Worst Boyfriend Ever

I was itching to write something today, but I was coming up empty when I tried to think of a topic. In hopes of finding some inspiration, I texted my little sister:

Me: I need your creativity! I can’t think of anything to blog about. Can you think of any funny old stories or memories I could write about??

Within ten seconds her reply arrived:

Jamie: Worst boyfriend ever

I knew exactly what she was referring to — no further explanation needed. Of course, there was no mystery about to whom she was referring (there can only be one Worst Boyfriend Ever, after all), but I also immediately knew which cringe-worthy anecdote she thought was perfect blog material (and there are a lot to choose from!): The Birthday Breakup.

I dated my WBE about ten years ago, at a time in my life when happiness was scarce and self-esteem was scarcer. As a result, my screening process for potential boyfriends was…flimsy. You like the same music as me and find me attractive? Great, let’s go out! What’s that, now? You have no job and no intention of getting one, you’re irresponsible, wildly immature, disrespectful, and insanely jealous? No problem, let’s not let that stop this love connection!

As you can imagine, this led to some relationships that were perhaps a shade shy of healthy.

Now, to be fair, WBE wasn’t abusive or a drug addict or anything — just sort of a jerk. There were a lot of problems right from the get-go, but one of the most troubling red flags was that he didn’t like me hanging out with the twins (my little sisters, for the uninitiated). He complained that I “acted like a teenager” around them (I was 20!) and was prone to rolling his eyes and getting snappy whenever he was in our midst. He once barked at us for having a little too much fun singing along to an AFI song in the car (apparently we weren’t giving Davey Havok’s soulful screeching the respect it deserved); another time, the twins and I all purchased some cheap matching rings at a thrift store and he was appalled by our immaturity (irony!). He wasn’t outwardly rude to the girls (most of the time), but it was clear that he was not a fan of our closeness.

Perhaps we were annoying when we were together (and by “perhaps” I mean “we absolutely were”), but I think it’s more likely that he could see that I had a far better time with them than I ever did with him, and it made him uncomfortable.

Regardless of the reason, his attitude towards the girls really, really bothered me. I was very meek (read: pathetic) in those days and rarely stood up for myself, but I certainly wasn’t going to stand for any mistreatment of my precious twinsies. I never let him talk me out of spending time with them or including them in our activities (not that we were taking them on dates with us or anything creepy), and I always stuck up for them when WBE got sassy or rude around them. Unfortunately, it never sunk in: WBE continued to be threatened by our sisterly bonding.

By June of 2003, my relationship with WBE was hanging on by a thread, but we were still an item. I was sick of the relationship and knew it was going nowhere, but I was having trouble finding the courage to actually split up with him. I knew I didn’t want to be with him anymore, but the prospect of breaking up with him and dealing with that mess seemed scarier and more difficult than just keeping the status quo. I needed a push, and on June 28th, I got it.

That day, he came to pick me up for a date of some sort. It was the twins’ 15th birthday, so I waited for him to come to the door rather than dashing out to his car — I assumed he’d want to wish them a happy birthday before we headed out (I lived at home at the time, so WBE was accustomed to visiting with my family whenever he came by). He apparently didn’t want to come in, though (he honked his horn repeatedly instead), so I dashed outside. When I got to his car, we had a brief but life-changing conversation:

Me: Don’t you want to come in and say hi to the twins? It’s their birthday, remember?

WBE: No, why would I? What have they ever done for me?

And that was the end of that! I did not get in the car. We broke up right then and there, in the driveway in front of my house.

Five months later, I met TFW and my entire life changed. TFW was and is everything the WBE was not. I had never dated anyone like him. He had a college degree! And a real job! And he was kind and funny and sensitive and uncomplicated. It was a shock to the system, if we’re being honest. I am so, so glad I met him, and I am so, so grateful I had broken up with WBE and was single and ready to mingle when our paths crossed. Sometimes I think of what my life might be like if I had never met TFW, and I feel physically ill at the very thought.

But we are together, and life is beautiful.

And yes: he loves the twins.

the twins and I, circa the WBE era. not pictured: the annoying matching rings

Wordless Wednesday: The Graduate

Bubba — AKA the class mascot — got to go along with the big kids at his daycare when they went to get their “graduation” photos taken:

Jinxed!

As I mentioned earlier this month, despite a distinct lack of athletic talent and in spite of the fact that I do not particularly enjoy the activity, I have been training to run a marathon. I’ve made a number of jokes about how absurd it was for me to think I could achieve this ridiculous goal, including this ominous gem I posted to Facebook in March:

The truth is, though, despite my self-deprecation (I really do suck at running) and my repeated insistence that I hate running, I’ve actually been looking forward to the marathon. A lot. While I don’t always have a great time while I’m running (what is this elusive “runner’s high” I keep hearing about, and how do I get in on that action? I guess running faster than a turtle’s pace would be a good start), I do love the feeling of accomplishment at the end of a run, and I have to admit that being so active is great for my mood and confidence (although not so much for my hair, which is permanently smooshed into a greasy, frizzy ponytail).

If only I’d spent more time talking about that and less time joking that I longed for a broken ankle, perhaps the universe wouldn’t have felt the need to call my bluff by causing me to SLIP IN A POTHOLE AND SPRAIN MY ANKLE BAD ENOUGH THAT THE DOCTOR SAYS IT IS UNLIKELY I’LL BE ABLE TO RUN AGAIN FOR “MANY WEEKS.”

And the marathon is six weeks away.

I was nine miles into a 17-mile torture test training run on Saturday morning, and I was feeling FANTASTIC — my pace was the best it’s ever been (at least 10% faster than a turtle), I wasn’t fatigued, no nagging aches or pains — when I stumbled (literally) upon some loose gravel, skidded a couple inches, and slipped into a pothole. I knew immediately that my ankle (which was already a little weak and sore just from the training in general) was not going to be too pleased with that little endeavor, but I shook it off and tried to keep going.

(Have I mentioned that I am a stubborn individual, often to my own detriment?)

I made it two more miles before deciding I better call my husband to come retrieve me so I could rest up and run again the next day.

HA!

By nightfall I could barely walk. The swelling and pain (and the worry about all my training going to waste) kept me up all night, and I finally headed for Urgent Care on Sunday morning. The doctor did some poking, prodding, and testing, and proclaimed it sprained. I still had hope at this point — sprain, shmrain, right? Sprains aren’t serious! — until he said the dreaded words: “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I don’t think you’ll be running a marathon any time soon.”

I cried.

I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of life — there will be other marathons, although unfortunately I’ll have to wait till the fall since no one schedules marathons in the summer! — but it’s such a letdown. All that training, which I didn’t even enjoy, for naught! It’s not like I looked forward to the runs every day and relished pounding the pavement; no, those runs were HARD WORK. It’s as if I spent the last three months working an extra job in my spare time to save up for something fabulous, and then had my paycheck stolen.

And the worst part is, since I’m not running all the time now, I have no justification for eating whatever I want and drinking sugary fountain Dr Pepper nearly every day! (Remember, when you run — no matter the duration, pace, or intensity — the law dictates that you can eat whatever you want with no guilt whatsoever. IT’S THE LAW.)

So screw you, city of Pasadena, for not maintaining your stupid, shitty roads. And you too, nature and water and earthquakes or whatever causes potholes to form. And every driver who has driven on that road and contributed to its state of disrepair, too. And also the “austism speaks” group for taking over the Rose Bowl, where I had intended to run that day, thus forcing me to run on the surrounding pothole-ridden streets instead*. I HATE YOU ALL.

However, Bubba has been enjoying saying his favorite word while I ice my ankle:

COLD! COLD! COLD! OOOOOOH! COLD!

*Obviously, I wish no actual harm upon them; I’m sure they’re a lovely group and I hope their event went swimmingly. Still, though: you needed the ENTIRE Rose Bowl area for your fundraiser? THE WHOLE THING? Other people couldn’t use the area for their own activities at the same time? Grrr…

Bottle Addict

Today’s post is written by Bubba himself! Well, I transcribed it for him…but the sentiment is all his.

My name is Ryan Wachter, and I am a bottle addict.

It’s very difficult to admit to myself that I have a problem, but I can no longer deny reality: I am entirely too dependent on that sweet white nectar and the comforting silicon teat through which it’s delivered. In recent weeks it has become increasingly rare for me to even consider falling asleep without a bottle, and if another is not available to me immediately upon waking up, I have been known to turn into a screeching, sobbing maniac (even if the slumber from which I’m awaking was just a quick nap and I had just had a bottle prior to said snooze). Many’s the time that I’ve awoken with a jolt at 2am, jonesing for the good stuff, and flat-out refused all other comfort measures offered by my long-suffering mother until she finally gave up and produced a bottle (which I then sucked on for precisely 30 seconds before chucking it out of the crib and going back to sleep).

I am not proud of myself.

You’re probably wondering how I ended up this way. Like most babies, I’ve always enjoyed a good bottle — both for the tasty milk itself as well as the simple fun of sucking on it — but my innocent affinity turned into something darker only recently. I suppose things started to go downhill as soon as I mastered saying “BABA!”. How I love to say that word! I get such a thrill from barking it at my mom, demanding that she fetch me one. It’s so much better than non-specific whimpering, or, worse yet, giving up and just moving on to some other distraction. Then I learned where the bottles are kept, and I was able to up the ante by running over there, outstretching my hands in desperation, and issuing my plea. Like this, but with tears, because life is so hard:

Since my sweet, pathetic mom is so eager to please me, I always get my way, so I simply became accustomed to indulging in some bottle therapy whenever the mood struck!

(I know addicts aren’t supposed to blame others for their problem, but come on: surely my mom deserves some castigation here, no? I am, after all, a goddamn baby. As my dad is fond of pointing out to her, she could say no to me every once in a while.)

Adding to both mine and the aforementioned pathetic mother’s collective denial was the fact that it all seemed so harmless. It’s just milk! And I’m just 16 months old! Can’t a kid drink a bottle? But the other night, I hit rock bottom. After drinking my usual pre-bedtime bottle, Mama put me in bed like usual, but, as has become all too common lately, I refused to sleep until she brought me more milk. A few hours later, I woke up and demanded another (my mom actually tried to trick me by giving me a pacifier — which I never liked, not even as an infant, and haven’t even touched in at least a year; I don’t even know where she found that disgusting thing and I sincerely hope she sanitized it first — thinking perhaps I just needed something to suck on; she thought wrong). Then, not three hours later, I did it again! And then at 5am, before the sun had even come up, I begged for yet another!

By the time my mom plucked me from my bed to get ready for the day, my floor was littered in half-drunk bottles (as previously mentioned, I like to throw them out of the crib as soon as I’ve gotten my fix — which could be anywhere from one sip to the whole thing, and there’s no way of guessing how much I’ll want at any given time), droplets of now-sour milk dotting the carpet. It was eye-opening, really: surely that mess wasn’t all from one night, right? And worst of all, I still wanted my breakfast bottle but all the bottles were on the floor of my bedroom and I had to wait in agony for an endless three minutes while Mama washed one of them!

Enough is enough. I can’t live like this anymore! It’s time to turn over a new leaf, a leaf wherein I’m capable of falling asleep and waking up without relying on this crutch. I’ll still drink milk, of course, but surely I’m old enough to just drink it out of a cup like a normal human.

Grant me the strength!!!

Is Your Baby a Reincarnated Dog? Mine Is.

I’m not big on religion, and I’m unconvinced on the prospect of an afterlife, but I’ll tell you what I do believe in: reincarnation.

Specifically, dog-to-human reincarnation. More specifically, the ability for dearly departed afghan hound/doberman rescue mutts to be reincarnated into adorable half-Jewish babies.

What I’m saying is, I’m pretty sure Bubba embodies the spirit of the late, great, Tucker.

If you’re not familiar with Tucker, he was the first dog TFW and I had together, and to call him the greatest dog who has ever lived would be an understatement. Sure, I’m a little biased, but just behold this magnificent beast:

He was maddeningly wild (one did not walk Tucker; one simply held onto the leash and tried to avoid cars while Tucker raced through town, sniffing out squirrels and greeting anyone within a two-mile radius), and he could be a little naughty (we lost our entire deposit when we moved out of our rental house thanks to Tucker’s creative “landscaping;” in addition to the run-of-the-mill holes he dug, he also chewed down an entire palm tree — and we had only had him for four months when we moved out). But he was also fun-loving, affectionate, gentle, and loyal.

And his joy! My god, did that dog love just being alive. Every single day was the best day of his life. He didn’t walk, he pranced. He was the embodiment of happiness, lightness, and carefree exuberance. He never met a person (or dog) he didn’t like, and everyone loved him, too. You couldn’t look at this giant goofy-looking mystery pup (anywhere we went, at least one person would ask “what kind of dog is that*?!”) galumphing about without smiling!

Tucker’s death was sudden and tragic, and we were devastated. There was a hole in our hearts and in our family. We eventually adopted another dog, but it wasn’t the same at all — Tucker’s joyful spirit simply couldn’t be replicated nor replaced (Connie, if you are a secret canine genius and can read this, please relax: we love you, even if you are neurotic and have none of the joie de vivre possessed by your predecessor).

11 months after Tucker’s death, a new light came into our lives: Bubba.

And I swear to you, this baby is Tucker all over.

Like Tucker, Bubba is high-maintenance, but his cuteness and personality more than make up for it. They also share a passion for laundry baskets:

And they both like to have a cuddly friend at their side:

And like his spirit animal, Bubba loves, loves, loves his Mama.

I’ll share one more little example that convinces me that Bubba has at least a little bit of Tucker’s special spirit within him: when we would take Tucker to the dog park (his absolute favorite activity in the world, rivaled only perhaps by eating bacon), he would race around with the other pups for hours. In between all the excitement, though, he never failed to periodically “check in” with us by zipping by and giving us a quick lick before darting back off with his doggie pals again — it was like he was saying “Mom, Dad, I’m having a great time here, but don’t worry: I still like you and I haven’t forgotten about you!” Nowadays, Bubba does the exact same thing when he’s playing: he’ll be running around like a madman, singing to himself and throwing lemons into the air, then suddenly drop everything and dash over to give me a giant hug. My son does many, many things that make me happy, but I do believe this is my #1 favorite.

I’m know all parents think their babies are magical joy-bringing little creatures, and I’m also aware that lots of babies share Bubba’s (and thus Tucker’s) many fine qualities. But Bubba so perfectly captures Tucker’s classic blend of enthusiasm, tenderness, and insanity, it’s uncanny — and it makes my heart happy.

*if you’re wondering how we determined that Tucker was in fact 50% doberman and 50% afghan hound, the answer is simple: we are insane and spent $60 getting his DNA tested. WE HAD TO KNOW.

How To Train For a Marathon When You Hate Running And Have a Kid

Did you know that I’m training for a marathon?

Probably not, since I’ve never mentioned it here. I haven’t mentioned it because a) hearing about someone’s personal fitness endeavors is excruciatingly boring and I try very hard to be no more than slightly boring, and b) I really and truly suck at running and I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to pull it off.

So why am I talking about it now, then? Well, I’m having trouble thinking of anything else to write about, and thanks to my serious training regimen running is at the forefront of my mind, so I’ve decided to ignore reason “a” above. Sorry. And while I still totally suck at running, I’m pretty committed to my training at this point and am determined to complete this stupid marathon even if it takes me twelve hours and all that remains of my feet at the end is scar tissue and blisters, so reason “b” is no longer applicable!

The marathon is less than two months away now, so my training is really ramping up — I’m running a ridiculous number of miles every week, and it’s taking up an awful lot of my precious time (time that could — and should — be spent sitting on the couch watching American Idol). The good news is, I haven’t injured myself or passed out on the mean streets of LA yet! The bad news is, the training is really hard, largely because I just do not like running. To make matters worse, I obviously have a child that I’m supposed to take care of, and trying to fit in all the training gets trickier and trickier as the necessary runs get longer and longer. Life is hard.

Those obstacles have made my marathon training difficult, but I have persevered! I’ve implemented a number of strategies that have helped make my training less torturous. If you’re considering training for a race of some sort and need tips or advice (or if you’re just really bored and have nothing better to do than read my blog), I encourage you to use my guide:

Maureen Wachter’s Patent-Pending Guide to Make Marathon Training Not Suck As Bad:

Step 1: Buy cute running gear. Invest in something better than ancient sweats and hole-y t-shirts so you’re a little excited to wear it. This will not improve your performance in the slightest, but at least you’ll feel better about your appearance while you’re out there! (You will look hideous by the end of the run regardless, though, I’m sorry to say. Even the cutest Gap running tank cannot mask your sweatiness.)

Step 2: Get a good jogging stroller. If you have to lug the kid along with you, a decent jogging stroller makes a huge difference. Your primary concern need not be the quality of the wheels or the craftsmanship — no, you just need to worry about keeping the child happy long enough to complete your stupid run. Specifically, look for a stroller with a reclining seat so the kid can lean back and suck down a bottle (or, even better, sleep!), and, most importantly, make sure it has a cup holder and snack tray! Just keep shoveling snacks down your kid’s gullet and your outing should remain pleasant.

Step 3: On second thought, leave the kid home. Those strollers are HEAVY, and the kid is never happy in there quite long enough. Just make Daddy watch him at home.

Step 4: Choose a route that passes a dog park and/or ends at a donut shop. I cannot stress this enough: your route will absolutely influence how much you will hate running, and I’m not just referring to obvious stuff like big hills or uneven sidewalks. Instead of just doing a boring out-and-back run or a loop, pick an exciting end destination (like a donut shop) and have someone pick you up there! And whenever possible, make sure your run takes you past some distracting eye-candy — for example, there’s a dog park near my house that I like to run by so I can watch the pups play (I’m a dog stalker).

Step 5: Listen to a comedy podcast. People who run with no audio entertainment are obviously psychopaths (how are they not driven crazy with boredom?!), but even music doesn’t cut it for me — I either want to sing along or I just get bored. I’ve turned to comedy podcasts instead, and let me tell you, I’ve never looked back! The only downside is that I often look like a maniac because I’m grinning from ear to ear or literally laughing aloud whilst I run; one time I burst into uncontrollable laughter after having just taken a huge slurp of water and wound up spitting said water out right next to a passing jogger’s shoes. Still worth it!

Step 6: Use a mantra. Make sure to choose an inspirational phrase that you can repeat to yourself throughout your outing to stay motivated. Mine is “you can do it; you probably aren’t going to collapse!”

Step 7: Celebrate with a feast! Regardless of the distance you just ran or the pace you kept, you get to eat whatever the hell you want after a run. It’s the law (trust me; I am, clearly, a fitness expert). Last Saturday I ran fourteen miles, then immediately got in my car and drove to In N Out. I was literally eating a giant cheeseburger and guzzling a monstrous Dr Pepper within twenty minutes of completing my run. Actually, looking forward to your feast could even be your mantra: “I’m almost done, and then it’s straight to burger-ville!”

Good luck!

My Son, The Large Black Man

Prior to having my son, I had never called anyone Bubba in my life. In fact, I can only think of two people named Bubba in the entire world, and one is a fictional character. Bubba #1 is Forrest Gump’s shrimp-loving compatriot, and the other is Bubba Crosby, a former second-tier outfielder for the Yankees who once refused to acknowledge the twins and I when we saw him after a game at Dodger Stadium.

this is the non-fictional Bubba, and he’s a jerkface.

The decision to call my son Bubba was entirely unconscious — I certainly didn’t plan it out or anything. It just came out accidentally when the nurse handed him to me immediately following his birth (I think I was trying to say “Hi, buddy,” but I was just really exhausted from, ya know, giving birth). Once I said it, though, that was it. That was his nickname. No turning back! So I’ve been calling the dear lad “Bubba” almost exclusively for the last 16 months, save for more formal situations (I’m sane enough to use his real name when meeting new people or visiting the doctor), and I really haven’t given much thought to it — it’s just a cute little nickname.

Right?

Maybe not.

The other day I dropped him off at daycare as usual, and as I tried to depart, Bubba was being so dang cute with his bye-bye waving that I just had to stop and give him one more kiss. He was sitting on the lap of the daycare owner, who, like literally everyone else in our immediate neighborhood, is black. (This information is important.) I gave my son one final smooch and then bid him adieu:

“Bye-bye, Bubba! Mama loves you!”

And my neighbor laughed so hard she almost dropped my son.

“Did you just call him ‘Bubba’?!” She asked (she was amused, not horrified).

When I answered in the affirmative, she hit me with this hot piece of knowledge: apparently, “Bubba” is a term for a large black man. Not an adorable white baby. She assured me that it wasn’t offensive — she just found it comical — but I was a tad embarrassed. I knew it was a silly little nickname, but had I actually spent the last 16 months sounding like some kind of racist fool?

this is not a large black man.

Naturally, I did some research later that day. First, I’d like to report that Wikipedia agrees with me: Bubba is just an awesome nickname and there are no racial connotations (ok, I added the part about it being awesome). I will concede that the entry goes on to note that “at times it may be used as a term of endearment (or in an insulting sense) for a person, especially a man, who is either overweight or seemingly powerful large body frame,” but still: nothing in there about race.

Next, I did a Google search. Most of the results were Forrest Gump-related, but did you know that there is apparently a famous golfer named Bubba Watson? Who knew! And there’s a radio personality who calls himself Bubba The Love Sponge. Plus, it’s also the nickname of our own 42nd president Bill Clinton (how had I never heard that?)!

Nothing about large black men, even on page 2 of the results! (I can’t vouch for anything beyond that; this was a half-assed research project.) I even tried googling “is bubba offensive,” but all that came up were some reports of the aforementioned golfer acting like a douche.

Research completed, I feel fairly satisfied that I can continue to call my kid Bubba without people assuming I’m referring to a large black man. I’m sure there will come a day when I’ll have to stop calling him that (most likely the day he learns the words “Mom, that name is stupid and I have a perfectly good name; please stop being a moron”), but for now, he’s Bubba.

But if you’ve been reading this blog thinking it was about a large black man all along…I’m sorry to disappoint you.

How To Make Your Girlfriend Cry On Your Fourth Date

On our first date (8+ years ago!), TFW took me to see a documentary about Che Guevara. He was trying to impress me with either his worldliness or his pretentiousness.

A few days later we went miniature golfing and I tried to impress him with how fun and laid back I was (don’t laugh).

For our third date, we watched both volumes of Kill Bill at his apartment. We both just wanted to make out with each other.

The fourth time we got together, TFW tried to force me to eat pho at a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant on San Marcos Boulevard and made me cry.

Now, to understand this ridiculous tale, you must realize two things about TFW:

• He is Jewish and thus any wasting of food is akin to a cardinal sin in his eyes
• He’s an idiot

And four things about me:

• I have the palate of an obnoxious five-year-old child
• I used to be extraordinarily, pathetically, off-the-charts sensitive (this has since improved; I only cried in sympathy of a fictional character in a book once this week!)
• I used to have a crippling need to make everyone around me happy and hated saying no to anyone
• I’m an idiot

Prior to this fourth date, we had only dined together twice: we had Greek food before our mini-golf adventure (even a picky eater like me can’t find fault with pita and chicken), and we made some popcorn during our movie marathon. So to be fair, TFW was not yet familiar with my dietary preferences, and he certainly hadn’t been exposed to my sheer lunacy at that point (I tried to keep it under wraps).

Anyway, on the night in question, we didn’t have any firm plans laid out ahead of time — just a vague plan to get together and grab some dinner. In my mind, since I’m a normal (humor me), non-pretentious, down-to-earth gal, I naively assumed this meant we’d wind up at Chilis or something low-key. Instead, he picked me up and we had this conversation:

TFW: “So, do you like Vietnamese food? There’s a great pho place by my office!”

Mo (horrified): “Um, well, um, I’ve never tried it…”

TFW: “GREAT YOU’LL LOVE IT LET’S GO!”

(The Che Guevara movie should have tipped me off that there would be no Chilis dates in our future.)

I spent the 10-minute drive over there trying to psych myself up. How bad could it be? I’d eaten Chinese food before and lived to tell the tale; perhaps this was similar? Of course, that was Panda Express and probably doesn’t really count as “authentic,” but…this dude seems fairly normal, so if he likes it, it’s got to be edible. Right?

When we arrived, he “helpfully” insisted on ordering for me since I had never experienced these culinary delights. I mustered the courage to meekly inform him that I wasn’t very adventurous and didn’t tolerate spicy foods too well, and he assured me everything was nice and mild. “Pho is like Top Ramen, and spring rolls are like egg rolls! You’ll see!”

LIAR.

Pho is indeed similar to Top Ramen, if you don’t know what the word “similar” means. And Vietnamese spring rolls are like Chinese egg rolls, if you like your egg rolls wrapped in a weird doughy wrapper and served COLD.

exhibit A: vomit

I was not a fan, and this is where the trouble began. Unlike a functional adult human being, I was unable to simply tell him I didn’t like it, nor was I able to just suck it up and eat it anyway (in all honesty, it wasn’t really THAT bad; I’d just never had anything like it before and it surprised my delicate palate), so I just sort of sat there awkwardly while TFW enthusiastically chowed down. And unfortunately, unlike a non-idiotic adult human being, that imbecile failed to pick up on my obvious discomfort and proceeded to encourage me to eat my dinner. “Just TRY it!” he continued to implore. “It’s soooooo good! Just eat it! You’ll LOVE it! Don’t waste it!!!!”

Seriously, folks, he was incessant.

And I. Was. MORTIFIED!

Eventually, he gave up and ate my meal for me (god forbid we waste an ounce of broth!) while I sat there blinking back tears at my own awkwardness. Fortunately, he was blissfully unaware since he was so excited about the damn pho, but it took me a solid hour or so before I was able to speak without my voice quivering in that pitiful on-the-verge-of-crying manner you’ve surely all experienced at some point (although hopefully over something more worthy of your emotions than goddamn Vietnamese food).

A couple months later, when our relationship had progressed significantly and I was fairly confident that my not liking something he enjoyed wasn’t going to send him running for the hills after all, I brought up the pho incident and admitted that I had actually cried ACTUAL TEARS about it. He was completely surprised (seriously, he hadn’t noticed!) and thought it was hilarious! “Why didn’t you just tell me to shut the hell up?!” He asked. “I wouldn’t have cared. I just thought you would like it!”

He’s a keeper.

Since then, I’m happy to report that not only have I developed a functioning backbone and can now (usually) tell people what I like and don’t like, but I’ve also taken a cue from my dear husband and become a more adventurous eater!

Sort of.

exhibit B: that burger had caramelized onions on it AND I DIDN’T EVEN PICK THEM OFF!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Backyard Bliss!

Thanks to a hand-me-down water/sand table, some thrift store trucks, and a couple of two dollar rubber balls from Target, our backyard now has more to offer dear Bubba than lemons and a deflated basketball.

(Please look closely and note that he is trying to place the small trucks on the seat of the big truck…to take them for a ride, I guess?)

But despite all these fun new distractions, he always returns to his one true love:

What a Difference a Year Makes: Happy Easter!

I love looking back and comparing what Bubba was up to (and what hideous clothes I was wearing) one year ago, and holidays are the perfect opportunity for such a comparison. I did so for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and if we had any life at all, I’m sure I would have done one for other holidays, too (do other adult humans really do stuff on July 4th or New Years or St. Patrick’s Day? YOU DO?! Why didn’t you invite me?!?!?).

Sunday was Easter, of course, so it’s time for a year-to-year comparison!

Last year, Bubba was barely four months old and still not interested in sleeping much at night. I was tired (and apparently wearing some sort of pink leopard-print frock?! I can’t see the whole thing, unfortunately/fortunately):

Bubba wasn’t at all interested in the Easter Bunny or egg hunts or the majesty that is carrot cake, but he was interested in my teeth:

(Probably because he had none and wouldn’t get any for another five months!)

And his cousins were certainly excited to see him, but I can’t say that the feeling was mutual:

This year, Bubba still had no clue what the hell was going on — eggs are outside on the grass and in the bushes? And they’re PURPLE?! — but he was amenable to the proceedings:

(Please note his felt “basket,” which was procured from the $1 section of Target one day prior to these festivities.)

He particularly enjoyed shaking and prying open the plastic eggs and discovering they were filled with jelly beans, which I of course informed him were ca-ca and not to be eaten (because I’m a Mean Mama and because, come on now, a 16-month-old does not need to eat candy):

Instead of sucking down bottles of liquid gold (AKA formula) like last year, he double-fisted dinner rolls and smeared potato salad all over his cute little face:

And even drank water out of a real cup:

(And by “drank,” we all know I really mean “poured on his shirt.”)

Finally, I’d like to point out that unlike last year when I wore what I can only assume is some sort of pink and red leotard (based on the above photo, anyway), this year I busted out some high fashion. That’s right, folks: I was indeed wearing THE FANCY PANTS! I didn’t get a good full-body shot (something to do with being too busy chasing a toddler around and trying to prevent said toddler from licking too much glitter off of the fancily dyed eggs), but you can see them here, in all their glory:

(In case you’re curious, the shoes are from Target, and I dug the sweater out of a bag of clothes the twins were getting rid of. Haute couture!)

I hope you all had as delightful a holiday as we did! Now, I guess next year I have to actually do the whole Easter Bunny thing and put candy and stuff in that basket?