You had a 1 in 292,200,000 chance of winning the 759 million dollar Powerball jackpot on August 23, 2017.

You’re more likely to get attacked by a shark or get struck by lightening. A Massachusetts woman beat the odds. She also landed into the 100% odds of the government taking its share, leaving her with $480 million.

Why are we talking about this?

Because every so often, a jackpot will get so big that you start dreaming. You buy a lotto ticket. You start throwing out promises of giving away money to Instagram followers if you win because you need their good karma.

Because if you want to see Scott and I fight – screaming, walking out of the room, and flipping each other off behind each other’s back because he’s so wrong about this –  then let’s talk about winning the hypothetical Powerball.

What would you do with $480 million?

I think most people are in agreement –  you would hire a financial planner. You would pay off all debt. Sell your house. Donate to charities. Go on a ridiculous shopping spree.

Scott and I would set up Emma and Kate’s college fund to be paid in full at Kansas State University. Maybe we would buy a building and name it Burton Hall.

Kansas City would be our “home base.” We wouldn’t move. We love our neighbors and schools too much. I’d call designers over to decorate for me. Every door would get a screen to allow a proper breeze. We would add a pool to our backyard. The fire pit and basement would be complete. I would hire a maid and hire a chef. I’m a simple woman. I don’t need a mansion.

We would buy a house in the Florida Keys. Scott grew up in South Florida and knows the area well. Jimmy Buffet would not be playing from our speakers. No, Jimmy Buffet would be live in concert in my kitchen overlooking the ocean. I would buy a boat and hire a captain and mate. We would fight sailfish, marlin, tuna, and mahi around the world. We would fly our Kansas friends out to come play with us. They could probably use the tan in December. Merry Christmas. 

We would buy a mountain lodge in Colorado. The lodge would be for me and anyone else that is normal and likes warmth in the winter. Scott likes sleeping in a sleeping bag at 15,000 feet in below freezing temperatures. He wants to be at one with the elk. Or maybe he thinks he truly is Jon Snow.

We agreed to take care of our parents and living grandparents with enough money to live with no financial stress.

But then our views differ: siblings.

Our siblings are the people that probably know us best. We would not be who we are if it weren’t for our siblings. Every childhood memory is shared with them. Every important event in our lives is shared – weddings, babies, vacations, tears of joy and tears of sorrow.

This is where Scott’s view of family equality really shines.

Scott has one brother. I have two sisters and a brother.

Scott’s view: His side should get half and my side should get half. Let’s say we agreed to $10 million going to our siblings. Scott’s brother would get half and my three siblings would get the other half, divided by 3. Five million dollars would go to his brother. My three siblings would each get a little over $1.5 million each, for a total of $10 million.


My view: Every sibling receives $2.5 million each, totaling $10 million given to all siblings. All siblings are equal. Scott’s brother gets just as much money as my brother.

Our siblings are people, not his and hers towels. Just because I have two more siblings than Scott, does not mean Scott’s brother wins his own mini-lotto. I love his brother like my own brother but come on. My siblings should get the same amount.

The chances of someone in my large family winning the lotto is greater than Scott’s tiny family because my family has greater odds. I’m sure Scott would take lotto money from one of my siblings if they were to offer it. When you marry a person, you marry the family. When Scott said “I do,” he said “I do” to two extra sisters and an brother.

Of course, this is just a hypothetical argument. And worst case, I would totally slip my siblings an extra $3.5 million cash under the table at Christmas to make them equal to Scott’s brother.

Who wins the argument?

The odds of finding out the answer is one in 292,200,000.


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Biodegradable marriage.

Today’s blog post is brought to you by the sun, sunscreen, bleach cream, and Scott and I were married on July 17, 2004 by a pastor in front of one hundred witnesses.

When people say they don’t want to get married because it’s a piece of paper – they’re right. Marriage is a piece of paper.

It’s a piece of paper that can be easily misplaced when a newlywed couple moves from Manhattan, Kansas to Charleston, South Carolina. Misplaced meaning it probably got thrown in the trash. Thirteen years later, it most likely doesn’t exist because paper is biodegradable, much like a marriage. Hold on. That last sentence came out wrong. Scott and I are still married. According to our health insurance, we are not.

“Mr. Burton, we regret to inform you that Julie Burton will not be covered on your health insurance policy effective immediately. Please submit a valid marriage license stating you are married.”


The insurance company wanted proof Scott and I are married. They also wanted proof that Emma and Kate are Scott’s dependents. Emma and Kate’s birth certificates were sufficient to prove that Scott is the father of Emma and Kate Burton. The birth certificates also lists the mother – me, Julie Burton. I share the family last name because we’re married and Scott didn’t bang his sister. 

I’ve nagged the shit out of Scott to order a new marriage license. No, I didn’t politely remind Scott. I nagged because we’re married.

A few months ago, Scott pointed out a dark discoloration on my face because we’re married. 

Scott reminded me for weeks that my face is flawed and I should get checked out by a dermatologist because we’re married. 

I lied. Scott didn’t tell me my face is flawed. But he was concerned I would get skin cancer. But, to me, he totally looked for flaws because we’re married.

I finally made an appointment with a dermatologist.

“Mrs. Burton, your insurance card isn’t working. We even called and they said you aren’t covered anymore. You’ll have to self pay and resubmit it when it’s working again.”

Mrs. Burton.

My thumbs rage-texted Scott in the waiting room.

“Julie Burton? If you follow me, I’ll take you back to the room and the doctor will be right in.”


The doctor walked in the room.

“Hey Julie, what’s going on today?”

“I have this discoloration on my face. I’m a little concerned about it. It’s been there for months now. The intensity changes but it’s always there.

“What SPF sunscreen do you wear?”

“Oh, high. 70, maybe? I’m paranoid about that stuff. I’ve been at the pool with my kids a lot this summer.”

“Do you reapply?”

“I do to my kids. Hm, no, not to me. I kinda forget about taking care of myself when I’m with them.”

“I see. This is from the sun. Make sure you continue to wear a high SPF and reapply. That’s key, make sure you reapply. I’ll prescribe some bleach cream that should help balance out the discoloration.”

“That’d be awesome. Thank you.”

I walked out to the receptionist.

“That will be 108 dollars, Mrs. Burton.”

Mrs. Burton.

Dear health insurance company, I regret to inform you you didn’t get a wedding invite on July 17th, 2004. You missed a hell of a party. You also missed being a witness to the words, “I take you in sickness and in health as long as we never lose the marriage license because official name changes, tax returns, and bank account statements won’t be enough to prove we’re married.

Marriage is a piece of paper.

Don’t forget to wear sunscreen.


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Shiplap lover.

What makes something funny?

I don’t have an answer for you and I consider myself a humor writer. I can tell you humor is an art. There are different styles of humor – parody, satire, slapstick, irony, sarcasm, puns, spoofs, dark humor, the unexpected. Any stand-up comedian will tell you timing plays a role in humor. My parents will tell you humor is genetic.

But recognizing when you’re a dumbass and telling the world takes a certain skill. I once told Scott that people only think I’m funny because I’m good at making fun of myself.

It’s called the dumbass humor.

I was in the bathtub when I realized – holy shit, I might be the dumbest person I know. And I know a lot of dumbasses.


What is this empty tub you see?

That’s the after.

Before I get to my story, let’s talk about my house. If Scott got his way, our house would look similar to a mountain lodge. Towering windows, ceilings that can easily fit a 15-foot Christmas tree, wood beams, a statement shed chandelier. Animal fur rugs under your feet and big game animals staring at you as you drink your hot cocoa with a splash of whiskey.

I mean, I don’t have anything against mountain lodges. They’re beautiful. They have a charm about them that makes you go straight for the red wine, the stout beer, the whiskey, and the medium rare steak. It’s hearty, warm, and full bodied. It’s man versus the wild – even if the eyes of the wild are made from glass.

We live at an elevation of 1,040 feet above sea level. We live in Kansas. We do not have majestic views of mountains but one time Scott saw our next door neighbor topless, popping a zit on her face in the mirror. Stop. It wasn’t at this house. Scott closed our blinds at our old house one night and there she was, really digging in with her nails. And Scott isn’t a peeping tom if he called me to watch too. That’s as far as we get for views of majestic – fine – full but a little saggy mountains.

In order to make our house a normal looking Kansas home, I need to balance the man vs. wild on our walls. I try to soften our home with flowers and white knit blankets. I weave my love of script and words with Scott’s fur and glass eyes staring at us. I think I do a good job. I am always looking for ways to mix our own version of the outdoors into our home.

The first weekend of the month, thousands of people head to the historic West Bottoms of Kansas City. You will find stores filled with antiques, one-of-a-kind vintage finds, thrifty picks, other people’s junk, whatever. It’s an interior designer’s dream. I went down to the West Bottoms this past weekend with two girlfriends. We wandered into store after store, each talking about our homes and our personal styles.

I found a perfect piece.


Shiplap lover.

Me: Oh! This is cute. I have a whole fishing theme going on in our bathroom. Shiplap lover. Sounds sexy.

Cody: Oh, you should get it then.

Me: Yeah, I think I will. I’ll get it to decorate the shelf by our tub. It’s perfect.

Kathy: What’d you get?

Me: Isn’t this cute? I have a fishing theme in our master bath.

Kathy: Oh. Yeah. Get it.

It was perfect. There’s something about the master bathroom, especially the bathtub, that can be intimate without mushy. Shiplap lover is sexy. If there’s one thing Scott and I love with a passion, it’s fishing. You will see that love in our personal spaces.

Scott: What did you buy with Cody and Kathy?

Me: This. This. Isn’t this cute? Oh, and this too! For the tub.

Scott: What’s a shiplap?

Me: Oh, you know. Like lovers on a ship. It’s like us and fishing!

Scott: I’ve never heard of that.

Me: You’re not romantic. It’s a thing. It’s cute.

Scott: Oh.

Sunday night. I put my new decor pieces out. I filled the tub with epsom salts and oils. I applied a facial mask to my face. I poured a glass of wine, grabbed a book, and my phone. I sank into the tub and looked over at the words shiplap lover.

What is a shiplap anyway? I better make sure it’s not like the bottom deck with the rats or something gross.

Google search: shiplap

Um, what the hell is HGTV’s Fixer Upper? Who is Joanna Gaines and what the hell did I tell everyone I was buying?

Shiplap refers to a style of building material made of wood boards that overlap each other. No, not in the form of making a ship but in the form of wood pieces being nailed up on a wall like a barn. Go ahead – Pinterest search: shiplap. It’s bringing the look of a barn indoors. Some woman named Joanna Gaines from a show called Fixer Upper made it popular.

Shiplap has nothing to do with ships or fishing or getting drunk on the high seas with a lover. Nope. Any reference to fishing and shiplap makes zero sense to anyone that is not a dumbass. I don’t have one wall in my house that is shiplap. How can I be a shiplap lover if I don’t have shiplap? I love fishing and Scott not Joanna Gaines and Fixer Upper what the hell? Is that what I’m declaring now? My love for a television show that made shiplap popular?

Not only did my girlfriends probably think to themselves, what the hell was Julie talking about? But Scott called me out on it too. The employee at the store in the West Bottoms probably thought, this dumbass is buying a turquoise starfish with a shiplap sign. Every person I have ever fished with is sitting on their phone and laughing at my anchor, a turquoise starfish and shiplap lover. HGTV viewers, Joanna Gaines and interior designers everywhere are thinking, but those are rocks on her wall. Where’s the shiplap?

What makes something funny?

My dumbass.


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The letter S.

I have to hand it to the man.

I’ve been writing on this blog for eight years. The majority of those blog posts are starring Scott, my husband.

Scott doesn’t care what I write about on my blog. Or doesn’t know. Scott doesn’t read my blog because “I live the blog.” He’s right. He hears “blog posts” from me every day. But that doesn’t stop me from putting him in the center of some classic posts – The Jockstrap, Men Get Epidurals Too, and The Rack.

I think he’s the funnier one of the two of us. He’s the easier one to talk to and he has a quicker wit when put on the spot. You know how sappy newlyweds say, “he makes me a better person.” Well, I say Scott makes me a funnier person.

The letter S. 

Scott Duane Burton. Yes, that’s his middle name.

IMG_7886 2

Oh, wait. He won’t like that picture.

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That’s better.

I decided to interview Scott for this post. Much like our daughter, Kate, he needed a little bit of coaxing to open up.

Me: I’m going to interview you for my blog.

Scott: How long is this going to take?

Me: It’s mostly questions about hunting. Your hunting lifestyle and hobby.

Scott: Oh, ok then.

Told you.

Me: Let’s start with your name. Do you like the name Scott?

Scott: Sure.

Me: What about your middle name? Do you like Duane?

Scott: As a little kid, no, I didn’t. As I’ve gotten older, it is what it is.

Me: Adding to your boyhood – how did you imagine yourself as a man? What did your wife look like in your mind? How many kids did you think you’d have?

Scott: I never imagined myself as a man. And as far as a wife and kids, I never thought anyone would marry me.

Me: So you never had cute names for your future kids picked out?

Scott: Uh, no. I was a boy.

Me: Do you find it weird that I’m interviewing you right now?

Scott: (laughs) Yes.

Me: Are you aware I’m doing an A to Z Writing Challenge on my blog and every day I write about a new letter?

Scott: Not until the letter R.

Me: That was yesterday.

Scott: Yeah, you asked me to read it before you posted it. Then I figured out you must be writing a Sesame Street challenge or something.

Me: Who is your best friend?

Scott: Hunter.


Scott: Brett is my second best friend. Why are you staring at me?


Scott: Best friends aren’t wives! You’re my wife. Hunter and Brett aren’t my lovers.


Scott: I don’t like it when your pen starts scribbling. Hey wait, will you write Brett is my other best friend? Take out second best friend. Write other best friend. He’ll whine at me for that.

Me: I think everyone that knows you, knows you are an avid outdoorsman and hunter. I mean, look at your Instagram. We want to know – what is your dream hunt? It doesn’t matter how much it costs or vacation time or me bitching about you leaving. If you could go on a lifetime hunting trip – where and what would it be?

Scott: A limited entry tag during the rut for a bull elk. Doesn’t matter what state. Somewhere where there are only a limited amount of tags given out. I would also say I live one of my dream hunts right here in Kansas. A Kansas whitetail deer with a bow – you can’t get better than that.

Me: What do you wish more people knew about the sport of hunting?

Scott: There’s a sigma out there that hunters just go out to kill animals and maybe that’s true with some. In reality, that’s not why I hunt. I’m in it for the challenge. That’s why I only use my bow. The deer provides meat for the family. Ground beef just doesn’t taste as good as venison. Hunting is also a great way to get away and be in nature. You have a respect for the animals in nature. It brings you down to a primal level. I wish more kids would hunt. The sport needs an influx of people coming in. Look at the National Parks and public land – the government is selling this land off. The only people voicing for the rights of public land and National Parks are the hunters. The families that visit or hike on public grounds won’t advocate for their rights, maybe because they don’t know or it’s not their passion.

Me: What would you say to an adult wanting to take up hunting? Do you have any advice? You are obviously very good at your hobby.

Scott: Practice your weapon of choice. You need your shot to be lethal. The last thing you want is someone making a terrible shot and then there’s a 3-legged deer hobbling around a year later. People need to learn how to safely use their weapon and practice it. Also finding good land can be a challenge if you’re starting out. In Kansas, there’s not a lot of public ground. You’ll have to do what I did – literally go knocking door-to-door and asking permission to hunt on the landowner’s land.

Me: Is there an animal you refuse to hunt?

Scott: Africa big game hunts. I mean I would go if a free opportunity dropped in my lap but I don’t have an interest in Africa. You can’t bring the meat back. It might be cool to be able to help feed a village but in general, no, I don’t have an interest in African big game.

Me: Would you rather go sailfish fishing with me in Costa Rica or elk hunting with Hunter in Colorado?

Scott: Probably elk hunting.


Scott: I mean, elk hunting is a dream of mine.

Me: A vacation with me or Hunter and you choose HUNTER?

Scott: NO! No, wait! That wasn’t the question! You asked which animal I’d rather hunt! Sailfish vs. elk and it’s elk. Always elk, number one.


Scott: So is this interview for the letter S?

Me: Yes. S is for Scott. My best friend that goes fishing with me.

Scott: I’m sleeping on the couch, aren’t I?

Me: No, it’s fine.

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The letter J.

Oh, the pervs of the Internet.

Search engines play a role in driving traffic to your blog or website. Businesses know this and will invest in what’s called SEO – search engine optimization. Imagine how many companies show up after googling, “car rental companies.” If you owned a car rental company wouldn’t you want to be the first on Google’s list? You’re going to have to pay for that.

I don’t pay for crap.

I don’t know my long-term plan with this blog. I give you free entertainment and you listen. But I would write to myself, really. Believe me, if any of this started to feel like “work” then I’d shut this thing down. As far as branding myself – it would take an investment in SEO, for sure. But I’m just a woman with a laptop and a life.

I’m rambling about myself. I’ll stop.

The letter J.

No, it’s not Julie.

What was I talking about? Oh. Yes. Perverts. If my blog shows up because of something you googled – I can see your google search term. Most google search terms are obvious which blog post got the hit.

Recently, “Charlie Engleman” shows up every Saturday. That would be my National Geographic’s Weird But True post.

Or every November I see, “Thanksgiving birthday.” I got your back, google searcher. Thanksgiving Steals My Birthday Thunder.

But sometimes I see the perverts. “Sexy man in jockstrap” or “man on man jockstraps” or “woman wearing jockstrap.”

Get out of here, I didn’t wear a jockstrap. But I did write about one. I had questions. Scott had answers. This post still receives hits almost every month.

The letter J.

The Jockstrap. Written April 16, 2014.


Scott doesn’t read my blog.

I know, it’s a little surprising. He will read a post if I ask him to read it. He will also read a post if it gets a lot of attention from his friends on Facebook. His response to not reading my blog is –

“I live the blog.”

Scott won’t read this post.

You guys, he wears lingerie clips when he plays hockey.

I was laying in bed with Scott last night. We were watching baseball. My eyes fell to the cute pitcher’s butt. I mean, it’s like right there.

Hm. I wonder if baseball players wear jockstraps? I can’t tell from the TV. I should ask Scott. Wait. Don’t ask Scott. He’ll think I’m dumb. They’d have to wear them. The flying ball might hit the hanging balls. Right?

Me: Do you have a jockstrap?

Scott: Yeah, it’s in my hockey bag.

Me: Can I see it?

Scott: What?

Me: I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.

Scott: It’s a piece of plastic.

Me: Go get it.

Scott: No! It smells like hockey gear.

Me: You don’t wash your jockstrap?

Scott: I don’t know. Yeah, I’m sure it’s been washed.

Me: Does it cover everything hanging? Like all cupped up in a ball of plastic?

Scott: (raises his eyebrows) Are you serious? I slip the plastic piece inside the strap and it covers everything.

Me: Doesn’t it, like, chafe? That can’t be comfortable.

Scott: No, it doesn’t really chafe. It’s not the most comfortable thing.

Me: If I were a guy, I would just go without it. That’s got to be annoying.

Scott: If you were a guy, you would be wearing one if you knew what a blow to the balls feels like.

Me: Are there sizes?

Scott: Yes.

Me: And….


Me: May I ask what size you are?

Scott: I don’t know, it’s based on underwear size.

Me: So like a medium.

Scott: MEDIUM?!

Me: LARGE! Sorry, large. I forgot you’re a large. So you wear a large size jockstrap. Is that the biggest one?

Scott: I’m done talking to you.

Me: Wait, wait. I don’t know these things! I’m a girl. I’m fascinated. We don’t have sons. I’ll never know. How does it stay there? You’d have to have a thong for it to stay down over the balls.

Scott: No. I don’t have a string up my butt. I put my legs through the straps and it sits on my hips.

Me: I’m so confused. Go get it.

Scott: No. You can go in the garage and get my hockey bag off the wall if you want to see it.

Me: Don’t make me google image search this.

Scott: Ok. It has a waist band, the straps go here on my hips to hold it up. There’s a slip here to put the plastic cup in. My socks that hold my shin guards go up over my knee. I clip the straps to the socks.

Me: STOP. You clip straps to the socks?

Scott: Yes.

Me: You mean tell me you wear those bra strap looking things on your legs? Like when you see a woman in full lingerie. Those clips that hold the panty hose up. The clips that men drool over.

Scott: I’m sorry. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen lingerie so I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Me: You know exactly what I’m talking about. I didn’t know they made lingerie clips for hockey players! HA!

Scott: What are you laughing at?

Me: All those hockey players wear lingerie straps! This just puts whole new perspective on the fighting. Don’t you feel sexy throwing punches? Hey, these are kinda hot.

Scott: What are you doing?

Me: Google image search.

Scott: Is this a porn site?

Me: No, it’s google image search: jockstrap. This is what shows up. Where’s the sexy clips?

Scott: You’re going to get viruses on your computer.

Me: It’s a google image search! Maybe I’m looking for a new jockstrap for my husband or son. Google doesn’t know why I’m googling jockstraps. Oh, wait. They have a separate section for hockey jockstraps. Ah, here we go. Oooo sexy clips for the hockey playa. You men. You want women to dress in these yet here you are wearing them with other men.

Scott: It’s a JOCKSTRAP. MEN WEAR JOCKSTRAPS. I’m going to bed.

Me: Wait, do baseball players wear them?

Scott: Good night.


Three years later, I realize that I, too, am a pervert of the Internet googling “jockstraps.”


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The letter B.

Me: I’m going to give you a letter and you tell me the first word that comes to mind. It needs to start with the letter.

Scott: Ok.

Me: The letter B.

Scott: Bitch.

Me: The first word you think of when I say the letter B is bitch?

Scott: Guess so.

Me: Give me another word – B.

Scott: Bubble.

Me: Bubble? Like gum?

Scott: I was thinking like a bunch of bubbles.

Me: Soap bubbles?

Scott: I guess.

Me: I wonder what a psychologist would say about your answers. Bitch and bubble.

I thought about the letter B today.

The first word that popped in my head was Burton – my last name. But I’ve written about Burton. We are not related to Burton Snowboards but I do buy Burton apparel because it’s fun to share a last name with a brand. It’s also fun to pretend I know how to snowboard.

The letter B. 

Boy. Never had one.

Balls. Never had those either. 

Book. Well, I am going to be in an anthology in May.

But Did You Die? That’s the name of the book. Also a B.

Barnes and Noble. You can BUY my BOOK at BARNES AND NOBLE. It’s called BUT DID YOU DIE? Co-authored BY Julie BURTON.

By-line. By Julie Burton. AH!

Baker’s dozen. I think I’m hungry.

Baby. Nope. Done.

Belly. The baker’s dozen gave me a belly but not a baby belly.

Birth. Witch hazel pads. Nope.

Bed. Scott’s snoring now.

Banging on my keys. How does he sleep through this.

Bromance. Well, that’s not right.

Beautiful. Scott is dreaming about his beautiful wife. There. Better.

Bubble baths. He’s such a romantic.

Bitch. Yes, I know what he said first.

Body. Scott has a killer body.

Bread. Scott doesn’t eat a baker’s dozen.

Baskin Robbins. Why do I do this to myself.

Baking. Stop it.

Bon appetite.

Brain. You guys, this is exactly how I think. 

Blanket. Good night, letter B. You’re in the books.



Baby Got Back. Oh, no. It’s stuck in my head.

Buns. My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.

Baker’s dozen! It all works out in the end.


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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?


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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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