Slice of Pink

Valentine Getaway

A few weekends ago, to celebrate our birthdays, Jenny and I visited Santa Monica where we toured the Getty Villa, shopped on 3rd Street, and ate buttery croissants in the hotel beds. We also bar hopped through downtown Santa Monica, having a cocktail and appetizer at each of four bars, and I highly recommend this kind of fun when visiting a city. We started at an alehouse where we had wine and a goat cheese quesadilla, moved to a cafe where we had honey cocktails and spring rolls, then stopped in at an Irish pub for margaritas and ravioli (I have no idea...), and ended at a cheesy themed fish house for Irish coffees and cake.

Our husbands, jealous at all the fun that didn't include them, spent the weekend concocting their own plan to go golfing, eat burritos, and play tennis. The first weekend they were both available was Valentine's weekend and we, being the amazingly wonderful wives we are, encouraged them to just go ahead and book the trip despite the holiday (which was on Monday, anyway, so it's not like they'd be missing the actual day).

And, so, our husbands spent Valentine's weekend at a hotel on the beach. They played golf, went out for drinks, watched a college baseball game, played tennis, and ate at a seafood restaurant on the ocean. I think they even walked on the beach.

As they enjoyed some quality guy time (no doubt telling stupid guy jokes), Jenny and I got to thinking: they did leave us home on Valentine's weekend. So, despite the fact that their weekend away was in response to our weekend away, we should get another girls' weekend away, to even things out. Fair's fair.

Loaves and Fishes

We have a Book of Mormon in our car. It's been there for years, ever since a student gave it to Will after inscribing it with a sweet message imploring him to read the book. It is stored in the little pocket behind the driver's seat and Will keeps dollar bills in it, for emergencies.

I had one such emergency at Costco when I discovered that I was absolutely starving and needed a slice of pizza and a Coke from the concession stand. Alas, I had no cash and the stand does not take cards.

Aha! I remembered the Book of Mormon in the car seat pocket, pulled it out, and flipped through the pages to find three crisp dollar bills--just enough for a slice and a soda.

Jesus saves, friends.

(I hope the fact that we keep dollars in our Book of Mormon isn't, you know, offensive. We're not Mormon, but there's a definite reverence for the book which has saved us on many an occasion.)

Birthday Suit

My husband is excellent at selecting clothes. He errs on the side of simplicity, which is exactly how I prefer my wardrobe. Every birthday he selects a few items and wraps them up in pretty pink paper from Papyrus.

His selections this year:

A pretty pink v-neck and a black cardigan with iridescent buttons.

A lilac top and a gray angora sweater (which I might have to exchange for a different color or sweater--it's a wee bit small and my store is all out of the gray! Boo!).

And a super cute jumper that I'll wear with black tights until it warms up.

Doesn't he do a fine job shopping? Yay for husbands with good taste!

{If you'd like to find these lovely items: from top to bottom, Banana Republic, Gap, and Urban Outfitters.}

The Baker's Edge

Will bought me a Baker's Edge pan for Christmas this year. The pan makes every piece an edge piece and the pieces cut into perfect, pretty squares. You guys, this thing is awesome.

He wrapped the pan up with a Ghirardelli brownie mix that he had ordered online, further proof that the guy will do anything to avoid going into a store. My sister was helping Will wrap a couple of my presents on Christmas Eve, the ones that had been shipped to my mom's house, and I heard my sister laughing about why the hell Will would ship such a thing. Apparently, it came in its own box, shipped all he way from who-knows-where, a brownie mix that is available on every grocery store shelf.

He also picked up a copy of Brownie Mix Bliss, a cookbook where every recipe starts with a boxed brownie mix. That's my kind of cooking! So far, I've made up two batches of regular brownies and a batch of Pecan Pie brownies. Yum!

A recipe for Pecan Pie Brownies is after the jump.

Love is Sharing

Will: Do you want to go to the doughnut store and share a doughnut?

Me: Ummmmm....

Will: You can say no.

Me: I don't want to say no, but what kind of doughnut are you thinking you would want to share?

Will: Well, I'd probably share an apple fritter with myself and you'd probably share something pink with sprinkles with yourself.

Me: Yes. Let's go, then.

On (Not) Staining Furniture

There's this lovely thrift store around the corner from my office. I know it seems strange to describe a thrift store as lovely, but the place is seriously the nicest thrift store I've been in. It is run by dozens of little old lady volunteers who set everything out just so. They make little displays of themed things and lots of the stuff seems less thrifty and more like cool stuff that you'd find at your grandmother's house.

A few weeks ago, Will mentioned wanting to stain furniture. We have a garage at our new place--the first time we've had a garage in our marriage--and I guess there is something about a garage that makes a man want to get handy. I swear, I actually think the garage is Will's favorite "room" in the house. I sometimes catch him out there dusting off the washer and dryer.

In any event, since we had been looking for a credenza and since Will had expressed a desire to stain some furniture, we took a trip to the lovely thrift store. I found a great piece of furniture, a six-foot dresser that I thought would repurpose perfectly as a credenza.

We were standing in the store, considering the dresser, and Will was discussing the staining process, which was going to require buying a sander, taking apart the dresser, some serious sanding, some staining, and putting back together the dresser. It was suddenly becoming clear that the whole thing was going to take a long time. Will, by nature, works deliberately and methodically (read: slowly) and as he was discussing the whole process, I realized that it wasn't like the dresser was gonna be ready by the weekend. In fact, it sounded more like the thing would be ready in 2011. If I was lucky.

But, since the dresser was a great price, in great condition, and wouldn't require driving 150 miles to Ikea, we bought it. Will and his friends picked it up and, by the time I got home from work, it was sitting in the house.

Now, you know how sometimes you are in a thrift store or a place like T.J. Maxx? And there are a million mismatched things all mashed together? And it's hard to imagine what something would look like removed from all the other stuff that's around it? But then you try something on or bring something home and it is just fabulous?

Well, that's what was going on with this dresser (now credenza). I was so absolutely positive that it would need to be stained, that it was just too much the wrong color, too 1975 for my taste. But, then it was in my house, removed from the graveyard of dressers and tacky headboards in the thrift store, and voila! It just sort of worked. I used some shoe polish to fill in some dings and we were done.

I think Will actually breathed a sigh of relief. When he said that he wanted to stain furniture, I think he was imagining an end table, maybe. Or a small chair. Not a six-foot dresser with nine drawers and a cupboard and a bunch of beveling.

It seems to have worked out better for everyone. Will can find something more manageable to work on in the garage (maybe the top of our coffee table, hint, hint) and I don't have to wait five months for a place to hide the mail when guests come over.

Lemon Coconut

I ordered Will's birthday cake from the Madonna Inn Bakery. When I called in the order, they asked how many people we would be serving and when I told them there would be 4 cake-eaters, they suggested the 6-inch cake. I scoffed at the idea of a measly 6-inches and went with the slightly larger 8-inch cake. I mean, there were going to be 3 MEN over plus cake-loving ME. We'd all probably want two slices.

It is an enormous cake. Although deeeelicious, we ate only maybe one-third of it. And not because we didn't try.

Cake for breakfast anyone?

The Dangerous Enchilada Incident

Let me explain what's going on here.

You're gonna need some background.

On Will's birthday, I came up with the great idea of going out to dinner.

Will nixed the idea, deciding instead that he wanted to stay in and cook something in our new kitchen. He announced that HE WANTED TO MAKE THE DINNER!

I stated that I thought this was a terrible idea, that nobody should have to cook their own birthday dinner, but being the kind of guy who wishes for a bread machine, he thought it would be all kinds of fun and insisted on the plan.

It seemed to be going so well. Will went out shopping and came back with all sorts of things to make a Mexican dinner. He whipped up a batch of guacamole and a batch of homemade salsa, both delicious.

And then it started going downhill.

Will put Ken and I in charge of making the enchiladas.

(The enchiladas! The most important part of the meal!)

(Maybe I use the term "in charge of" a bit loosely, since Ken and I basically were assembling the enchiladas from ingredients that Will had chopped up and set out in order for us. We definitely did not have any sort of managerial role in the process.)

In any event, I was in the kitchen, cooking--this is how you know it's going to get bad--and I reached over to open a drawer. Somehow, I don't quite know how, I was stuck.

Really stuck.

I know it doesn't look like I'm very stuck, but I was very much jammed between the drawer and the handle and could not wriggle free.

I took off my wedding ring to try to make some room, but that didn't help.

Ken got out a butter knife (because THAT'S what you want to help pry your hand free).

Will got out the camera.

(If you click, you can make these photos larger! And more dramatic!)

Several minutes later (several terrifying minutes!), I was finally released. Finally given back my sweet freedom. I have vowed never to go in the kitchen again. No good can come of it.

Baking Bread

I bought my husband a bread machine for his birthday.

I know.

A few months ago, some items mysteriously showed up on my Amazon Wish List, items that I clearly did not put on the list. There are some things that I would just never add to my Amazon Wish List, no matter how many glasses of wine I'd consumed. One of these items being a bread machine (see also: waffle head potato masher, barrel rolling pin, Calphalon nylon pancake turner). Turns out that Will had "accidentally" added the items to my list, because he had neglected to log out of my account and into his own account. But then he just left them there, sitting on my List, making is seem like I'm the type of girl who would wish for a bread machine. Way to ruin a girl's reputation, Will.

But, so, knowing that he wanted a bread machine, I took myself to the store and stared at four bread machines for thirty minutes, attempting to discern the difference between the models. Fruit and nut dispenser? Convection fan? Timer functions? What the what?

I chose the one that best matched our kitchen and called it a day.

Thirty Five

Happy 35th Will!

A Discussion About Bacon Between Two Vegetarians

A few weeks ago, while we were in San Luis Obispo, my friend Ken ordered a BLT at a little cafe. After singing the praises of the thick bacon, I asked for a small piece. Ken broke off two pieces of bacon, a piece each for Will and I to taste. It was the first bite of bacon I've had in over two years. We're still discussing the bacon. Last night:

Me: Man, bacon is so good.

Will: I didn't really like the thick bacon that Ken had us taste.

Me: Oh? I really liked that thick bacon.

Will: I don't really like bacon that you have to chew.

Me: I like chewy bacon.

Will: Well, I like bacon that you have to crunch.

Me: I like bacon you have to crunch, too.

Will: The best bacon is homemade bacon.

Me: The best bacon is all bacon.

Opposites Attract

Will is the type of person who has one pencil and one pen, both of which are kept in particular spots. He keeps the same instruments for years. Years! He actually purchases replacement lead and erasers for his sole mechanical pencil.

I, on the other hand, have dozens and dozens of pens and pencils, and yet the one I really want to use is nowhere to be found.

Merci Beaucoup

This is just to say thank you to the person who paid the bills, cooked the meals, sat long hours in coffee shops, proofread my papers for the tiniest of errors, made me laugh, convinced me that I was doing a great job (even when I was watching old Seinfeld episodes), forced me to study when it mattered and to go the movies when it didn't, explained boring business association concepts, kept me sane, listened to my many complaints and then persuaded me to just let it go already, made me take my vitamins and eat my spinach, bought me a membership to the Santa Barbara Museum of Art to celebrate, and, generally, made it all worthwhile. Made the whole dang shebang worthwhile.

William Wallace, you are the real deal.

On Retirement Cruises

A conversation between Will and me while we are sitting on the couch, browsing the Internet on our respective laptops:

Me: What are you looking at?

Will: Your retirement account.

Me (leaning over to take a peek): Oh, cool! I am totally using that money to take a nice cruise through the Greek Isles.

Will: Yeah. You can take your sister.

Me: You don't want to go?

Will: No, thanks. I don't want to be a party to you blowing your nest egg on shrimp cocktail and watered-down adult beverages.

Come on. Doesn't my husband know me at all? I mean, I would never blow all my money on shrimp cocktail, which I totally despise, and you can't water down wine. Sheesh.

Practical and Fanciful

Twice in the last few weeks, Will and I have ended up at a Trader Joe's at ten minutes to closing. We don't have a Trader Joe's in Davis, so when we pass one on the freeway or happen to be in a town with one, we stop in to buy some of our favorite things. Generally, we shop together, but on our last two trips we've arrived at ten minutes to nine, requiring us to divide and conquer. We each take a basket and meet up at checkout.

If ever there was away to sum up the differences between us, simply take a peek into our respective baskets.

Will fills his basket with: apples, bananas, potatoes, asparagus, broccoli, zucchini, salad mix, frozen vegetables, pizza, beer, bran cereal, pasta sauce, vitamins, soy milk.

I fill my basket with: chocolate covered espresso beans, raspberry tarts, honey yogurt, dried cherries, wine, ginger cookies, sparkling lime water, blueberries, half and half.

It's a good thing we have each other.

P.S. A fun illustration from Trader Joe's recent Fearless Flyer.

Thirty Candles

After eating days of cupcakes, I announced on Tuesday that I WAS NEVER EATING ANOTHER PIECE OF CAKE AGAIN EVER EVER EVER. But when Will arrived home yesterday with a mocha chocolate cake from Let Them Eat Cake, I quickly forgot about my cake ban and immediately swiped a bit of the espresso-infused chocolate frosting. Yuuuuummm!

Me: How did you get 30 candles to fit around the edge so perfectly?
Will: Math.
Me: No, really?
Will: Really. Math.

{Just another benefit of being married to a former math teacher: orderly birthday candles.}

Geez, it was terribly reckless of us to not have a fire department on standby. Thirty is already looking awfully bright!

The Polite Contest

A few days ago, our Internet went out and Will spent some time on the telephone sorting out the problem (diagnosis: broken modem). I overheard the last few minutes of the conversation, the part where Will was absolutely gushing thank yous.

After the call, Will came out of the office and informed me, "I was talking to a guy in India and it was a competition between us to see who could be more polite. I almost invited him out to California!"

They were even on a first name basis, Will and the guy from India (who is named Michael, by the way, though I suspect that is probably not his real name). Will kept referring to the guy by his first name: "Michael says the modem will be mailed out tomorrow." "I need to go online and fill out a survey about my experience on the phone with Michael." "Michael thinks we'll be back online by Friday." They were practically friends.

A few days later, the modem arrived, and Will ran into the house exclaiming, "I can't believe it! Michael OUT-POLITED ME! He won the polite contest!"

The box, you see, was addressed simply to "Will." That's it. No last name. Just "Will" and then our address. First name basis indeed.

Things Over which Will and I Disagree

1. Whether we need a nutmeg mill
2. The deliciousness of cheese
3. The perfect thermostat set-point

{Proof that a good marriage does not require agreement on every issue}

Checkout

I don't do grocery shopping.

Sometimes I tag along with Will when he does the shopping, but I rarely shop alone.

The reason is clear:

Things Will puts in the cart: spinach, salad greens, squash, bell peppers, onions, cucumbers, apples, bananas, beans, tortillas, whole wheat bread, long grain rice, soy milk, orange juice.

Things I put in the cart: chocolate bars, raspberries, scones, sparkling water, brownie mix, wine, fancy cheese, Lucky Charms, frozen cherries.

(I've always been this way--check out lines 13 and 14 from a poem I wrote some eight years ago in an undergrad poetry class. Please note that the poem is not very good, but that it is a villanelle, which is one of the most difficult types of poems to write.)

Tonight, I went grocery shopping all on my own. I resolved to shop like Will, buying only healthy options--lots of green and whole grain things. A girl can't shop on resolve alone, though, so I first stopped at the little coffee bar in my local Nugget Market. Doesn't a hot cup of coffee in the cart drink holder make shopping a little bit lovelier? And, how lovely is my grocery store, by the way?

So, I picked out grains. I picked out greens. I picked out a butternut squash. I picked out cans of black beans. I filled up the cart with only the most nutritious items.

And then I got to the checkout and looked in the cart and thought, "well, hell, that doesn't look like much fun." So, I grabbed TWO different types of chocolate peppermint candies and tossed them in as well.

Old habits are hard to break.

Super Sonic

Based on Holly's rave review, I am absolutely convinced that I need a Clarisonic Skin Cleansing Brush. So convinced, in fact, that I was still browsing the website when Will arrived home from work an hour later.

I explained to Will everything that Holly had said about this amazing skin cleaning system, plus additional information that I gathered from the site, in an attempt to convince him that spending a bunch of money on a sonic face washer was a fabulous idea.

I then pointed out that we could even get a Skin Care Pair--a Mr. and Mrs. set of Clarisonic brushes. I was sure Will would fall for this, seeing as he is in love with his Sonicare Toothbrush, and the two devices were created by the same sonic-loving individual.

"Are you crazy? I wouldn't want anybody to know I was using that thing!" Will responded.

"But we will be glowy and radiant! We will have smaller pores! Dewier skin! And look! We can even have them engraved with something!"

Will's response? "Fine. Whatever. But engrave mine with NOT WILL'S."

(No) Pumpkin Soup For You

Will and I are standing in Costco yesterday, when I discover something that looks mighty delicious: spiced pumpkin bisque. Two big containers of the stuff for $8.99. I hold up the package and exclaim to Will across the refrigerated section, "OMG! Pumpkin Soup! Yum! Let's get it!"

Will is not impressed by the pumpkin soup, not even when I clarify that it is pumpkin bisque, actually, which is a fancy sort of pumpkin soup. Will does not think we should buy the pumpkin bisque. Will vetoes the pumpkin bisque.

Why? Oh, well, Will thinks we should make pumpkin soup from scratch, using a real pumpkin. He thinks it will be much tastier, this hypothetical real-pumpkin pumpkin soup.

There is only one person to blame for this:

Gavin.

Our friend Gavin, who is a superb chef, is always wowing us with fancy sorts of dishes, using all variety of fresh ingredients and I just know that he is somehow behind this pumpkin soup situation. When Will saw that packaged pumpkin soup, I am about 99 percent positive that Will thought, "hmmm, what would Gavin do?" And What Would Gavin Do (WWGD)? Gavin would make the soup from a real pumpkin. I verified this in an email to my friend Jenny, Gavin's wife, who responded that yes, that is definitely what Gavin would do and, in fact, she remembers a similar sort of conversation in her house last fall regarding soup.

She reports that Gavin made the soup. Will Will?

Thirty Four

I don't know how it is even possible that the time has flown so quickly, but I met Will just after his 24th birthday. Today he turns 34. Thirty four!

Ten years I've been looking at this face. Ten years!

It's quite a lucky thing that he's so good looking.

Christmas at Macy's

I ran out of makeup this week, so I made a quick trip to Macy's today. Since Macy's is in the next town over, I convinced Will to chauffeur me to the big city.

We rode the elevator from the underground parking garage to the first floor of the store, the cosmetics and fragrance department.

When the elevator doors opened, Will said, " it smells like Christmas in here."

It did not, in fact, smell like Christmas in Macy's--it smelled like any old day in a department store cosmetics and fragrance department--but anybody have a guess at how often Will visits a Macy's (or any department store for that matter)? Yep. Once a year. Christmas.

Six Years

And what a fun journey it's been so far!

How We Got So Lucky

Our friends Jenny and Gavin came to Davis for a weekend visit.

Here's what Jenny and I did:

We lounged in the hotel bar. We went shopping. We took ourselves out for ice cream. Twice. We danced in the living room to songs from the 90s. We bought big bottles of beer from the liquor store and drank them wrapped in paper bags. We baked pocket pies while wearing cute Anthropologie aprons.

And what did our husbands do?

Oh, well, they shopped for fresh vegetables at the farmers' market. We ate some kettle corn while they filled a whole stroller with about twenty pounds of produce.

They cooked a fancy dinner with their farmers' market selections. They made homemade beets and cajun pasta and salad and crusty bread. You will not believe me, but I swear it took them three full hours to make the meal. Even the carrots in the salad were fancy.

They mixed basil vodka gimlets for us.

They held babies and watched cartoons and changed diapers.

Best. Husbands. Ever.

I don't know how we got so lucky. Must be all our charm. Plus the aprons.

$100 Richer

My husband owes me $100.

It went down like this.

Will and I were driving in the car and I had this huge Otis Spunkmeyer cookie, of which I had eaten maybe a third.

"Have some cookie," I offered.

"No thanks, I'm good," Will replied.

"There's no way I can eat it all," I said.

"I'll bet you $100 you finish that cookie," Will responded.

He was probably right so I promptly rolled down my window and threw the rest of the cookie into the street.

Obviously, I didn't finish the cookie, which was now on the pavement, so I think Will owes me the $100.

I have yet to see the money, so I need your help. If you agree that I should get the $100, leave a comment!

Deal Breaker

We're sitting in the office, eating tortilla chips and hot salsa, when Will announces, "I really don't think I could be married to you if you didn't like salsa." Picky, picky.

True Colors

The day after Christmas, on the way to lunch and a movie, we smashed up our car on the freeway. The details of the crash are relatively simple--in order to avoid an accident on the verge of occurring up ahead (lots of hard braking and smoke), Will veered into the next lane and was read-ended by a Kia. The damage was minimal, relatively speaking: our rear bumper was basically ruined, the Kia's front bumper was pretty scratched up. No one was hurt. The airbags did not deploy.

I like situations like this, obviously not because we now have to pay a $500 deductible to our insurance company, but because of the way my husband reacts in lousy situations. He remains remarkably calm and collected, a trait that makes him, as my uncle describes, "the guy you want up at the plate when it's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs."

So, the first thing Will does after the crash is tell me to call the folks we're meeting for lunch and tell them to order him the soup and sandwich lunch special, as we'll be a few minutes late and don't want to miss the movie on account of this small hold-up.

Will then calms down the slightly-freaking-out other party.

At this point a California Highway Patrol car shows up. And then a second CHP car. And then a third. Not much going at at noon on the 26th, I surmise.

I'm thinking there's no way we're making it to lunch and a movie.

We've now got a lot of officers hanging out with us on the side of the freeway in our hometown, a quarter mile from the mall exit. The officers take info from the Kia people first. The Kia people depart. It's us and the CHP left on the side of the road.

With the barely noticeable damage to our vehicle, the three CHP cars, and the four officers taking reports, I'm pretty sure it appears that we're being interrogated for something more severe than a fender-bender (warrant out for our arrest? knocking off a liquor store? involvement in a high-speed chase?). I'm also pretty sure that every single one of my former students passed by in the 20 minutes or so that the report-taking and insurance-calling took. I report the awesomeness of this every time I relay the story (who cares about the actual accident, I'm practically a criminal. It was three cop cars and us!).

We make it to lunch.

The people we are meeting look seriously concerned. Will, ever the counselor, assures them that everybody is okay, accidents happen, no biggie.

The accident is forgotten.

We laugh in the movie, just as we would have if we didn't have a car in the parking lot that needed a brand new bumper. I sneak a peek at Will several times during the movie. He's concerned with only two things: popcorn and Jim Carrey. I'm glad we chose a comedy and, even more, I'm glad to be married to a man that hits a grand slam when the pressure is on.

Double Decker

Yesterday, my lunch arrived with tiny Fig Newton club sandwiches on the side. My husband, the daily lunch-maker, sure is cute.

Club 33

Both Will and his sister, Nicole, have September birthdays, so we celebrated last night at a big beach bonfire in Santa Cruz. We were sitting in the sand, making s'mores and drinking punch. Somebody was playing a bongo drum.  It was all very laid back and cool. 

And then somewhere between 32 and 33, Will got old.

Nicole: This birthday is so chill. 

Will: It is pretty chilly out here. I'm gonna put my jacket on.

Nicole: Dude, chill. Not chilly. 

Or, Eight in the Morning

A conversation between my mother-in-law and my husband on Facebook:

Mom: Good morning. Have a wonderful day.

Will: Happy Saturday! Got to love those first few weekends after work starts back up...I'm appreciating sleeping in some.

Mom: What is "sleeping in"?

Will: Well, it's a lot like a nap, only you do it before you wake up in the morning.

Krispy Kreme: A Retrospective

Five years of anniversary doughnuts and the wedding stack that started it all.

I'm Half Crazy, All for the Love of You

Today is our 5th wedding anniversary and I can still convince Will to take super-cheesy photos with me. Life is good.

Cocky

It's Saturday night at the high school prom and Will and I are standing at the top of the stairs in the lobby of a nice downtown hotel. We're on chaperone duty, poised between the hotel bar and the lobby, with the task of keeping high schoolers from entering the bar area and drunk bar-goers from entering the prom area.

Not much is going on and Will and I are chatting away, when Will's eyes suddenly go wide and his jaw drops to the floor. I turn to look and, I can barely believe what I am seeing, but there is a man in the bar with his penis out. He's got his belt undone, his fly unzipped, and his penis is just chillin' there next to his glass of beer.

Now, I don't know what you would do if you saw a penis out at a bar, but we were responsible for 600 teenagers and, somehow, kids + alcohol + bar + penis did not add up to equal the kind of thing that sounded like a particularly good calculation.

After a few seconds the guy put his penis away and zipped his pants back up and the problem was resolved. Temporarily. Five minutes later, he is standing up and undoing his belt again, presumably to bring his penis back to the party. I'm thinking we should tell security or something, but before I can suggest that plan, Will has entered the bar and is hovering over the guy in what Will later reports he wished would have resulted in a bigger confrontation. Maybe involving a punch, what with Will being larger and sober and all.

Instead, the conversation goes like this, except with more much graphic language and a lot of in-your-face finger pointing by Will.

Will: You better not take your cock out again.

Guy: (mumbling) I was just joking around.

Will: There are 600 16 and 17 year-olds right over there...

Guy: I didn't take my cock out over there!

Will: No, you took it out here, right in that chair.

Guy: No I didn't!

Will: Yes, you did. And then you touched that girl right there.

Guy: Well, uh--

Will: Don't do it again. If you do, it will involve the police and jail.

Guy: Okay, okay, we're cool. High five, man.

Will: Get your hand away from me. You just had it down your pants, dude.

The penis, no longer welcome at the bar, stayed put for a good ten minutes, until the guy removed his shirt, put his hand down his pants, and promptly passed out on a Sheraton sofa.

At which point, I informed security.

At which point, the guy and his penis were escorted from the hotel.

At which point, his girlfriend, laughing until this point, also had to leave.

At which point, his girlfriend became distraught because they had to leave behind the large group of wedding-goers they were partying with.

At which point I wonder which is tackier: having your penis out an upscale hotel bar or having a girlfriend who thinks that is hilarious.

Penis police on patrol, protecting prom partygoers since 2008.

Requires Memorization

My husband's order at Starbucks?

Grande iced decaf sugar-free hazelnut nonfat latte.

He's that guy.

Beat by a Girl

Although Will came in 59th out of some 425 triathletes at the triathlon he attended this weekend, he was beat by a 12-year-old girl.

Ladies, let's salute Hannah Rae Finchamp! Getting grown men to train harder and faster, one triathlon at a time.

True That

Will: Why don't you get the green dress?

Me: No, I like the black dress better. It's more classic. And more slimming.

Will: Black is not slimming. You know what's slimming?

Me: No. What?

Will: The treadmill.

My husband, always keepin' it real.

Lint-rolling

I just overheard my husband say:

There is cat hair ALL OVER this blanket. I swear, I'm just gonna lint-roll the cat.

Lint-roll the Cat: v. (lint-rōl) to apply a roll of adhesive paper directly onto a feline, thus removing loose hair directly from the animal and preempting the transfer of said hair to other household surfaces.

Tri Fashion

My husband wears spandex in public.

He pairs the spandex with a "muscle shirt."

Yet, despite the fact that he will squish into a teeny pair of shorts and a muscle shirt, for some reason he will not agree to wear a pink spandex suit. I just can't understand why.

Apparently, he is more of a bright, primary color kind of guy.

Blue Shirt, Blue Boxers

Because you would likely never find this out on your own, but I really think you ought to know:

My husband purposefully matches his boxers to his t-shirts.

Hot Diggity

About 10 minutes after eating a hot dog from The Hotdogger, Will announced that his stomach hurt.

I wanted to feel sorry for him, really I did, but he ordered a hot link covered in hot salsa, hot peppers, hot chili, cheese, diced onions, and tomatoes. This dog, which caused him to literally sweat, was appropriately named "The Gut Bomb."

He claims that it is the dog that "any self-respecting man would order."

27 Going on 7

Me: Hey, I ate the can of Chef Boyardee Ravioli that was in the pantry.

Will: Oh yeah? Good. I bought that for you.

Me: You bought it for me?

Will: Of course. You think I would eat that shit? I'm an adult.

Will Snaps

In a short ten minutes, my Thanksgiving break starts. Will, on the other hand, did not need to go to work at all this week. I guess teachers and counselors need longer vacations because of all the hard work they do.

On a couple of occasions, we have gone out with a group of teachers and, as I listen to them complain about all the hard work they do, I have two conflicting feelings. As a former teacher, I remember that teaching was very hard work. I remember having to stay late and grade papers and deal with some annoying kids and their more annoying parents. Teaching was hard and I complained about it. But, conflicting with this empathy is an even stronger feeling: teaching is hard, yes, but you know what is harder? Law school. Put all those teachers in law school for two months and suddenly teaching? Eh, not such a big deal after all.

Don't get me wrong, I really do think teaching is hard work. It's just not that hard. This is not to say that law school is the hardest thing on the planet, either; there are certainly things a lot harder than law school. Being a crab fisherman in Alaska, for example. Now there's a job to get drunk and complain about.

Although I'd argue that I was the one who needed the extra days off, I can say with some certainty that Will got substantially more things done than I would have. He washed a big pile of laundry. He cleaned the living room. He vacuumed the carpet. He packed for our Thanksgiving trip to Southern California. He even had time leftover to study Spanish, read a book, and take some photographs. I just loved the hydrant photo, above, and set several more of his photographs to automatically post on the Daily Snap over the next week. Most of the photos are of the trees around our apartment complex, many of which have leaves that are turning lovely colors.

Left alone for one more day, Will might have cooked up a turkey. The more I think about the situation, the more I think that some extra days of vacation for Will? Not such a bad idea after all.

A Tragedy of Mammoth Proportion

So my cell phone rings and my caller identification informs me that it is Will calling. I pick up.

"I have really bad news," he says.

I can hear a panic in his voice. Some anxiety. Some distress.

"Are you sitting down?" he asks.

I am.

"I'm across the street at the market and I have to tell you something that you are not going to like," he informs me.

Not going to like?

"The thing is," he continues, "they are completely out of peppermint ice cream and the stock boy doesn't know if they will be getting anymore in."

Bad news? Bad news? THAT'S PUTTING IT MILDLY!

Germs on Burns

I had been sitting in front of the computer for some time, trying to think of a post, when Will stopped reading a book to discuss a smallish burn on his wrist, a wound from cooking dinner three nights ago.

Will: What should I do about this burn?

Me: Nothing. It's fine.

Will: But it's totally exposed to germs!

Me: So what? It's not an open wound. No germs are getting in.

Will: It is an open wound now! The blister popped. It looks liquidy.

Me: Well, put a bandage on it.

(Will extends his arm in mock dramatics that suggest that the wound? It has made him immobilized. He cannot get up from the couch and make it to the medicine cabinet without much pain and suffering.)

Me: Oh, okay, okay. I'll get a bandage for you. Just as soon as I write this post.

Will: Oh great. I may not survive that long.

Turning into a Pumpkin

It's just a few minutes short of midnight on the third day of National Blog Posting Month and I've already almost screwed it all up. When I left the apartment this afternoon, I intended to be back by 11pm, with plenty of time to put together a post about last night's fabulous wine and cheese party, complete with photographic evidence of the many bottles of wine we consumed.

But we're an hour late arriving home. First, the movie we went to see started thirty minutes later than we thought and second, Will, who has a rental bicycle while his is getting a tune-up, was "bunny hopping" speed bumps on the ride home. This caused the chain to fall off his bike and we spent several minutes sitting on the bike path as Will reassembled his rental bike and then attempted to clean his now-greasy hands with leaves from the side of the road.

You know that blogging has consumed your life when you're sitting on a deserted bike path, in the middle of the night, with one broken bike, and a long walk home and all you can think is, damn, I'm totally not going to get that post in on time.

C is for Counselor

Some people in Davis forgot to check the weather report this morning, which means that some people had to ride their bikes home in the pouring rain. Will and I both arrived home at a little after one in the afternoon and we were both fully soaked from our respective fifteen minute bike rides. After changing out of our wet clothes, we made some soup and then took a nap--the perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon, if you ask me.

There's something wildly disappointing about this particular rainy afternoon, however, bike ride aside. You see, this afternoon was supposed to be the local high school's homecoming parade. It is the only high school in town so this parade was not going to be around the high school track or across the football stadium--this parade was going to run straight through downtown Davis.

Will, being a counselor at the high school, was supposed to be in this parade through downtown. The ladies in the counseling department came up with the cute idea of using Cookie Monster and "C is for Counselor" as the main theme for their parade entry. They even made giant cookie costumes.

I packed my camera this morning to capture Will riding his bike through Davis wearing a bright blue shirt and a giant cardboard chocolate chip cookie, but, I am sorry to report, the parade was cancelled due to rain.

I don't believe that Will shares my disappointment.

One Score and 12 Years Ago

Thirty-two looks pretty good, if you ask me. Happy Birthday to You, Will!

Anniversary Number Four

While packing up the kitchen a few days ago, Will found a dried out wishbone, something that we had apparently set on top of a piece of wall art to dry and forgot completely about.

He held out one end to me and told me to make a wish, playing the old traditional game which says that the person who breaks off the larger part of the bone gets their wish granted.

I made a wish and reached for the bone, but then recoiled. I had some questions. Mainly, I wanted to know whether it would affect my wish negatively if I received the short end of the bone. I didn't want to make a wish that was too important and end up causing adverse results in the event I lost.

I voiced my concerns to Will, who told me not to worry. My wish would come true if I broke off the larger piece, he told me, but there would be no unfavorable results if I pulled the short end, and to go on and make the wish and whatever I wished for he was sure would come true anyway. I asked how he knew, since he didn't know what my wish was, and he said he just did.

I pulled the larger piece. You know that you can't share wishes out loud or they will not come true, but since Will lost, I asked what he wished for. He said he simply wished that my wish, whatever it was, would come true.

Somebody who will blindly wish for the thing you want most. That is love. And that sums up why I married Will and love him at least twice as much four years later.

Happy Anniversary!

The Baby Name Game

A lot of our friends have had babies lately. In fact, we know at least eight babies under the age of one and a dozen or so more in the one to five range.

On a recent car ride, I was quizzing Will on all the new baby names. I would name the couple and Will would try to remember the baby's name. It went like this, with names changed to protect the crazy new parents. He did get a few right. Like your kid. He definitely got your kid's name right.

Me: Okay, the Johnson's new baby.
Will: Ummmm. Give me a hint.
Me: Okay, starts with a D.
Will: Ummmm. Daniel? David? Derek?
Me: Well, how about the Smith's new baby?
Will: Yeah. Ummmm. Starts with a G....?
Me: Oh God. The Taylor baby?
Will: They had their baby?!

Finally,

Will: Hey! I know Rachel's baby's name! Emma!
Me: What? Who is Rachel? Who is Emma?
Will: You know, Rachel. From Friends.

Maybe we need to spend more time with our friends and less time watching our Friends DVDs at midnight.