I Just Wub You.

My kids. They used to be so cute. Allow me to show you:

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I  mean, that is some good genes right there. They have my looks and also, my adorable ability to make paper Valentines Hearts.

The cleft chins come from their papa.

All in all, my kids’ insane ability to blow the cuteness meter all out of the stratosphere is MOSTLY DUE TO ME. IT’S ALL ME PEOPLE. I MAKETH GOOD BABIES.

Yes. I know. Back away from the coffee, Momsie.

IT’S VALENTINES DAY. DID YOU KNOW? IT’S THE DAY OF LOOOOOOVE.

But, did you know? I used to kinda hate this holiday. As a bit of backstory:

I didn’t get married until I was 36. I know. I was so old I could barely make it down the aisle. They had to set me up with some oxygen and one of those scooter thingies. Also, I don’t think Brian remembers the event at all because HE WAS A WHOLE YEAR OLDER THAN ME AND I WAS ALREADY REALLY OLD so… you know. For him, dementia had set in.

But anyhow. We were married. And it was freaking awesome. Even though we were so old.

Also, though? Kind of not. Kind of not awesome all the time. In fact, today, even, as I tried to make conversation with two wee cherubs at 6:30 in the morning about whether or not they can have chocolate for breakfast… And I’m there in my robe and praying for the coffee to perk faster so it can catch up with the nutball children who TALK SO MUCH IN THE MORNING… I thought, “The awesomeness is not strong today. But hopefully the coffee will be.”

I ask you. How DO they talk so much in the morning? How? It’s a medical mystery.

Here’s my point (The lawyer, who has been absent a lot from my posts lately because of paycuts, gets to finally, FINALLY, add his “WELL IT’S ABOUT TIME.” to this post):

Valentines Day is a day to express love. The apex of love is NOT marriage. It’s not even kids although we all know they can be rather consuming in that department. I mean, did you SEE the picture above? Who could NOT love that? But also, might I add? The blonde one just spent a better part of this morning, walking around the house in aimless circles singing the Star Wars theme but with the word “Poop” interjected as lyrics. So… not so cute, huh? This moment was also accessorized by Red bending over and adding sound effects and you will thank me for not going into any more detail than that.

I’ll just let your imagination fly.

Ok, so back to my point. Valentines Day.

Love is not about sex or making babies (also sex ) or getting married or even, dare I say, the passionate weirdness I feel for my cats that means that every time I pass them I must grab them and hold them close, to check their furry status and all that. This is harder to do with Bob, the small nervous one who tenses up so much when I pick her up that I think she might break into a million tense and furry pieces.

ANYHOW. What I’m TRYING  to say, is that Valentines Day is about recognizing where all that love comes from. God created us to be like Him, after all.Which means…

He loves us like crazy. And, as I had observed this morning with the Poop Musical going on in my foyer, His crazy love is very apt for what He has to deal with on a daily basis.

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Also this: When my boys were little they used to come up and hug me and say, “I just wub you, mommah.” It’s one of those sweet things I remember, as a well-folded, frayed at the edges Valentine that I keep tucked away in my memory. All moms do this. We store them up, a memory box of adorable reminders.

I wanted you to know that I wub you too, my readers. You have been such a blessing to me.

And a tiny extra shout out to:

My dad. Who reads each and every post.

My mom. Who reads each and every one and then writes me letters and comments back. 🙂

Christy. Super Friend. Super Editor. Super Everything.

Julia Putzke. Super Friend Who I Have Not Actually Met Yet But Thank You Internet for Introducing Us.

 

I just wub you!

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Date Night

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Tonight we will be enjoying a lovely 2%, vintage 2016, for your dining pleasure. It pairs well with kids.  Note the tie.

Last Saturday night romance was in the air. It was intense, y’all. It was like we were on the Titanic and I was all Queen of the World, and then I got to make out with Leonardo DiCaprio, not long before I disallowed him room on my totally huge raft in the freezing North Atlantic. Very romantic. And yet, our evening was warmer.

Also, I would never make out with Leo. Nope. I am married, y’all. My husband completes me.

Of course, Leo didn’t grace us with our presence, but we had this blurry pic of another dinner guest:

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I am blurry. And furry. It’s how I roll.

There were roses. There were chocolates. Earlier that day, the husband let me take a nap, which is the universal, married I Hope I Get Lucky Valentine. But that is another post for another day.

There were also two small boys who had reservations with us for a night of fine dining. I  informed them that they had to come to dinner in ties. And they reacted as if I had asked them to lop off both arms, and then try to attach their ties.

They were informed, in a heavy French accent (I had to take on an accent. It freaks them out and I get to pretend I’m Catherine Deneuve.) “No tie? No food. Zees is Chez Momsie. Dress code, mes bebes.” They sighed heavily, with American accents, clipped their ties onto their Star Wars t-shirts, and showed up at 6:30 pm on the dot. Right on time.

We had a very swanky affair at our house on Valentines Day, and a tradition was born. I printed out menus (thank you, bad clip art!) Macaroni and cheese was offered as an appetizer. I poured the sparkling cider into tiny tippy glasses and no one spilled anything.

 

It was a Valentines miracle.

We ate strawberries and whip cream, the really fancy kind that you squirt out of a can. I offered table-side service for this, as I offered a shot of the stuff in the mouth to each patron. This was a real showstopper.

And we talked about why we loved each other.

“I love Blonde because he shows me how to play Legos,” says Red. He’s grinning like a maniac. This is all mushy and stuff, which is kind of right up his alley. His smile nearly lifts him out of the chair. He lifts his fizzy little glass with panache. “AND I LOVE THIS FANCY DRINK!” he yells. Evidently he thinks we are all in the other room when he speaks, because the bubbles in the drink had evidently made him quite giddy.

Blonde, the wisened 7 year old, has a bit of a tougher time with the mushy business. He is, in all walks of life, less forthcoming with the mush.

“I love Red because…” We all lean in a little.

“Because he is my brother.”

And there it is. The greatest law there is. We love because we are family. We love because we simply have no choice. We are for each other.

My boys are growing older and finding their own friends, their own ways they want to spend an afternoon. They are, however, still pretty inseparable. And what I have told them, almost weekly, is that they, as brothers, must have each other’s backs. They are the ones going to be left when the friends leave, when the family goes, when we get dementia and go into the home, your brother will be the only one left.

(I didn’t really go into the last part with them as I didn’t really want to stop and have to explain ‘dementia’ because depressing. Also, the one other time I sprang this word on them they kept thinking that I was saying, ‘Philadelphia.” Confusing.)

(As a side note to the side note: This whole dementia thing? Really possible because we had kids late in life and when they graduate from high school I’ll be using a walker and won’t be able to see or hear the thing because I will be OLD, y’all. I WAS AROUND BEFORE EMAIL. That old.)

But I digress.

We spent the rest of the evening looking up the bible verses that the husband had put on their Star Wars Valentines. The husband is super spiritual that way. I just shot whip cream at ’em. But he wins in the Jesus department.

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And then we all tried to massacre each other with a really cut throat game of Go Fish.

And that, my friends, is what I call the most romantic evening I have had in a long time.

I am wondering if it competes with Leo’s?

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You and Me Could Write a Bacon Romance.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today. The theme?

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No. I’m not kidding.

So, here goes.

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This is what I know about marriage: if there has been a fight, and it’s just a teensy bit possible that YOU are the one that is the most, er, culpable, and you are really, really lousy at apologizing?

Bacon. Just make some bacon for dinner. Bacon that problem right there.

Also:

Bacon makes you more intelligent. It takes away wrinkles. It will clean the grout in your bathroom. Bacon will, one day, WIN THE WAR IN THE MIDDLE EAST.

Oh… I know. Went too far, didn’t I?

But, wait, there’s more! Bacon could be its own Viagra ad! Because, you know, since I went too far with the whole war thing I might as well go hog wild and carry on. (I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO POINT IT OUT YOU SAW IT I CAN’T EVEN.)

Viagra ad:

Hey! Do you want to take your honey for some weird date where you’re rowing in a boat together and smiling all coy and knowing because sex! Maybe soon! In the rowboat! Should be totally comfortable!

And then, you’re chopping vegetables together again, all coy and knowing because NOTHING is more sexy than chopping vegetables! Sex! Right here ! On the kitchen tile! Even if it’s cold! Just make sure to wash your hands!

And THEN BAM! You are IN A BATHTUB ON THE BEACH! ALL COY AND KNOWING! BECAUSE SEX IS FOR SURE GOING TO HAPPEN! IT’S A BATHTUB ON THE BEACH! WE ARE ALL IN!

If you want this weird lifestyle where you are doing stuff together that is just not normal, and then sex happens because of it, FRY UP SOME BACON.

But. Ask your doctor first. If, you know, you’re healthy enough for bacon.

Sigh. Ok, this post has taken a rather abrupt turn but it’s all I’ve got this morning. And for some reason, I really, really want to go find my husband and play tennis, or take a road trip in a convertible and look, you know, all coy and knowing at him while we stop at a roadside antiques dealer and fondle something shabby and chic.

Oh, and, somehow, NO children will be allowed within a 100 mile radius.

Because, as you mommies know, babies are begat by all that coy and knowing business, all those saucy looks, and then, once you HAVE the babies, they circle you like flies at a picnic for the rest of your lives. ESPECIALLY if there is bacon involved.

And that, my friends, is how I can tie bacon to sex.

It’s my own version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Yes, this is a thing. Click here.

Sex, Digress to Crispy Bacon.

Boom.

If this post doesn’t get a Pulitzer I quit.

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Yes, dear.

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There is a man in my life, y’all. His name is Brian.

He has said ‘Yes’ to me from the beginning. From the beginning, when I saw him across a crowded room of older, single desperate Christian people at a single mingle that was fraught with so much desperation you could TASTE it. He said ‘yes,’ even then, when I made a bee line for him, fixed him in my target because I knew he was who I was going to marry, and so, we needed to talk.

He said ‘yes’ to meeting the next day. And then later he even said yes to spending the rest of his life with me. Actually, he DID ask me and I said yes. But it was all a part of my master plan.

He didn’t have much choice.

Anyhow. He said yes when I lost my mind. By going to get help, he said ‘Yes, I am here. I love you. I will help.” He said yes to letting me stay home and sit and try to write for a ‘living’ because I love it and it makes my heart sing. And he said ‘yes’ when 55% of the stuff i write is about him. Generally, poking FUN at him. But you know. my love language is snark. And he still says ‘Yes.”

He kisses me goodnight every night and kisses me goodbye every morning. And he said ‘Yes’ to all of the book. All of it. He wanted me to write it. Even though… his stuff is in there too.

He is my greatest coach and love. He says “Yes,” again and again and again. In fact, when we were two weeks married, he started saying, “Yes, dear,” to me, with a hint of snark (he can only do a hint of it. His heart is too labrador retriever-ish to be full snark. Poor thing.)

“Brian, can you bring home pizza? I am exhausted.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Brian, could I take a nap? I am exhausted.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Brian, could you give me a hug? I m exhausted.”

“Yes, dear.”

Brian. I just want to have a drink. Just one. I can’t do this anymore.”

“No. Nope. Not gonna happen. Not on my watch. And yes, you can do this.”

“Yes, you can dear.”

I love him so.

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My book, Bottled: How to Survive Early Recovery with Kids, published by Central Recovery Press, is now available!!!!!!! How exciting!! How awesome!!!

I got sober and the whole world became one big yes. I am so very grateful.

God is good. He tells me “Yes, dear.” so very often. And He tells me “No” or “Let’s wait,” just as often. And I am learning, finally, to listen. And, is that a miracle?

Yes. Yes, dear. It is.

This post is about sex! And friendship! Which sounds really weird! Stay with me!

137So recently my friend Rae had the audacity to move away.

Her hubs got a job in sunny California and she just LEFT me. LEFT, I tell you. I ask you, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THIS WORLD WHEN FRIENDS MOVE AWAY BECAUSE  MARRIAGE?

I know. Marriage is a holy union and all that but now… WHO will I send snarky posts about husbands?

(Backstory: Rae also has a husband who is adorable and wonderful, like mine, but at times we like to laugh at them via text. Because we can. Also, because it’s a fallen world and oh don’t send me an email, I’m working on it. Admitting it is half the battle, y’all.)

Anyhow. The lawyer is sighing heavily and reminding me rather tersely: We can STILL text each other.  California does have texting, I’m pretty sure.

BUT STILL SHE LEFT ME. SHE JUST LEFT ME WHYYYYYY.

I had tried everything to get them to stay. Whining. Random sniveling. Prayer group sabotage. That one didn’t work at all, even thought I thought for sure it would. We were all gathered around Rae, praying over her trip and her move and all the stressers and other nonsense she was going through, and I entered in with this epic invocation:

“Dear Lord, I pray also that she just STAYS HERE THIS IS CRAZY. Could you, like, smite their U-Haul? Nicely?

But, okay, Thy will be done and all. I guess. Not really in this situation, but OK. Maybe.”

Strangely enough, the Lord didn’t follow through on this. I will talk more with Him about this later. The cute little hipsters, Rae and Sean, and their cute little kids, packed up and left me.

And so, I did the next best thing:

I decided to be selfless and wonderful and clean their house!

Actually, the lawyer is AGAIN asking me to clarify: I didn’t come up with the idea. My legitimately selfless and wonderful friend, Alissa, suggested we do it, and I just kinda horned on to it, and told everyone it was my idea.

I know. I have not, EVER, tried to establish that I am anywhere near perfect in this blog. But this post really accentuates all that, doesn’t it? Does this blog make me look fat, too?

Hope not.

So, I cleaned. Alissa watched our umpteen million small children. I think I got the better end of the deal.

And, while I was scrubbing away… I found… THIS (small flourish, and audible gasp!):

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*Bad selfie.

* Yes, I know this picture kinda looks like I am cleaning without any clothes on. Or maybe, that’s just me thinking that, and you didn’t really go there at all. Shows you how my brain works, doesn’t it? It’s a bit wonky. I guess, the whole “My heavens! Is she topless?” question is kinda fitting because of the subject matter. But, you know, it’s not that kinda blog.

Actually, I think sweet Rae left them for me. It’s a deck of cards. About Sex. Aptly named: “Sex!” The marketing team really went all out on this one.

It is the kind of thing you get when you get married and your hokey friends like to give you wildly embarrassing gifts all har dee har har, nudge nudge, wink wink, etc. And then, you put them in a drawer and forget alllll about ’em.

Until you move to California and you decide, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll leave these here. I have two kids under the age of 5 and I think I’m good on the whole nookie thing. I know! I’ll leave ’em for my friend! She’ll LOVE them!”

So, now they are at my house, shoved waaaaaaaay in the back of MY drawer.

For my children to find.**

Thank you, sweet Rae. My impossibly wonderful, tiny, fit friend. I will miss you. So very, very much.

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Group selfie. Dressed. Alissa on left. Rae on right. Notice picture of Jesus in background. We are super spiritual. And, I never seem to know where to look.

** As every married couple seems to get at least one of these goofy types of presents, you can be sure that:

1. We did. It was something with feathers and edible glitter and my gosh that just seems like a lot of work.

2. I didn’t toss the gift. Even though the likelihood of me using a feather during nookie is very slim. Unless I wanted to dust something. I know.

3. Red found it. And wanted to talk about it. A lot.

4. I scheduled an appointment with my therapist that afternoon.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Mother’s Day

Gonna blog for #NetflixStreamTeam today. And also, be a bit mushy. You’ve been warned.

 

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It's a great gig.

As a Netflix Streamteam blogger, Netflix asks me to watch their fabulousness and them chatter about it. It’s a great gig.

Y’all. I don’t much care for Mother’s Day.

There. I said it.

I know. It sounds all wicked stepmothery of me, doesn’t it? Well, maybe I should embrace this role. The wicked stepmother should get props, I think, for at least being practical. She has a household to run and two daughters who have terrible social skills. She is on survival mode, people.

And then she has the sweetie pie, Cinderella, who has befriended vermin and always has good hair. It’s WEIRD.

It’s also possible I am reading a bit too much into this whole story, but you know, I never promised you a neurotic-free post.

Well, and then, there’s also this:

Mother’s Day Expectations:

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Really, small blonde? How’s that stocks section? And, don’t you think that’s enough carbs, mommah?

Mother’s Day Reality:

I’m gonna find a sock with macaroni and cheese in it under the bunk bed. And I’m gonna have to clean it.

Because, crazy does not wait.

Even on Mother’s Day.

Ok, so this Mother’s Day, my beloved decided to take me dress shopping. I have an actual book signing coming up, in which I will be rubbing shoulders with REAL AUTHORS OH MY WORD (Pun? See it? I’m good) and I need to look legit. And smart. And bookish. And, like I know what I’m doing, and also thin.

Here’s how it all went down:

Hubs: Let’s go Dress Shopping for Mother’s Day!

Small boys: US TOO US TOO US TOOOOOOO

Momsie: Lord. Give me strength.

I know, right? Mother’s Day is not for the faint at heart.

So, there I am, at a changing room with mirrors all up in my business and fluorescent lighting and my heavens, why don’t we just shine a spotlight on me while we’re at it, right? And I am actually trying to discuss dress sizes with the hubster, which is demoralizing, and I kinda just want to collapse and ask for a sack cloth and ashes and call it done.

And then, Red suggests this purple number because he loves da purples. And I eye it. (I am out of the changing room at this point and dressed – I know I changed locations and didn’t want you to get confused and visualize me in my underwear. Me, IN my underwear underneath all those lights with the mirrors crowding around me was enough visuals for me – you don’t need to go there with me. Poor dears.)

So, I grab the purple dress even though it isn’t really anything I would ever wear, because Red is now cheeping like a small bird, “Dis one! Dis one mommah! It’s der purples! PURPLE!!!!!!” and I fear all the women in the store will start to think he’s special.

And then I try it on. (We’re back in the changing room.) And I blink. And come out of the changing room.

And all three boys (hubs included) smile. Blonde says, “Whoa. Dude. That’s NICE. You’re so pretty, momma!”

And I look in the mirrors, and tell them (the mirrors, not the boys), “Back OFF shiny ones! And behold. I AM pretty! No. Not that. I am HOT.”

It’s possible I embellished this with a quick hair toss. The boys all gasped and applauded.

And that’s how I now love Mother’s Day.

Now, how, you ask, does Netflix tie in to all of this? Well, because. Cinderella. Duh.

I know. It’s mushy. Stay with me. This is not normally my thing, the mush, but it has to be said.

Moms get lost under a layer of snot, whining, and malaise. We find sweatpants by the bed as we jump up to get the six-year-old to school on time, and we wear them with pride because our uniform merits comfort and stretch. We don’t mind, really, that we have a coffee stain on our t-shirt right smack where one should not be looking at our t-shirt. We embrace the coffee stain. “I love you, coffee stain,” we say, as we sashay down the drive way. “You are my piece of flair for the day.” We do all this for the most part. But lately, me with my coffee stains and my flair? I had been feeling a little bit… invisible.

Anyhow. When I stood under all those lights with the mirrors snickering, I put on that dress, and for a moment the darn mirrors got all misty. Or it was my eyes. And I pushed back my hair and tilted my head, and I felt VISIBLE. And gorgeous. And it wasn’t just the dress. The dress was just a… portal. It helped me see Me.

We all love Cinderella stories, because we know they are our own stories too. We love them because our wrinkled hearts need ironing out too every once in a while. And, Netflix has a slew of these movies that lift and tuck the tired soul. Movies like:

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and…

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and…

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But, my favorite, hands down, all time bestest Cinderella movie, besides the one with Gus Gus? Well, this one:

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It’s the real deal. Watch it some night when you have found yourself surrounded by toddlers and chaos for just a little bit too long for your liking. Once the cherubs are asleep, fix yourself a chocolate malted, some popcorn, and put your feet up. We all have a bit of Cinderella inside of us, because, after all, we all have days where we have to clean macaroni and cheese out of places no one should ever have to.

And we all have a fairy godmother. It’s the friend who takes us to get a pedicure and listens while we explain that we can’t, we just can’t do another day of laundry and crazy and strange stains in the bathroom. Or, it’s our sister who sends us texts that make us laugh when we have, once again, managed to make dinner a mediocre mess. Or, it’s even our husband who rubs our feet while we watch Netflix, and we renew and recharge for another day of Momhood.

Rock on, mommas. Be brave. Find your inner Cinderella. And:

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Set Phasers to Shop.

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I am linking up with Williams-Sonoma today to talk about love and marriage, and this little bonus:

The Wedding Registry!! Yippeeeeeee!!!

Or:

How to Sign up for Some Serious Loot for Your Registry While Not Wanting to Taze Your Sweet  Husband-to-Be In the Process

The hubster and I have been married now some six years* or so. We still like to think of ourselves as newlyweds. He still searches me out across a crowded room. I still blush when he looks my way.

Of course, most of the searching is because he wants help with taking our two boys to the potty. Often I am blushing because I feel premenstrual and my hormones are on attack mode.

But, you know, the magic is there. It is. It’s just buried under two loads of laundry and the cat. But I swear, it’s THERE SOMEWHERE.

Those many years ago, when I had ambushed him, and we were heading towards wedded bliss, we ventured out together for a one of the most momentous events in our lives as a couple:

Gun zap wedding registration!

You know the drill, you married folk. You get together and walk into the store, all giggly and hand-holdy, and some poor store clerk tries to explain how to work the registration gun of bliss, and you don’t really listen, because your sweetie is holding your hand, and sometimes you just like standing next to him because he smells so goooooood, and this is going to be fun fun FUN!

And it is. For about ten minutes.

And then, if you’re like me (bless your heart if you are) you get bored. And also, you realize you don’t really need a crossbow and target (because you decided to start in the back of the store and work to the front). In fact, you don’t really need anything in the Sports and Outdoors section of this large store, but that’s when you hear these fated words from the increasingly annoying husband-to-be:

“We have a gun that ZAPS things! Honey! Lookit! I. Must. ZAP IT ALLLLLL!!”

I was trying to sneak a plastic mallard decoy back to the shelf, and I glared at him. He looked kinda like this:

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With great power comes great responsibility, Kirkie.

Or maybe it was more like:

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Lookit! My zapper is bigger than your zapper!

I do see the irony now, that we started in the Weapons of Mass Destruction section of the store, because the man was on a serious mission now to dispatch the entire store into our registry. ALL of it. From bicycle pumps to WD-40.

And who doesn’t need a little extra WD-40 around the house? Why NOT register for it?

Here’s why:

IT’S JUST WRONG, that’s why.  That’s all I am going to say about that.

Except, that day, in that store, while I watched my fine-analysis future husband as he was reading the ingredient listing on TRAIL MIX, I did NOT stop at “This is just wrong.”  My hubs-to-be got a full view of how his wife-to-be reacts when I don’t agree with something.  I must explain, in full detail and with subheadings and some black and white illustrations, how I am always right.

I know. Who wouldn’t want to marry that?

Don’t worry. It all turned out OK. We went ahead with the marriage because, well, I still thought he was cute and all.

And we loved each other like crazy.

If you would like to survive the registry without a meltdown in the automotive aisle (and yes, you can put Pennzoil on the list, if you like, but only if you want me to follow you around in your head with a lecture), follow this simple list.

Here’s how to Keep the Romance in the Registry:

1. Take a minute and look over your stuff. Take an informal survey. Does your betrothed have a toaster? Do you own a great coffee maker? Do you really need to register, then, for a coffee maker that also makes toast and sings the “Good Morning” song from Singin’ in the Rain? Probably not. (Although, seriously? This item does sound kinda awesome.)

2. Go ahead and register for a toaster, however, if the betrothed has not ever cleaned his, and the last time he used it was to kill a cockroach. In it. Don’t ask.

3. Actually make a list of needs and wants beforehand. If you’re all, “But, that’s not fun! That’s not romantic! We just need to be relaxed about this! Lists are for people who have given up on spontaneity!” Just stop it. Lists are helpful. They are not the Ten Commandments, people. You can still STRAY from the list, but think of it as a way to not try hitting your sweet fiance over the head with a large pack of M and M’s (“But honey! They are so good! And healthy! There’s peanuts in there! Someone is sure to get them for us!” Someone did.)

4. Allow for silliness. Go ahead and allow the goofy for a few items. Register for a game of Operation, and let him register for the M and M’s. Think this ratio:  60% needed, 30% wanted, 12% weirdness.

Allow yourself a moment to realize that this ratio also works a lot for marriage in general.

5. Consider your match. Test him. Use the following terms in casual conversation: “duvet covers,” and “full place setting with charger.” If your spousal-other only blinks rapidly in consternation, you have some work to do. Start slow. Discuss matching towels and go from there. Whatever you do, DON’T bring up “monogrammed linens.” and “bamboo salt cellars.” It might make his head explode.

If you are both a bit lost, look up stores that you love, and peruse their goods for places to start.

Wander over to Williams-Sonoma wedding registry site for some great ideas and inspiration.

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Williams-Sonoma has a great registry favorites page! And I so wish I had registered for that mixer. Anyone feeling like sending a very late wedding gift?

And remember: Relax and consider that monogrammed linens are not the end result here. They are just frosting on the glorious, yummy marriage cake!

A cozy, happy, loving home for two is the main idea. But the registry is a great place to start frosting your future cake of love, people.

Happy registering!

* Incidentally, my sweet prince just interrupted to let me know that we have been married eight years. Not six. Yep. The romance is clearly still alive. Just not my long-term memory.