I am the least anxious person I know. Just ask my husband. He’s the most anxious person he and I both know, so he knows what he’s talking about. However, there are some times when my borderline-OCD (slash) anxiety-ridden (slash) on-his-own-clock husband drives me bonkers. When that happens, I get anxious. When I get anxious, I get angry. When I get angry, I shouldn’t talk to people. Especially my husband.

Last night, my husband insisted on driving separately to his football association’s banquet because he wanted to leave his new baby (AKA his new mondo truck) at the dealership so they could check on the squeak that only happens to squeak when it’s cold. He figured it would be cold this morning and the technicians would hear the annoyance right away. Ok, great. I can follow him to the dealership. However, I should have known he would want to take the detour down a closed road, through a gated community, over the river and through the woods before arriving at the dealership 10 minutes before the bar at the banquet opens. While I’m watching my husband fill out paperwork and then spend an eternity trying to shove his key in the drop box, my anxiety only worsens.

  1. I’m missing the beverages. My husband is the DD. I’m missing multiple beverages.
  2. I don’t know the people at this banquet. Beverages would help that situation, but I’m missing out on them.
  3. My husband is still trying to shove that damn key in the freaking drop box like it’s hot. I’m screaming on the inside.

I know I just need to take a deep breath and get over myself. So I do… After I politely ask my husband if I can hold on to his e-cig while discretely rolling down my window. In my fantasy, I’m throwing that damn thing out the window while simultaneously jumping up and down on it. I realize that’s not possible, but it does help my anxiety. Anyway, he laughs because he noticed I was rolling down my window. Ha ha. He tries to make small talk with me. I respond with death threats. He asks why I’m being mean. I tell him it’s because I don’t get anxious. I don’t like being anxious! I am the least anxious person I know! He knows this! I get angry when I get anxious! I don’t like being angry!

And then I feel better. I can smile again. No more anxiety. I’m all zen. Beverages, here I come.



I’ve heard this word before, but I wasn’t really sure if it was for real. I mean, it could be one of those words you think is real but it’s really an urban legend or something you dreamed of or maybe it was uttered on SportsCenter and now it’s trendy. Anyway, I like it. It describes my newfound yen for Twitter.

I’m trying to be more socially active, so I opened a new Twitter account. I’m Malbec Time. I love my coffee, but I also love my wine. However, don’t confuse me for an oenophile. I am not a wine snob. I do not have a damp, dark wine cellar in my house. I don’t subscribe to Wine Spectator. I just like wine. Red wine, to be exact. Malbec, to be precise. I used to belong to an international wine of the month club where they would send me 2 bottles of red every month. I love getting mail, and I love wine, so this was a perfect match! However, you have to be home in order for FedEx to deliver your wine, since they require a signature for alcoholic beverage delivery. I work from home now, so I can’t use the office as my backup signatory.

Anyway, I based my new Twitter account on my love of wine. I don’t just post tweets or pictures of my wine of the day though. I’ve found that limiting myself to 140 characters is hard, but it’s at times easier to convey my thoughts (or irritations) about my daughter, my job, my husband, etc. in a few sentences and hashtags. So feel free to follow me (@Wine4ThisMom). I appreciate the love.

A Dog’s Life

Do you have a dog? I do. His name is Charlie. He’s a chocolate lab. He’s adorable. But not when he’s pawing me while I’m in the bathroom or sitting in my favorite spot on the living room couch drinking a glass of wine or even when he decides to break free from his leash and take off to poop in the neighbor’s yard — the one neighbor who doesn’t have a dog so it’s pretty obvious that the huge load he just dropped can only be from my dog. Or, it could be from that double doodle a few houses down but I doubt any dog can drop a load like my Charlie. But I digress.

My dog has it made. He gets to sleep all day. He gets to go for a walk when his owners feel the weather is warm enough so he can lift his leg on every post, mailbox, street sign, and blade of grass. But only those blades of grass that he doesn’t mistake for green beans. Because those blades of grass get eaten up. Just yesterday we were out for a walk and Charlie insisted on tasting about a hundred thousand blades of grass. This is what was running through his mind: There’s a green bean. Nope. That was grass. Another green bean. Nope. Green bean! Nope. Green bean! No, but there’s a green bean! Blah. Not a green bean. Green bean! Jackpot! Green bean! Nope. Green bean!

And this is why Charlie has a made life. Green beans. Why green beans? We took our little beast to the vet in December and found out (once again) that he was a bit on the heavy side. The vet suggested we start feeding him 1.5 cups of dog food with 1/2 cup of green beans. I, personally, don’t know why any dog would want green beans from a can. Fresh green beans — yes. From a can? Uh, gross. Well we tried the green bean diet the next day. We’ve created a monster. The damn dog knows exactly when it’s time to eat breakfast and knows exactly when he’s going to be fed his dinner. With green beans. Don’t forget those green beans. He’s rabid. (He doesn’t really have rabies, but if a dog had rabies I bet it would bark and drool just like Charlie as he watches us scoop green beans into his food bowl.)

I love my dog.