the line Amanda will be telling her children, "You'll never believe this but when I was young, birds pooped anywhere they wanted! Thank goodness for Play-Doh."

If anyone is actually reading this blog I would love to hear your comments. Especially if you have any persuasive arguments for why the Play-Doh ban should be lifted. Come on people, help save the Play-Doh!

*Photo of Amanda taken in November, before the start of the Great Play-Doh Ban

Six years, already?

I wrote this for Scott several months ago before my birthday. I guess he shared it with a couple of friends and he tells me that it is now circulating on email. He says people want to know if he actually did these things. Well I'm here to confirm...umm, yes! (You can't make this stuff up.) And I love him anyway. So in honor of our wedding anniversary, I'm sharing:

SCOTT'S SIMPLE GUIDE TO BIRTHDAYS, HOLIDAYS AND ANNIVERSARIES
(Or How Not To Screw Up The Days That I Will Remember
For The Rest Of My Life. Yes, My Memory is Really THAT Long )
First Edition July '05

Like it or not, birthdays and holidays are important to me. Maybe it's hard for you to understand because they don't mean much to you, but in my mind these days are supposed to be special. Birthdays are important to me. Blowjobs are important to you. Get my point?

I know these days stress you out because you think I'm totally impossible to please so I've put together this list of DO's and DON'Ts to help you out. Please note that nearly every one of the DON'Ts is based on an actual past birthday/holiday experience with you. You may have forgotten some of these special moments, but I just can't! Most of them are included only for the purposes of humor so don't think I'm trying to be bitchy. A few of them are included just because I'm being bitchy. What can I say? I've been told I'm always a bitch on my birthday and tomorrow is my birthday so deal with it.

GENERAL TIPS:

DO just be nice to me. Small gestures go a long way. Bring me a cup of coffee. Do the dishes or change a diaper or two so I don't have to.

DO NOT tell me I'm moody; DO NOT tell me I'm grumpy. DO NOT tell me that I am always a bitch on my birthday. I don't care if you think it's true. I don't even care if it actually IS true. DO NOT say it ever, ever again.

DO NOT act so damn surprised that I don't want to spend my birthday weekend at your mother's house even though they have two tee-times set up and one of your golf games will be free. It is MY birthday. It is not YOUR birthday.

DO get me some kind of dessert on my birthday. Put candles in it and sing Happy Birthday. This may seem silly to you, but it's important to me. I'm not asking you to bake me a cake, just get me some kind of dessert and at least one candle. If you want to score really big points, mudd pie is a good choice, and apple pie (especially French apple pie from Baker's Square) is a sentimental favorite.

DO NOT tell me that you don't have to do anything for me for Mother's Day because I am not your mother. I am the mother of your children, Sweetie, and like it or not you need to treat me like Queen for a Day.

DO NOT take me to see your ex-wife on my birthday even if we are in the neighborhood and you haven't seen her in a long time. Especially if I have told you in no uncertain terms that I do not want to go see your ex-wife. Do not call her when I'm out of hearing distance and then insist we HAVE to go see your ex-wife because she really wants us to stop by and you don't want to hurt her feelings. Trust me, your current wife's feelings are ALWAYS more important than your ex-wife's feelings. This is especially true on her birthday, especially if she is seven months pregnant with your baby.

DO NOT insist that everything I ask for on my birthday is secret code for something else. I figured out a long, long time ago that you do not pick up on subtle hints or even completely obvious ones. I do not expect you to read my mind. If I say I want pizza it means I want pizza. I am not testing you. I am not secretly hoping you will take me out for a six-course meal. Just get me a damn pizza. (And while we are here, DO NOT try to talk me into a cheaper brand of pizza, DO NOT ask me to find a coupon for the pizza, and DO NOT ask me to go pick up the pizza myself.)

DO NOT expect me to make all the plans. I HATE making plans; it's like punishment to me. You can ask me what I want to do. You can come up with a few ideas and ask me to choose the one I want (i.e. "I'll get a babysitter and we can go out for dinner and a movie OR I'll watch the kid(s) for a few hours while you go out shopping OR we could go camping at Lake Winnie-PoohPooh), but don't just say, "We can do whatever you want, you figure it out." I hate that.

DO NOT make me do some crummy chore on any holiday or birthday (i.e. making me pick rocks out of the dirt on Mother's Day while you entertain Brian and his kids who are hanging out at our house because his wife's gift was a fabulous massage chair and a day to herself.)


CARDS AND GIFTS:

A gift is not required (it's nice, it's very appreciated, it earns you major points in the good husband department, but it isn't required). But DO get me a card. No excuses. You can make it with a broken crayon and a piece of toilet paper if you have to.

DO NOT proudly announce that while chatting with the guys at work about what they were all doing for their wives for Mother's Day that you told them you know me really well and that cards are not important to me (especially DO NOT make this announcement while I'm knee-deep in cardstock because I'm hand making Mother's Day cards for our mothers and your grandmothers specifically because I think cards are important). DO NOT then go on to say that you told them you know what I would really like is for you to give me money to go shopping while you stay home and watch Amanda (which I really would love) if you do not intend to follow through with that offer but instead plan to make me spend Mother's Day picking rocks out of the dirt while you entertain Brian and his kids.

Again, gifts are not required but if you decide to get me a gift:

DO NOT tell me that the most recent home improvement project is my gift (i.e. don't tell me on Valentine's Day that the bathroom that we had to redo because the floor was rotting out is my Valentine's gift. And don't tell me on Mother's Day that the backyard is my gift. I'm not stupid. We were going to redo the backyard anyway. Though I do appreciate the work you put into home improvement projects, let's not pretend these projects are special gifts just for me.)

You DO NOT have to buy me flowers but if you do, please DO NOT complain about how much they cost or whine about how they are going to die soon. (What I will actually hear is, "Man, I just wasted a whole bunch of money on you and I totally regret it.")

DO NOT choose my gift based on someone else's preferences but if you do, please DO NOT tell me that's how you chose the gift (i.e. DO NOT hand me the blue sweatshirt and explain to me that you know I hate the color blue and you know I would much rather have had the purple one, but the girl in the shop's favorite color was blue and she was really cute!)

DO NOT feel the need to explain to me that all of my stocking stuffer gifts were freebies you got from work.

DO NOT get me a gift that I have never expressed any interest in whatsoever (i.e. don't spend a whole lot of time debating between the bicycle or the golf clubs. I do not want either one. But if you do decide to give me the bicycle, DO NOT feel the need to throw in a pair of bike shorts with a CONTROL TOP tummy panel. And while I'm at it, let me just say DO NOT buy me any piece of clothing, beauty product, exercise item or surgical procedure that is meant to improve my figure flaws unless I have specifically begged for it many, many times. It will take many times because you should refuse my first two hundred requests on the basis that "Sweetie, you don't need that turbo girdle/treadmill/boob lift because you are perfect just the way you are!")

DO give me a gift early (i.e. This camera is for your birthday next month) but DO NOT announce on my birthday that something I got months ago is actually my birthday gift (i.e. yeah the printer we bought in April WAS your birthday gift.)

DO NOT let your ex-wife pick out my gift. I don't care if those dresses came from Paris and cost an outrageous amount of money. They were BUTT-UGLY and I will always assume that she was laughing her ass off when she made those sales, first for Christmas and then seven months later for my birthday.

DO NOT give me a gift that you found in a parking lot but if you do feel the need to present this item as a gift then please, please DO NOT tell me, or at least PLEASE wait until Valentine's Day is over before you feel the need to tell me that the beautiful gold bracelet on my wrist which I've been oohing and ahhing over for ten minutes was actually one that you found at work and turned into Lost and Found, who in a stroke of pure luck/destiny saved you from a trip to 7-11 to buy me a card by calling you on Valentine's Day to say nobody had claimed the bracelet and it was yours!

No, I'm not expecting a gift, but please DO NOT ask the question, "You're not expecting me to get you a gift are you?" (That question never fails to give me warm fuzzies all over.) If you do feel the need to ask that stupid question, and I respond with the usual, "No, but a card would be nice." DO NOT roll your eyes and ask in an exasperated tone, "What? You want me to actually put effort into this?" Umm yeah, DUH. That's the idea, buddy.