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.

High Heels

The hubby was gone early yesterday morning, so it was me & Lele doing the morning school routine. I decided to wear a skirt since it was officially my first day back in the office for the new year. I wish I could say that I took the first full week of January off because we were celebrating my daughter’s 11th birthday and the beginning of 2016 on a tropical island in the South Pacific. Ha. Nope. I took the first full week in January off because clumsy me fell down the stairs on New Year’s Day. There’s not really a great story behind the fall either. Nope again. The hubby and I were going downstairs to make breakfast for my daughter and her sleepover buddies when I gracefully lost my footing on the second or third to last step and landed on my back. Damn slippers! (At least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.) After a trip to the ER (nothing broken, but it still hurts like a be-atch!) to learn I had just bruised some muscles in my back (they’re called contusions [all this with no visible bruising on my back even though it hurt like a mother!]), I ended up resting at home for most of the beginning of 2016. Now back to my original story…

I was wearing a cute tealish-green and black skirt with a black turtleneck sweater. I decided to pair it with my dark wash denim cropped jacket—because it’s January… in Ohio… and there’s snow on the ground here. I put on a cute pair of black tights and brought my even cuter black dress boots with the 3-inch heels downstairs with me so we could finish up our morning routine before school. (No, I did not wear the boots down the stairs. Remember reading the first paragraph in this post? Yeah, not taking a chance of falling down the stairs in 3-inch heels. I love my shoes, but I love not being in pain more. I’m a pain wimp. My threshold for pain is so low you couldn’t limbo under it. Although, I should admit that my threshold is probably a lot higher now after having given birth than say 20 years ago when I was in college. Birthing a baby—now that hurts like a mother! Maybe that’s how “mother effer” came about…) But I digress!

Ok, so we’re downstairs, the dog has gone out and wolfed down his breakfast, daughter has had her breakfast and actually eaten the entire croissant instead of just the inside, I’ve taken my crazy pill (just a low dose of Zoloft, people—nothing to write to children’s services about), and we still have about 15 minutes before our basement guy arrives (to start on the finishing of our basement!!! Happy, happy!! Joy, joy!!). 

Cue thumb twiddlers…

Seriously, I’m never early for anything anymore. My daughter just turned 11. I think this is the first time in 11 years that I’ve been 15 minutes early for anything. It’s a good thing I’m memoralizing this in a blog post. All right, well, we have to wait for the basement guys to arrive before we can leave to drop off my daughter at school. The dog doesn’t need to go out. My lunch is packed. We have our coats. Um? Oh, I’ll put on my cute boots so I can walk around and be more adequately prepared to leave. I haven’t worn these boots since last winter. I slip them on and realize how comfortable they are when my daughter asks, “Why do you like to wear high heels?” 

Cue gigantic draw drop and wide bug eyes directed at daughter.

How can I NOT like to wear high heels?! I’m a girl. I like pretty things. I especially like pretty shoes. Boots are no exception. I tell my daughter, “Because they’re pretty.” She doesn’t really get it yet. I don’t know why. We’re almost the same shoe size. I can’t wait until she can wear my shoes. How fun will it be to go shoe shopping and buy multiple pairs of shoes knowing that I won’t need to feel bad for buying multiple pairs of shoes at one time?! Talk about happy happy joy joy! But, alas, I will have to wait a bit longer for my daughter’s shoe infatuation to rear its pretty head. She just looks at me weird. It’s ok. One of these days…