Our cars are fighting.

“I, Julie, take you, Scott, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.”


No, we’re good. We’re good. We’ve been through it all – better, worse, worse than that, rich, poor, ramen-noodle poor, the man-flu, and we’ve peaked in health and athletic ability.

I thought we merged our assets beautifully, really. Walk into our home and you’ll see, well, Scott and me. You’ll see deer high up on the wall. You’ll also see flowers, fluffy blankets and candles. It smells like femininity and maybe a waft of burnt dinner. Scott has his own office with a sliding barn wood door. The wood is from a barn built in 1910. I have a writing room with my own fireplace. There’s a giant white marlin on the wall. I caught that. Words are everywhere.

We built this home from dirt. We intertwined each other into it. It’s a solid home. It’s a lovely home. The only nook where you’ll find two separate lives is the garage.

SIGH. Until death do us part.

Merge these assets into one: “His car” and “her car.”

A Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord.

Scott’s car and my car – they’re not even dating. They hate each other. Scott and I are in the market for a car. It won’t be the only car but for the sake of making a long story short – it will be an equally shared car. The Ford and Honda need to go. 

My car thinks his car has a bad case of truck syndrome. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. That engine roaring behind you in your rearview. The dominating force *asshole* on the open road. You better move over or you may be adding yourself to those dents and scratches that make up Scott’s car battle wounds.


I apologize. His vehicle.  Scott doesn’t drive a car. He drives a vehicle. How dare I call such a man-made-God-fearing-machine a car. 

My car doesn’t understand his vehicle. And Scott’s vehicle doesn’t understand my car. There’s not a whole lot to understand about a dependable car like a Honda Accord. It blends in. Scott’s legs spread eagle on the dash is the only thing that would ever call attention to a Honda Accord. Scott’s car nicknamed my car “duck butter.”

In order to understand Scott’s vehicle and my car, you need to go back. Way back. Circa 1997 when my dad took me to a cemetery to learn how to drive because, “Well, you can’t kill anyone here. They’re already dead. Just don’t kill your old man.”

I learned how to drive in a cemetery in a 1995 Chevy Cavalier. It was turquoise and adorable. And my dad is alive and well, thank you. I moved on to a 2001 Mitsubishi Eclipse Coupe; a 2005 Land Rover LR2; and now a 2014 Honda Accord. The only complaint I have is the bike handle scrapes down the side. Even though my kids are out of carseats, they’re still a pain in my ass.

Scott’s vehicle history – oh, let’s see. A small, purple truck; a white Chevy Camaro with orange stripes. You could hear the engine from miles away; this truck –

truck 2

and now his current truck, a 2013 Ford F150. It’s beat up. He jackknifed the side with a trailer. It smells like something died in it because it is also a deer hearse.

How do you merge a Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord? Scott needs power, off-road abilities and space. I need something that won’t leave me curb checking all over town. Oh, and large vehicles make me park in two parking spots because I, too, get truck syndrome. I like low to the ground and sporty. 

I figured it out – a Jeep Wrangler.

Scott told me I’m out of my mind (so?), they’re a waste of money (what car isn’t?) and I’ll kill the family with those crash test ratings (the 2017 model improved, Scott). My friend, Christine, also told me to knock off the Jeep Wrangler talk because it shows the world I’m having a midlife crisis. I’m 35. No midlife crisis. Mark my words – Christine will be taking selfies in my Jeep on our joy rides.

Feel the wind in your face, Christine!

I decided on red. Why not? It will go with my red lipstick that I need to steal back from Kate. It can pull a trailer, I think. It can handle the off-roads on the farm. And there goes Scott! Giving his dead deer a final adventure in a Jeep Wrangler! What a hearse!

I’m losing this battle. Scott doesn’t think my Jeep jokes are funny. They’re not jokes. I’m serious.


How do you merge a Ford F-150 and a Honda Accord?


Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram

Maybe I’ll post our car shopping pictures. Or maybe you’ll see me in a Jeep.


Scott and I got in a fight.

Scott and I got in a fight last night.

One of my biggest pet peeves about social media is everyone making themselves look good. I’m not talking about the filters of Instagram or the jokes on Twitter. I’m talking about the relationship vows of undying love for your spouse or partner.

“Happy Anniversary to my rock, my love, and my everything. You amaze me every day and you push me to be better when I want to give up. I don’t have the words to express how much you mean to me. You’re perfect. Happy Anniversary!”

I call bullshit.

Sure. Yes. Scott is my rock, my love, and my everything to keep me sane too. He’s also a giant pain in my ass and I went to bed with deer blood caked under my fingernails and I smelled like iron.

I’m not saying I’m the perfect wife and I win all the arguments. I am not and I don’t. I’m a pain in Scott’s ass too.

Scott was on a plane last night. He was flying to Kansas City from Philadelphia. The flight included wifi so he was able to receive all my nagging texts at 30,000 feet somewhere above Indiana.

Me: YOU JACKASS. There’s blood leaking all down the fridge!!!

Me: It’s like to the point of being caked on.

Me: …


Scott: WTF happened?

Scott: How did it get through the trash bag?

Let me back up for a second.

Scott shot a buck a few days ago. Before Scott left for his trip, he placed a trash bag filled with ziplock baggies containing his deer chunks in the refrigerator. He told me he needed the deer chunks to thaw out before he got home.


Fine, Scott. It’s called venison. 

The trash bag full of venison took up half the refrigerator. The only thing left on my to-do list for the night was to find a spot in the refrigerator for the kids’ lunch boxes. I was close to the finish line. My bed and a bowl of ice cream was minutes away. I picked up the trash bag to see if I could make room. That’s when all bloody hell broke loose.

Back to my texting rage.

Scott: How did it get though the trash bag?

Scott: I’m making it into jerky tomorrow.

Me: …


Me: Oh, hello period blood.

Scott: I would throw up.

Me: Period blood made your babies.

Scott: Why is there so much blood? I put it in ziplocks and then a trash bag.

Me: I don’t know but it’s also inside the drawers and I’m not cleaning this shit anymore.

Scott: I’ll clean it up tonight.

Me: …


Scott: Why do you keep sending me pics?

Me: Your jerky is going to smell and taste like lavender Febreze-scented trash bags.

Scott: WTF

Me: I’m sending you pics of the blood inside the fruit drawer.

Scott: OMG


Me: I had to triple bag your leaky bag. Blood is everywhere. It’s a murder scene in here now.

Scott: Is the meat still semi-frozen?

Me: I’d say no with this amount of blood. Like a damn period.

Scott: STOP

Me: Now your triple-bagged-lavender-Febreze deer chunks is sitting on our kitchen floor because now I have to clean the fridge.

Scott: Ok, I’ll cook it tomorrow.


Me: …


Me: I had to pull the whole tray out because this piece of glass doesn’t come out. I don’t know how I’m going to get this blood out.

Scott: Thank u.


Me: Don’t believe you. And you don’t know how to clean right.

Me: You owe me a box of tampons for this.

Scott: Maybe if you spent time cleaning it instead of texting me a play-by-play you’d be done.

Me: I like texting you my personal hell. I’m just saying the grocery store would never do this to me. The grocery store has their meat in nice, neat sealed packages for my convenience. We are not a butcher shop. Have fun putting the fridge back together.

Scott: You’re so nice.

Me: Thank you. The deer think so.

Me: I need tampons. Stop and get me some after you land.

And that is why Scott is my rock, my love, and my everything. I clean up his bloody mess and he gets me tampons.


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Billie Holiday is a woman.

My last first date was 15 years ago.


First dates are awkward. You’re being judged. You’re judging. Everything you do and say is taken into consideration – what you wear, how you speak, maybe even how you smell.

Am I pretty enough? Did my comment about whiskey make me sound like an alcoholic? Say something witty. Talk. Say something. Anything. I should tell him how I almost died in a  flood last night. Wait, don’t be dramatic. Ok, he’s funny. He pointed out we’re both shy. That’s cute. 

15 years later, I still wonder if I’m pretty enough. I still dress up for dates. I curl my hair and I wear heels. Ok, I lied. I don’t wear heels because that makes me taller than Scott and he hates that. I know what Scott will order at a restaurant. And he knows I’ll never turn down a whiskey. And, no, that doesn’t make me an alcoholic. We don’t need to judge each other because we already know each other.

Oh, does the man still make me laugh.


Scott: After you’re finished eating, let’s pay and get out of here. I don’t really like this band.

Me: Really? Jazz? This is old Kansas City. Don’t you feel like we’re on the Cosby Show or something?

Scott: I feel like I want to go to bed.


I cold-walked in front of Scott in the parking lot. I couldn’t wait for the car heater to blast in my face.

Scott: And there she goes. Leaving me behind with the cold-walk.

Me: I’m freezing! Hurry up!

I opened the driver’s door and waited for Scott to catch up.

Scott: I know this is probably a dumb question but is Billie Holiday dead? He’s dead, right?

Me: Scott.

I stared.

Scott: (laughs) He’s dead! He’s old. Never mind.

We sat inside the car and I turned the ignition on. I tapped the heat button up and pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot.

Me: Are you serious?

Scott: What? Did he die a long time ago?

Me: No. I mean, well, yes. I mean Billie Holiday is a woman. He is a she. And yes, she’s dead.

Scott: What, so she’s like Billie-with-an-i or something?

Me: Billie-with-an-i-e, actually.

Scott: How am I supposed to know these things? Billie Holiday is a woman? And how do you know who Billie Holiday is? Name one song.

Me: Oh, you know. That one song. It’s popular. It’s on The Notebook. Hold on, let me think.

Scott: Well, sorry I don’t watch The Notebook over and over.

Me: Ok, Ryan Gosling.

Scott: Huh?

Me: It’s a popular song in that era…hold on. You’re distracting me. I can hear it.

Scott lifted his phone. Billie Holiday’s songs started.

Scott: This one?

Me: No.

Scott: This one?

Me: No.

Scott: All these ringtones and none of them are it?

Me: Ringtones?

Scott: I figured her most popular songs would be a ringtone. This one?

Me: That’s it! I’ll be seeing you. I’ll be see-ee’ing youuu. It’s in The Notebook. You know when they’re old and dancing.

Scott: No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve seen The Notebook once and it sucked.

Me: But Ryan Gosling.

Scott: What?

Me: Wait. Haven’t you seen Clueless?

Scott: Yeah, once. Like 30 years ago.

Me: When Cher is on that date with that guy – who ends up being gay – but anyway, he picks her up in the car and he asks, “do you like Billie Holiday?” and Cher says, “I love him.” and she flips her hair like this and he kinda smirks at her. You didn’t get that joke?

Scott: No, I probably thought she loves Billie-with-a-y.

Me: You live in Kansas City. This is a jazz town. You’re required to know that Billie Holiday is a woman.

Scott: (continues to play Billie Holiday music on his phone) This is awful. She sounds like…like, noise.

Me: Noise?! She had one of the greatest jazz voices that ever lived.

Scott: Her ring tones suck. You can’t tell me you like these ring tones.

Me: It’s not my favorite but I like it. Actually, it reminds me of coffee shop music. Or my grandma’s jukebox in her basement. This is like my grandparents’ music. I imagine my Grandma Crowder going on a blind date with my grandpa in Kansas City. This is what they listened to. It’s sweet.

Scott: It’s noise.

Scott played A Milli by Lil Wayne.

Scott: “Young money. Ya dig Mack I’m goin’ in. I’m a millionaire, I’m a young money millionaire…A milli…a milli…ah ah ah a milli.”

Me: This is embarrassing.

Scott: For who? (continues to dance and raps)

Me: Our grandkids. They’re going to be like, “Listen to this noise. A milli. A milli. A millionaire.” They’re going to laugh and say, “Can you believe our grandparents used to listen to this when they went on dates?”

For the record, Scott’s favorite genre of music is country.

Also for the record, Billie Holiday is a woman. And she passed away on the day Scott and I would get married, well before Scott and I were born.

I looked up how she died. I don’t know why, really. Other than this is one of those times this blog possesses a life of its own. A giant wheel, connecting everything together. Billie Holiday lived and died in the wrong era. We would have been great friends.

Billie Holiday’s cause of death: too much whiskey.


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How to get laid.

How to get laid. 

Maybe you found this title on Facebook. Or maybe Twitter. Quite possibly this title popped up in your email. It wasn’t marked as high importance but you made it so.

It’s called the hook – the sentence that grabs your attention. You click. Maybe the title is vaguely what the story is about. Or maybe the story spiraled off into a controversial subject and now there’s a comment war that you want no part of. Writers will say anything for that page hit.

So yes, I got you to click but I’m following through with such bold expectations. The inspiration for this post came from a group text with our friends before our trip to Colorado.

Scott: Guys, I got bad news. We got some wacky condo that has bunk beds.



Hunter: Then I call dibs on the room with two twin beds.

Scott: Well, Casey is the only one who isn’t married so he’ll be the only one who gets laid.

Hunter: Let’s be honest, Casey is the only one getting laid anyway.

Me: OMG. You two sound married to each other. You say the same thing and hit send at the same time.

Wes: Ear muffs recommended, huh?

Scott: Me: Hey Julie, how does this feel? 🙂 Julie: Get off, asshole. Me: I’m going to the balcony.

Hunter: Apparently it doesn’t feel very good, Scott.



Hunter: Me: (slides to her side of the bed) Kathy: Go away! I’m already asleep. Me: But you’re watching TV.

Scott: Me: (slides to her side of the bed) Julie: (farts twice) Me: (slides closer)



Wes: Oh boy. What have we gotten ourselves into?

Me: Stop scaring Wes and Emily! They’re newlyweds!

I know you are laughing at this conversation. I know this because we are all the same people. After all, you did click on the title and you’re still reading.

Get out your notebooks, boys. Take notes. You will be quizzed when you get home. If you pass, you’ll get a nice little surprise tonight. Ladies, grab some popcorn and enjoy the ride.  You don’t need to know how to get laid – we get it whenever we want.

* This is for long-term relationships. Newlyweds, singles – you get it whenever you want too.

Rule 1: Get in her head. 

This is extremely important. All the rules revolve around rule number 1 – get in her head. Tell her she’s beautiful when she’s not expecting it. And don’t tell her she’s pretty and drop your pants, that doesn’t count. Stare at her across the room. Make her laugh. Make her laugh until she can’t breathe. Remind her what she’s good at. If you’re going to get laid – and I mean rock your world laid – make sure she loves herself first.

Rule 2: A nude man is not a turn on.

I mean, yes, a nude man can be a turn on and maybe it’s more of a turn on for some women than others. But it’s not the same as a man looking at a nude woman. When a woman sees a beautiful, nude man she’s imaging what words are coming from his mouth. The bulk of a man’s sexiness is mental, not physical. But if she physically loves something on your body – YOU KEEP IT. If a woman tells you to keep your beard – you keep your beard. If she tells you your obliques make her forget her name – drop and do side crunches. Anything physical is easy money, man. Easy money.

Rule 3: Sometimes it’s just not going to happen.

Having a newborn. Working 14 hour days. The kids are fighting in the next room and it’s only a matter of minutes before one of them busts open the closet door. There’s a child sleeping in your bed. She has the flu. There are circumstances in life when her mind cannot go there. That’s what your hand is for.

Rule 4: Clean the house.

Some men are good at keeping a house clean and some men are not. The same goes for women – some women could care less about having a clean house so this may not even apply to you. If you ask me, I swear to God, Scott would get laid every night if he cleaned the kitchen, packed the kids lunches, and put the kids’ laundry away without complaining or asking for a thank you. There’s a direct correlation between a man that helps around the house and a relaxed woman in bed. The goal here – get her relaxed, maybe bring her wine. And by all means, you do not – I repeat, YOU DO NOT tell her to relax if she’s angry.

Rule 5: Her butt is not fat. Her whole body is amazing.

“Does my butt look fat in this?” It’s a trick. I’m going to tell you how to handle this situation: you take a step back and tell her that her whole body looks amazing. If you answer this specific question with a no, she’s going to accuse you of lying and stop staring at my fat ass. You do not stare at any one body part. This is the part of the female brain males will never comprehend. I don’t even understand it myself. There are certain triggers that will make a woman cry. I speak for hormonal females everywhere – we’re so sorry.

Rule 6: Presents don’t work.

Flowers, chocolates, jewelry. Those are all nice things and we’ll gladly accept them but you’re trying too hard. It’s obvious what you’re doing and we are questioning what you’re guilty of. It’s also borderline paying for sex. You may get laid or you may not. It all depends on her mood. See rule number 1.


Men will always joke about never getting laid. Women laugh because we know this is just not true. There are 7,413,966,540 people in the world. That’s a lot of sex. And that’s just sex resulting in full term pregnancies in a certain age bracket.

I can’t speak for all women. I’m sure there are women out there that disagree with me. There’s only one way to find out – go home and talk to your spouse. Tell her how much you appreciate her. Tell her she’s still the most beautiful woman you have seen. Make her laugh. Bring wine.

You can’t complain, males.


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Pillow Talk.

I made a promise to myself.

Yes, I happened to make a promise to myself in January. But it’s not a resolution. I’m back on my feet again and here we are – in January.

I’m back to writing something, anything, every Monday. I’m forcing myself to write once, maybe twice a week. It might be funny. It might not. It might just be me saying hello and that’s it.

So here we go.

… you guys, I got nothin’.

To the draft folder! I wrote this a few days before my niece had emergency surgery to stop bleeding on her brain. I never published this post because, at the time, my world paused. This conversation hid in my drafts for over two years.

Until today. Because this is much funnier than saying hello.

*Notes: Scott isn’t on Twitter anymore. I’m 34 now. My clothing choice reflects the warm night, not January. But I still hold true to my argument – sleeping in lingerie sucks.


Scott: Can I tweet I hate sports bras?

Me: I don’t care what you tweet. What do you mean you hate sports bras? Do you want every guy at the gym to ogle women?

Scott: No. I mean I hate that you wear sports bras to bed.

Me: Um, my boobs are still perky after two breastfed babies. And I’m 31. You’re welcome. Perky-ish.

Scott: And they also shrunk. What are you wearing? A onesie?

Me: It’s called a romper. It’s comfortable.

Scott: It’s a onesie. With a sports bra. Take off the sports bra!

Me: No!

Scott: You’re like Fort Knox!

Me: Fine. What would you like for me to wear to bed, sweet husband of mine?

Scott: Lingerie.

Me: No. I mean to sleep in. I get the whole lingerie thing. Whatever. But I’m not sleeping in that. I get cold. And the girls would see me in the morning and they’ll be all “Oooooo. Pretty lacy red dress. You look pretty, mommy! Can I try it on? It’s my size!”  Next thing you know they will be showing their friends their new dress up clothes in my closet drawer.

Scott: You have a lingerie drawer?

Me: Yes.

Scott: Never knew that.

Me: I just want to be comfortable when I sleep. Sports bra. T-shirt. PJ shorts.

Scott: Wait, where is this red, lacy lingerie?

Me: In. My. Lingerie. Drawer. This is like me asking you to go to bed with a tool belt on and nothing else. You can’t sleep in that.

Scott: You want me to wear a tool belt?

Me: Oh my God. It doesn’t matter! Tool belts, lingerie, sports bras and t-shirt, WE END UP NAKED ANYWAY. Gah!

Scott: Don’t hate on Victoria.

Me: Who the hell is Vic-oh my God. And don’t hate on her secret too?

Scott: Don’t hate on Victoria.

Me: I love Victoria’s Secret. They sell sports bras. And let me tell you something – every advertisement for Victoria Secret is photoshopped. The real Victoria wakes up with a boob popped out of the lingerie, a string stuck up her ass, like way up. And that ass is far from clean the next morning because Victoria farts in her sleep. She has no make up and morning breath. Morning breath that will make you turn away. But you wouldn’t know this because she stole the giant comforter from you and has it wrapped twice around her body because she’s freezing. And don’t get me started on wearing heels to bed.

Scott: Sorry, I’m a man. I just want to see my beautiful wife in lingerie.

Me: Look all you want, take it off, wear it yourself. But when it’s time to sleep, I’m changing to something comfortable. You shouldn’t care what I’m sleeping in because you will be sleeping too, dreaming of me.

Scott: In a onesie and a sports bra at Fort Knox.

Ladies, tell him I’m right on this one – we’re freezing when we wake up the next morning. Do you enjoy wearing lingerie? Do you enjoy actually sleeping in it? Do all men agree with Scott? Do all men want to see their beautiful wife/girlfriend/lover in lingerie? Or do you want to see her in whatever makes her happy?

Ring of Fire.

“This morning, with her, having coffee.” – Johnny Cash, when asked for his description of paradise.

“I mean, I don’t know, is her name Julie or something?” – Scott Burton, when asked if he knew who Johnny Cash was referring to.

(It’s June, Scott. Like your niece.)

If you follow me on any social media you know that Scott and I went to Nashville, Tennessee this weekend.

We needed a date weekend with country music and whiskey. Sure, you can find country music and whiskey in my own house but you won’t find this horse.


Or this one.


I call them date weekends. Sometimes we bring friends along. Sometimes we don’t. We never bring the kids.

Date weekends are a re-charge.

I get to date a bearded guy named Scott.

He’s taller than me but not by much when I have my cowboy boots on. After a few minutes of conversation, he can impersonate anyone’s accent. This only makes him more fun when he’s buying me drinks next to a group of guys from Bah-ston.

I pack my best clothes for date weekends. I don’t know why I do this because we never go anywhere that requires anything more than jeans and a t-shirt. Yet, my date tells me I am the prettiest after the sun goes away and the only makeup left on my face is a sunburn. I don’t believe it. Cancer and wrinkles, Scott.

We are not a mom and dad on date weekends.

We don’t have jobs to report to.

We are not husband and wife. Scott didn’t even get mad when I gave the taxi driver Luke Bryan’s house address.

The only thing we have to worry about on date weekends is if a honky tonk will show K-State playing on one of their TVs. And then crying down the streets of Nashville because football is the saddest country song we’ve ever heard. Jesus.

We’re just two friends on a date. We wake up in a strange town, in a strange bed. The only plan we make is spontaneity.

And somehow, with him, the taste of coffee the next morning is always home.

Where is your favorite place to travel with your date? Have you been to Nashville? Would you rather travel for dates or stay in town? Do you always bring your kids when you travel? Do you know all the words to Ring of Fire because I totally bombed that one.

Love in Ten Lines.

I’m not the best at reading blogs, lately. I don’t have the time.

The easiest way to get me to read your blog is commenting on my post. I’ll most likely comment back then click to see what you’re up to.

Last night I clicked – The Brickhouse Chick. I have never met her in real life. She rarely posts pictures of herself. But I would know her if I ran into her on the street. I picture her being loud, intertwining the languages of spanish and english. And a great laugh. I have no doubt Mrs. Brickhouse has a great laugh.

She posted a writing challenge: Love in Ten Lines. (click her link to see her version.) I volunteered to participate. A writing challenge that gave me a way to explain to Scott let’s just skip the lingerie and get naked.

After all, my time is valuable.

The rules:

•Write about love using only 10 lines.

•Use the word love in every line.

•Each line can only be four words long.

•Nominate others who are up for the challenge.

•Let them know about the challenge.

•Title the post: Love in Ten Lines

•Include a quote about love (this can be your own).

•You may write in any language.


Love in Ten Lines by Julie Burton

 Love is not ribbons

 and love isn’t lace.

 That love seems pretty.

 That love comes off.

 I don’t understand love;

 love that’s easily removed.

 Admit love is bare.

Unveiled. Bald. Love exposed.

 Love is not hidden.

 Love is stark, undressed.

Quote: “One love, one heart.” — Bob Marley. Because sunshine, saltwater, and rum cocktails.

Your turn! Who’s good at poetry? This came easier to me that I thought it would. Thank you, Maria, for the inspiration for some creative writing today. Go get naked, chica.

The weddings turned me into an alcoholic.

I’m kidding about the title.

My liver is in remission. There are no more weddings on the calendar. My muscles are still twitching from the soul of Michael Jackson racing through my body during The Way You Make Me Feel on the dance floor.

We had a rush of friends profess their love in front of us this year. Not only this year but within the span of two months. One wedding sent me walking home with a tramp stamp. Another wedding pushed me off to the airport with a hangover. And the last wedding left me with nothing else to write about but I can’t move out of bed and weddings are turning me into an alcoholic.

I have been told that my blog is enjoyable to read because I don’t sugarcoat my life. I will never post a picture of Scott with the caption, “best hubby ever.” Nope, I won’t do it. Because he’s not. And Scott will tell you that I’m not the “best wife ever.” I am not. We don’t like making people roll their eyes and fake puke.

Scott and I fight. We get sad. We get annoyed with each other. We disagree.

But we also make each other laugh. We are happy. We love each other. We are honest with each other. We are human.

As a wedding guest, I don’t get a microphone in one hand and a whiskey in the other but I do get a hangover and a laptop.

To the new wives – my wedding was in an era before Pinterest. I’m jealous of the little touches you put into your weddings. My marriage has come a long way. I have learned a thing or two you won’t find on Pinterest.

  • Sex is fun. You will forget this as years go on. I don’t know what’s to blame for that – kids, hormones, age, lack of energy, boredom, all of the above. Sex shouldn’t be something you do occasionally. Be the woman. Let your hair down. Let your hair down a lot. He will never get bored with you. Go do it when you’re done reading this.
  • Men need affection. Men want hugs. He wants to be held. When he walks in the door, run to him and wrap your arms around him. He is your best friend. Best friends give hugs all the time. You will get a hug in return.
  • Accept that you will argue. If you don’t argue, you’re a liar. Here’s a teaser: Ask him what your kids’ names should be.
  • Fine, storm out. Make a scene. He will come back even if you say NO to naming your kid’s middle name Duane.
  • You’re not always right. Don’t think just because you are a woman, you are right. Sometimes he is. And sometimes God blesses you with girls so you never have to name your son Duane.
  • Hand holding in the car is essential. 
  • So are dates. Splurge on the dessert.
  • Weddings count as dates. He’s reminded you’re his own bride. You’re still the prettiest one in the room.
  • Let him have a hobby. Let him go without restrictions. He will understand when you find your hobby – such as writing about his ass, hunting all the time.
  • Find a hobby together. If salt water fishing is your couples thing even though you live in Kansas, well, hey – at least you have something to look forward to.
  • Make fun of each other’s grey hair and wrinkles. You’re growing old together. Laugh about it.
  • Don’t complain about your body to him. If you don’t like it, then fix it. He loves it. It’s you that doesn’t.
  • Be attractive. But in a way that’s only for him. If he likes your hair long, wear it long. It works both ways, you can give him the evil eye when he tries to shave his beard.
  • Let him know at the beginning that you don’t like to cook. Or clean. The expectations are much easier to meet.
  • Remind yourself the best day of your life was marrying him. Some say giving birth is the best day of their lives. Maximum pain levels and a fire crotch might be yours too. But remember that the kids leave the house. He won’t. Your family started on the day you professed your love in front of your family and free loading, alcoholic friends.
  • Get up and dance together to The Way You Make Me Feel at your friends’ weddings. 


How many years have you been married? Did you get married before Pinterest was invented? Do you have advice for newlyweds? Do agree or disagree with my list? Have you ever busted a move to MJ on the dance floor? 


The big one.

Scott: Do you know how lucky you are to be married to me? I take you to places like the Dominican Republic for our 10-year anniversary.

Me: Uh, do you know how lucky you are to be married to me? You have a wife that hates shopping and loves to fish. It’s not even a trip to the Dominican Republic to me. It’s a trip to the Atlantic Ocean.

This is the big one.

The big fishing trip.

Every fishing trip this year was practice for the Dominican Republic. My confidence is up.  It has to be – I will have professional anglers yelling at me to keep the line tight. I’m expecting it. And I’m going to yell right back at them: I LOVE YOU TOO!  The yelling will be forgiven when we’re smiling for the cameras holding up a 200-pound blue marlin.

They're all going to yell at me.

They’re all going to yell at me. And those are sailfish, not marlin.

But it’s another big one. Today is our wedding anniversary. 1 decade. 10 years. 3,652 days of marriage.

3,652 days of marriage doesn’t sound like an important milestone. 1,000 days sounds important. Or maybe 5,000 days. A decade is a milestone and there should be a speech with that.

Words from the bride, aged 10 years –

Out of 3,652 days, most days were good. And some days were not good. They were terrible, really. It’s hard to imagine what forever means when you’re a 22-year-old at the alter.

I have never baked a turkey on Thanksgiving. I fake sleep so the kids will bother Scott in the mornings. I have been known to ask Scott to do something repeatedly – some call it nagging. I also scream. I yell. I answer with, “fine.”

I am not the wife of the year.

I do know that day 3,649 sucked. Scott dragged me to a spinning class with him. I walked out of there convinced he was trying to give me a heart attack or fracture my butt bones.

Day 667 and day 1755 were life-changing days for both of us. But this post isn’t about becoming parents.

Like babies growing up, it’s impossible to see the change in a marriage day-to-day. If you look at a photograph of us a decade ago, you’ll see it. Change. We have wrinkles around the eyes when we laugh now. Scott doesn’t wear his wedding ring because he lost it. My hair color is not its natural color anymore. We have sunspots on our faces. Our looks are going downhill.

We’re also closer. Our personalities changed in ten years. Our feelings on marriage, kids, friends, work, good music, and the definition of a perfect night out changed in ten years. You may not see that kind of closeness in a photograph – although, you might see it in the picture-perfect world of Instagram. I love a good filter.

Scott and I were complete opposites when we got married. Our wedding was proof that opposites attracted. Ten years ago, I didn’t know we would have to overcome that. Two opposites may attract but they won’t last in a home when one is squeaky clean and craves attention and the other drags bloody deer into the house and needs alone time in the woods.

We didn’t know babies would leave us emotionally drained at the end of the day. We didn’t know marriage becomes routine. We didn’t know each other enough to know what each other needed.

Like any good couple, we also mastered the art of fighting. I know exactly what to say to send his blood pressure out the roof. He knows nothing will bother me more than his silent treatments.


we always come back to each other, like magnets. Our wedding day did prove that opposites attract.

The beauty of ten years is we know each other more than anyone else. We know what we like on our sandwiches without asking each other. We read each other’s body language when we’re in a group of people. Scott encourages me to write even if it is about him because he knows my mind questions if I’m any good at it. I live in a home with trophy deer on the walls because they represent Scott’s years of hard work, alone in the woods.

Scott knows 3,652 days ago, I would have never agreed to a 5-day fishing trip in the Dominican Republic. I found a new love with Scott. It’s fishing. You could even say this new love saved Scott and me because I guess, like fishing, you don’t realize what you have until you fight to get it.

Then you yell, “I LOVE YOU TOO!”and smile for the cameras.

I love you, Scott. And my marlin will be bigger than your marlin.


Without this ring.


A lost wedding ring.

The old wives say bad fortune is in your future. You might as well be looking for your happy marriage at the bottom of that murky lake.

Superstitious or not, losing a ring will set off panic. Never in your life have you prayed for time to go backwards. For just a few seconds, God. Please. A tiny bit. It was right. here.

And then it’s gone.

That split second can happen all kinds of ways. I polled my Facebook friends. Hey, I do more than stalk on Facebook. I got the party started with this question –

“For those of you (or your spouse) that have lost your wedding ring – how did you lose it?”
  • It fell off my husband’s finger into the ocean. It was the first day of our honeymoon.
  • My husband gave the ring to our girls to play with. Been gone ever since.
  • He lost it in training and his 2nd one got lost while he was deployed.
  • It’s at the bottom of Table Rock Lake. It fell off while cleaning catfish.
  • My husband lost his in the snow, it slid right off. I lost mine after my 2-year-old took it. It was never seen again.
  • I have a nervous tick and I play with it on my finger. I spent hours looking for it in a parking lot.
  • My husband lost another man’s wedding ring. We were at a triathlon and my husband offered to hold a friend’s ring while he did the swim event. My husband went to pull in the buoys out of the water and the ring slipped into the water.
  • Husband lost his in the bottom of a river while canoeing, trying to save another couple from distress. 2nd one in Applebee’s bathroom. I will have to ask about 3rd and 4th rings.
  • Softball field, never found it.
  • Public restroom. Unfortunately, no one turned it in.
  • He threw it in the trash after washing his hands at work.
  • Thought it was lost forever but found it in the laundry basket.
  • Cat knocked it down the sink drain.
  • Workout bag had a hole in the pocket.
  • Divorce
  • Somewhere in our old house. I would love to blame my kids, for that I’m convinced a toddler misplaced it.
  • In the pasture behind our house.
  • Spinning it on the table at “Shot Stop” in Aggieville. It fell between a crack in the wall and the floor. Next time they tear down that bar, I’m going to go get it.
  • Stuck under my bathroom scale.
  • I throw it off in my sleep, but I always find it.
  • Fell out of my pocket while golfing. Luckily, I was with my father-in-law.
  • A beach in Mexico. I was getting a massage and left it in the hut on the counter.
  • Solution: Get the wedding ring tattooed on. (Brilliant, Serena. Brilliant.)


The responses to my research were immediate. I was expecting a handful of men to respond. Instead, my Facebook page turned into a confession box with a line out the door. Men and women. What surprised me the most was how lighthearted everyone felt about their missing symbol of infinite love. There were no sad stories. No said they felt bad. They were sharing a war stories. They survived and could tell the tale.

These people have found the secret – marriage isn’t a sealed deal until one of you lose a wedding ring. Only then you are golden. Oh, and that crap about your ring finger having a vein in it leading straight to your heart is a lie.

Scott lost his ring. We’re in.

You won’t find Scott’s response above. Scott couldn’t respond to my Facebook poll because Scott has no clue where he lost his ring. He left the house with his wedding ring on. He crawled into bed without his wedding ring on. He swore he didn’t take it off. It’s gone. It has been missing for a few weeks now. Stop it, ladies. He’s taken. But you can look at his cute butt.

We will replace the original ring. Maybe we’ll let our daughters help pick out a new ring. We’re not in a rush. We don’t need a ring to prove to the world that we’re married. That’s what a marriage certificate is for.

Oh, wait. Yeah, we lost that like 8 years ago.


Where did you go?

Goodbye, wedding ring.

Have you or your spouse ever lost a wedding ring? Did you find it or is it lost forever? Have you ever lost anything with sentimental value?