How to Snag a Husband by Being Super Annoying

Nine years ago today, I drove from San Diego to Los Angeles, picked up my little sisters, and headed to Hollywood for a Bad Religion concert. The girls weren’t as awesome and hardcore as I was (ahem), so they opted to hang out in the back of the venue to enjoy the show from a safe distance while I pushed my way towards the stage in anticipation of singing and moshing along with my fellow BR-loving brethren. Since I was now sans my companions, I took it upon myself to chat with the person who was standing next to me while we waited for the band to start playing. In the course of our chit-chat, I bragged that I’d seen the band over twenty times (so charming!), at which point the guy turned to his friend and said, “hey, this chick has seen BR even more times than you!”

That friend is now my husband.

And how did I pull this off, you ask? BY BEING SUPER ANNOYING. If you’re one of the millions of frustrated singles out there, wishing you were in a relationship and wondering why you can’t seem to find a suitable mate, chances are that you’re simply not annoying enough. For example, it was my obnoxious insistence upon talking to my fellow concert-goers instead of just patiently awaiting the commencement of entertainment like a normal person that led to my conversation with TFW’s friend, and then my unprompted boasting about my dedication to the band compelled the fellow to draw his similarly-obsessed pal (TFW) into the fold. Perhaps he was just sick of talking to me and wanted to pawn me off on his friend, but no matter — had I kept quiet and waited for the music, I never would have met my future husband!

So as you can see, you’ve got to put yourself out there if you want to meet someone, and that means chatting up strangers whenever possible. However, you can’t just stop there! Your next step is to ensure future contact, and that means getting his contact information so you can bug him to go out with you later. And just so I’m crystal clear here, I must stress the importance of getting his information in addition to (or as opposed to) just giving him your info. What if he loses your number, or is too nervous or shy to contact you? If you have HIS info, you can take the reins and stalk him to your heart’s content! This proved to be a bit complicated in my case, since this was back in ancient times before everyone carried cell phones everywhere they went and neither of us had pens at the ready since we were, ya know, in the mosh pit of a punk rock concert, but luckily my mark happened to carry his business cards in his wallet and he was able to give one of those to me. I tucked that sucker in my pocket and guarded it with my life until I got home (WHAT IF I LOST IT?!), when I immediately fired up the computer and emailed him.

This brings me to my next tip, which is to bypass all “games” and “rules” (and “politeness”) and just contact the damn guy right away. Waiting three days to call?! Psssh. What if he meets someone else in the interim, or forgets how hot you are? DON’T RISK IT. If he thinks you’re a nutjob for contacting him so quickly (which you totally are, but that’s OK), then it’s his loss and you can move on. I emailed TFW literally within thirty minutes of arriving home that night, telling him I’d enjoyed meeting him and giving him a brief rundown of my life (remember, we’d only talked for about 90 seconds at the show) and included about thirty different ways he could contact me, then obsessively hit “refresh” on my inbox every thirty seconds for the next 24 hours. When he wrote back the next day with his instant messenger screen name (remember, kids, this was the olden days), I added him to my buddy list immediately and then stared at the computer screen until he finally signed on so I could pester him some more.

Unfortunately for me, my new love interest had flown to New York the day after our meeting to spend a week with his family, so I had to wait an agonizing eight days to actually lure him out for a date. Believe you me, had he been in town I would have insisted upon a meeting much sooner. Again, what’s the point of waiting? What are you waiting for? Nothing good can come from waiting. The faster you can get your hooks into your intended, the better! Since I had his screen name, at least, I was able to talk to him multiple times that week, and this proved to be a valuable opportunity as it gave us ample time to get to know each other without the awkwardness or pressure associated with an actual date (in these modern times, you could substitute Facebook messaging or Gtalk and accomplish the same thing). Sure, obsessively contacting someone you barely know via social media could be considered a little annoying, but you’ve gotta go big or go home (dateless). By the time he was back in town, we were well acquainted with each other and ready to go on a date!

Once you’ve made it to this stage, you’ve got it made in the shade, baby! Assuming you still like the guy and he hasn’t turned out to be a creepy weirdo or a drug dealer, your relationship is about 10 steps further along than it would have been if you’d sat around waiting for him to call or if you’d wasted precious time holding off on calling him in fear of being “too annoying.” Go on that date, and then suggest an outing for the next weekend as if a second date is a given! Invite him to meet your family! Buy him a nice Valentine’s Day gift even if you’ve only been together for a few months! Before you know it, you’ll be living together and he’ll be stuck with you!

Hey, it worked for me.

Marriage 101: 5 Secrets to Ensure You Don’t Want to Murder Your Spouse

We all know that a shitload of marriages end in divorce, and according to the Investigation Discovery network and their many fine true-crime programming options, even more marriages end in murder. After having been married for four years, I must admit that these statistics aren’t too surprising; I’ve wanted to strangle my dear husband no fewer than six hundred times and I consider divorcing him every time he fails to read my mind and bring me the Snickers bar I am craving when he goes to the market¹.

The truth is, all married couples go through rough patches — there’s no avoiding it, and anyone who says otherwise is a filthy liar who doesn’t deserve a single delicious Snickers bar this Halloween. Wanting to maim and/or abandon your spouse every once in a while doesn’t necessarily mean that your marriage is doomed, though! As long as you follow my five simple time-tested (four years is enough of a test, right?) marriage secrets, you and your spouse can beat the odds and stay off the divorce register (and Dateline’s latest episode of “Surprise: It’s Another Spouse Murder!”):

1) Determine the boss of each task; if it’s not you, shut your face and follow the leader: From childcare to money handling to laundry, someone has to be in charge or you’ll fall into a cycle of either nothing getting done or, worse yet, arguing all the time over whose turn it is or whom to blame when things go awry. The solution to this age-old problem is to divide and conquer: figure out who is better-suited to each task and make it their responsibility. That part is simple, but the real key to success here is that the other party must follow suit and take orders when necessary, no questions asked and no complaining. For example, I am in charge of meal planning, so while I might ask my husband to help out by putting something in the oven, he knows not to complicate things by second-guessing the nutritional value of my meals or to ask why I let our son eat dinner in the nude while sitting on a step-stool in the kitchen — that’s my domain.

2) Remember that in every argument, someone eventually has to give up, and sometimes that needs to be you: Yes, even if you’re totally right and your spouse is being an idiot — sometimes, just shut up and let it go. You will be happier and your spouse will be less likely to murder you. Plus, he or she might feel guilty later and bring you a Snickers.

3) Give each other presents or send sweet text messages (and not just when you need to apologize): Surprising me with a Snickers shows me that you were thinking of me at the grocery store and that you know just what I like. A random “I love you!” text message in the middle of the day is nice, too, but Snickers is usually better.

4) Know what you hate about your spouse and find a way to deal with it: Don’t deny it: there are things you just cannot stand about your mate. For example, every time my husband sneezes, I want to punch him in the face because it’s so unnecessarily loud. IT’S OUTRAGEOUS, YOU GUYS. The important thing is that you acknowledge and accept these hideous flaws and find ways to make yourself feel better about them instead of seething in silence. In my case, I deal with my rage by mocking my husband relentlessly every time he sneezes, which is fun for everyone!

5) Remember why you liked him or her to begin with: Surely there are some redeeming qualities to your spouse, even if he or she sneezes super loudly and forgets to bring you a Snickers bar even when you’ve made it very clear that you would really, really like one. Make an effort to acknowledge and appreciate each others’ positive traits and don’t neglect to carve out some time for you two to do something special together, like watching a much-beloved movie or sharing a delicious Snickers bar². And make sure to take photos together whenever you can — even if they come out poorly, it’s nice to have photographic evidence of your love to reference when you’re mad at each other:

Marriage isn’t easy, but I promise it’s not impossible. Stay positive, and don’t forget the Snickers!

…………………………………

Footnotes:

¹An important note to law enforcement: if my husband is dead and you are reading my blog because I am suspected of his murder and you’re looking for evidence against me, I SWEAR THIS WAS A JOKE. (I’ve seen a lot of crime shows, guys. I know they search the wife’s computer, and I know this won’t look good. BRB gotta go retain a lawyer.)

²Unless he forgot to get you one at the store, of course. Can someone just bring me a Snickers bar already? I REALLY WANT ONE³.

³This post was not sponsored by Snickers. I just really, really like them. Especially the peanut butter ones (in case the Mars Corporation is reading and would like to send me a few).

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Thanks to Mama Kat‘s writer’s workshop prompt (“Your top 5 secrets to a successful marriage!”) for the inspiration!

A Few Pointers In Case I Die

It’s no secret that when it comes to raising Bubba, I’m the admiral and TFW is my lieutenant. Prior to becoming a father, TFW had literally zero experience interacting with babies, much less actually taking care of one, and thus is more than happy to follow my lead (this could also be a diversionary tactic on his part in an attempt to get out of doing work; he didn’t even feel comfortable bathing the kid until about a month ago because he “didn’t know how to do it” — suspicious?). Furthermore, I am both a control freak and a major stresser and fear that if I don’t do something myself or at least provide explicit guidelines and over-your-shoulder hovering, tragic consequences could ensue.

This system has worked well for us for the past 19+ months. I’m in charge of everything Bubba-related, and I simply delegate tasks to my second-in-command as needed. Everything gets done to my liking, and while he definitely does a lot to help out, TFW never has to do anything he doesn’t know how to do!

There is, of course, one potentially critical (and totally obvious) flaw to this system: there’s a lot of stuff TFW has never had to do or even think about. This isn’t an issue on a day-to-day basis, but what if I were to drop dead tomorrow from a bout of avian bird flu or get kidnapped whilst out for a jog and then enslaved for years in some psycho’s sex dungeon? I’ve previously discussed my suggestions (*cough* demands *cough*) for TFW’s second wife if such a fate were to befall me, but I neglected to consider the full ramifications of my demise with regard to TFW’s solo parenting.

I am rectifying that now!

TFW, if I should meet a sudden end, dry your tears and consult this list as soon as possible (and then you can cry some more, because you’re seriously going to miss me…right?!):

1. Sometimes Bubba’s bath toys get gross and moldy. You have to wash them. The fact that they get kinda rinsed out in the tub with him does NOT count as “washing.”
2. You have to change his sheets regularly, not just when milk or poop gets on them. Yours too, for that matter (although if milk or poop is on your sheets…I don’t even wanna know what’s going on in my absence).
3. Don’t teach him to say stupid or inappropriate things just because it’s funny (even though it totally is).
4. WWE and Ultimate Fighting really aren’t appropriate programming options for kids under two. Neither is anything on Adult Swim (animation does not necessarily mean “kid-friendly;” you need look no further than Beavis and Butthead to prove my point).
5. You HAVE to clean sometimes. Like, mopping and stuff. Not just because it makes things look nice, but because your ridiculous son rolls around on the floor like a damn dog (and will not hesitate to eat things found on said floor).
6. Motrin is every 6 hours, Tylenol is every 4. It’s OK to combine them, BUT THE DOSAGES ARE DIFFERENT! BE CAREFUL!
7. Popcorn is a choking hazard! Actually, just google “toddler choking hazards” and memorize everything on the list.
8. You have to wrangle the toothbrush away from him and brush his teeth yourself. He will not like this, but too bad: him gnawing on the brush for thirty seconds a day doesn’t really count much towards oral hygiene.
9. At some point, you’ve got to ween him off the whole drinking-bottles-in-bed thing. I was totally gonna do this soon, but I’m dead now, so….good luck with that.
10. Don’t ever leave the house without wipes, diapers, and at least one spare outfit. Trust me. Once he’s potty-trained (and dear god, how are you going to pull that off?! Call my mom for assistance), you can skip the diapers, but I’d still recommend keeping wipes and spare clothes with you at all times.

Okay, never mind: I’ve decided I’m just never going to die. Not that I don’t trust that these two goons would eventually figure things out…

But better safe than sorry.

Why I Liked My Husband Even More After He Stupidly Wrecked His Car

When I met TFW nearly nine years ago, he had only been living in California for four months, and he’d only known how to drive for about four months and two days. Prior to his move, he’d spent his whole life in New York City, a magical land where people can actually utilize public transportation and have no need for drivers licenses. Unlike here in California (and I imagine it’s the same in most parts of the country) where teenagers eagerly anticipate their 16th birthdays and count down the days till they’re free to drive themselves around, a drivers license is no big thing to a teenager in NYC and thus he felt no need to seek one.

(At least that’s what he claims; I suspect he may have just been too lazy and/or scared of driving to bother until he planned his cross-country move and it became absolutely necessary.)

As you can imagine, he was a terrible driver. Truly, seriously, legitimately abysmal. To make matters worse, southern California isn’t exactly the easiest place to drive — traffic, crazy aggressive drivers, and a freeway merge every couple of miles put even the most experienced drivers to the test. Toss a 22-year-old overly-cautious nervous nellie in a used Mustang into that mix and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

(Related digression: when he picked me up for our first date, he didn’t get out of the car and come to the door, because he didn’t want to try to parallel park! That’s right, he called me on my cell phone when he was out front and I went out and met him in the street. Keepin’ it classy!)

A couple weeks after our first meeting, we were set to go on our fifth date. I watched the clock and nervously awaited his arrival (the good kind of nervous, of course), but he didn’t show up. 5 minutes went by, then 10, then 15, when he finally called. Unfortunately, he wasn’t calling to report that he was on his way, but rather that he had gotten in a car accident on his way to come get me and that while he was fine, his car most certainly was not and he was not going to be able to drive over.

For a couple of moments, I wasn’t sure what to say. Our relationship was brand new, and I had no idea how he was going to handle the situation. He sounded surprisingly unruffled in his retelling of the events, but I was still a bit concerned — my previous boyfriend was the type of maniac who had a conniption when I scuffed my own tires against a curb, and even the calmest zen-master is bound to get a tad riled by a car-totaling wreck. I expressed the requisite concern and then waited for him to make the next move.

“So…do you mind on coming to pick me up instead?”

He had just been in a serious car accident that destroyed an expensive car he had just purchased, then spent an hour or so dealing with insurance people, police, and tow trucks, and he still wanted to proceed with our date.

Of course I was happy to drive to his neck of the woods, and we had a fantastic evening. He poked fun at himself for being such an inept driver (the accident was caused by him forgetting that you have to yield when you’re turning left…seriously, how did he even pass his road test?!) and teasingly told me I’d have to be his chauffeur for the next few weeks. I was charmed and downright bowled over by his level-headedness and perspective. “It’s just a car,” he shrugged. “It could have been a lot worse!”

I had never (and still have not) met anyone like him. Anyone who knows him would agree that this story is just so him. Why get worked up over something insignificant that you can’t change, especially when you’ve got a date lined up with a hot chick (ahem)? Do you want to cry over spilled milk or get over yourself and seek out happiness?

He has since improved his driving skills significantly (thank God), but his cool, collected attitude hasn’t changed — and neither has my appreciation for that one simple personality trait of his.

I still mock him every time he has to turn left without a green arrow, though.

Riding the subway in NYC…no chance of a crash here.

How To Make Your Wife Want To Murder You At 6:00 AM

When it’s my turn to wake up with the baby (which is virtually always, but that’s a story for another day*), I leap out of bed the moment I hear him stir over the monitor. I haphazardly smoosh my glasses onto my face, slide my feet into weather-determinant footwear (slippers or flip-flops; I am firmly anti-barefoot), wrangle my bed-head into a ponytail so I don’t frighten my half-awake child, and within thirty seconds I’ve reached Bubba’s bedside. My reasoning for the hurry is twofold: I obviously don’t want my dear lad to suffer from Acute Lonely-itis (which we all know sets in after 45 seconds), and since I’m the world’s best wife, I don’t want my sleeping husband to be bothered by a fussing toddler for any longer than necessary.

I’m a true hero, is what I’m saying.

On the all-too-rare occasions that TFW is on wake-up duty, the routine is different. Utterly unconcerned about Bubba’s potential Lonely-itis and equally unconcerned about his wonderful wife’s ability to continue sleeping, TFW is in absolutely no rush to get his ass into Bubba’s room. Ninety percent of TFW’s wake-up days go like this:

6:00: Baby wakes up and cries/sings/hollers for Mama/all of the above.

6:01: TFW informs me that he’s going to “let him play in there for a while,” which of course actually translates to “I’m going back to sleep for a bit; enjoy listening to your son!”

6:01-6:05: I lay awake worrying about the abandonment issues Bubba is surely developing as he rots in his crib, obviously unable to go back to sleep and take advantage of the entire purpose of my husband being “on duty”.

6:06: I kick TFW in the back and ask him to PLEASE go retrieve our son so I can go back to sleep.

6:08: TFW gets out of bed.

6:09: TFW takes his sweet time getting dressed (because Bubba expects a fully-dressed companion at the crack of dawn, I guess?), INCLUDING SOCKS AND SHOES.

6:11: Nope, that shirt was no good. Let’s try on a couple other shirts until we find the one we really want to wear today!

6:14: TFW drinks some water.

6:15: TFW goes to the bathroom. I seethe in bed.

6:18: Bubba has given up and has either gone back to sleep (unlikely) or is amusing himself by trying to climb out of his crib (infinitely more likely). TFW comes out of the bathroom, notes the silence coming from the baby monitor, and gleefully PUTS HIS PAJAMAS BACK ON AND GETS BACK IN BED AS IF HIS DUTY IS COMPLETE.

6:20: The monitor stirs back to life — obviously, Bubba did not really go back to sleep. He’s wide awake in there and eagerly awaiting some parental assistance in getting out of that dastardly crib.

6:21: I am now more wide awake than my despicable half-asleep husband, so I get out of bed myself.

6:21-7:15: I plot my husband’s demise while he sleeps peacefully.

There’s not a jury in the land that would convict me, right?

He’s lucky he’s cute (TFW, not Bubba, although he’s cute too).

*necessary disclaimer: TFW puts up with me and is therefore automatically on the short list for sainthood; I also assure you he is typically very helpful with our son. He just sucks at 6am. Forgive him.

Top Ten Tuesday: #1 Dad!

Guys! Guys!

It’s me, Ryan. Or as my mom calls me (for NO good reason, I might add), Bubba.

(I’m not even fat.)

Anyway, last week my mom reminded me that Father’s Day was coming up and strongly hinted that I should write something sweet and sentimental for my dad, like I did last year. Well, I don’t know if you guys are aware, but I am an extremely busy lad. I go to school every day, and when I’m at home, there are toys to be thrown, couches to be climbed on, dogs to try to ride — you get the picture. Free time is scarce! I can’t even think of the last time I was able to rest quietly on Mama’s lap for more than three minutes before I remembered something urgent I had to immediately attend to, like begging for cookies.

My point is, time got away from me. You know how it is. I just wasn’t able to get it together last week to write a tribute to my dad, which is unfortunate because he really does deserve it. He’s pretty much the greatest, and I’m not just saying that because I rely on him to feed me when my mom’s not around — he’s really and truly GREAT! Definitely the best dad I’ve ever had. Wanna know why? OF COURSE YOU DO! Check out my list of the top ten reasons my dad is seriously the best dad EVER:

10) He does fun stuff like throw me in the air, chase me around the house, and carry me around in laundry baskets:

Even when Mom says it looks too dangerous, Dad perseveres! WOOHOO!

9) He walks me to school every morning and never forgets my lunch or the bag with my extra clothes (which I always need because I can’t manage to keep a t-shirt clean for more than about an hour at a time).

8) When I wake up in the middle of the night, he lets Mom bring me into their bed to snuggle! Even though I never go back to sleep and totally think it’s party time as soon as we get in there and I kick him in the back and sing songs and try to climb on him! At 3am!

7) Messiness is NOT a concern for Dad! With Dad, I can get myself and the house as filthy as I want, and it’s AWESOME.

6) He’s very concerned about my stupid allergies. He never forgets to give me my medicine (and even drives Mom crazy by asking her fifty times a night if she gave it to me yet) and he does lots of research on everything I eat to make sure it won’t make me itchy.

That’s me on Dad’s lap on Mother’s Day, when I had some bad reactions going on (see how I’m scratching my neck? Yes, ’twas quite sad). Don’t worry, he took me to the doctor the next morning!

5) He’s always coming up with fun activities to do with me when I get older. Apparently, we’re gonna go to a WWE show when I’m 4! And I’m gonna do jiu jitsu as soon as he can find a place that allows maniac small children to participate!

4) He’s SOOOOOOOO funny! He does crazy voices, makes weird noises, and sings hilarious songs. He makes Mom laugh a lot, too (well, sometimes she rolls her eyes. OK, oftentimes).

3) When Mom is busy running marathons or cleaning the house or whatever boring “mom” stuff she needs to do in peace, Dad takes me to the park — just the two of us!

2) He keeps my mom sane. The importance of this cannot be understated! THANK YOU, DAD!!!!

1) He’s so loving and dedicated. Please excuse the sappiness here, but it must be mentioned. I can really tell how much he loves me and Mama. We’re so lucky!

See? I told you he was the BEST!

How to Build a Treadmill Without Killing Your Spouse

As you may remember, I spent the first few months of 2013 torturing myself training for a marathon until I slipped into a pothole like a clumsy idiot and busted my ankle. That literal misstep left me mired in self-pity for a few days as I assumed that all of those horrendous hours of running had been for naught, but as it turns out, being really stubborn and refusing to accept defeat has its advantages. I got over my self-pity, rested up, and guess what? My ankle is back in action and I’m soldiering forth with my training!

…with one important change: I bought a treadmill so that I can do most of my running on a nice, even, pothole-free surface. Not only will I not have to worry about tripping again, but I also get to avoid the sun and won’t have to torture the baby by making him sit in the jogging stroller while we do endless loops around the park. GENIUS, right?

Things were definitely looking up. We ordered a treadmill from Amazon, cleared a space for it in my office, and I got to work getting optimistic and excited about the marathon again. The treadmill was due to be delivered on Wednesday, so naturally I envisioned myself running on it Wednesday evening. I had missed 12 days of training while my ligaments glued themselves back together or whatever was going on down there, and I was ready to get back in the game.

Unfortunately, there was one thing I hadn’t realized: building a treadmill is not easy.

In fact, it’s quite maddening.

If you’re in the market for a treadmill — or any piece of bulky exercise equipment, really — I urge you to consult my guide before moving ahead with your plans. Your sanity, as well as any other humans or pets residing in your home, will thank you.

Maureen Wachter’s 10-Step Satisfaction Guaranteed Guide to Building a Treadmill:

Step 1: Tip the delivery driver extra so that he’ll heave the behemoth directly into the room in which you plan to use it. Feel really proud of yourself for thinking of this and pat yourself on the back for saving yourself so much trouble.

Step 2: Ask your husband to build the treadmill. Tell him you looked it up online and it sounds really easy.

Step 3: Become alarmed at the amount of packaging your husband is tossing out of the room. How many pieces are involved in this thing?!

Step 4: After one hour, check on your husband’s progress. Try not to express your surprise that very little progress appears to have been made. Tell him he’s doing great and you appreciate his hard work.

Step 5: After one more hour, offer to help your husband.

Step 6: Commence heated bickering over what the instructions mean and how the pieces are supposed to fit together. Insist that something must be amiss — surely it can’t be this difficult!

Step 7: Stare at the half-built treadmill, utterly baffled. WHY DON’T THE HOLES LINE UP? HOW ARE THESE PIECES SUPPOSED TO SCREW TOGETHER?! WHO THE F*?# DESIGNED THIS GODDAMN PIECE OF SH*%?!?!?!

Step 8: Deep breaths. Encourage your husband to take a break, as if you might be able to figure it out on your own.

Step 9: Post an ad on Craigslist seeking someone to build your treadmill.

Step 10: Hire the first person who replies to your ad and feel 100% vindicated when he has to bust out some crazy power tools to bore larger holes into the treadmill so that the pieces can finally screw together. IT WASN’T JUST US! WE WEREN’T DOING ANYTHING WRONG! THE HOLES REALLY DID NOT LINE UP!

Enjoy your run!

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

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!

The Crazy Files, Volume V: Replacement Wife

Thanks to my fascination with true-crime TV coupled with my inherent lunacy, I harbor a serious fear of being kidnapped, tortured, and (obviously) subsequently murdered. Every time I go jogging alone, I’m on high alert:

• I obsessively scan my surroundings for any potential evildoers in my path (and if I pass someone along the way, I always peek over my shoulder a few moments later to make sure they haven’t decided to follow me)
• I make sure TFW knows exactly where I’m running and how long it should take me so he can call the police if I don’t return promptly (his instructions are literally as follows: “if I’m not back by 6:00, assume I’m dead and call the cops so they can start triangulating the location of my body via my cell phone pings”)
• Whenever the terrain changes (e.g. moving from the paved road onto a dirt path), I think about how the forensics team will be able to use the evidence from my shoes to determine where I was abducted and to prove that their suspect was in the same location (“the soil in the soles of her shoes clearly matches the minerals found in the treads of your tires, you guilty sonofabitch!”)
• I try to make eye contact with or say hello to as many people as possible along the way, so that if I disappear and my story gets on the news, there will be plenty of witnesses who can provide the investigators with information about my last known whereabouts

(When I’m running with the baby, I don’t worry at all…I seem to have convinced myself that a toddler and a jogging stroller are surefire deterrents to all manner of miscreants and malcontents. I never claimed to be logical.)

As you can see, I’ve really put a lot of thought into this — going running exhausts my brain as much as my body. But my fears don’t end with my hypothetical abduction and homicide: I have also done a lot of thinking about what will happen to my family after my untimely demise.

Specifically, I have a lot of concerns about the horrible wenches my darling husband could choose as my replacement.

“But you’ll be dead,” you’re probably thinking, “so why should you care what the hell is going on at that point?” OH, BUT I DO! I’m not going to let a silly little thing like logic prevent me from worrying about something about which I have no control! No, I’m really quite concerned about this. TFW and I have a very special relationship — I can’t be replaced by just anyone. And of course, there’s Bubba to think of — I certainly don’t want him to have an evil stepmother. And I obviously don’t want to be replaced by anyone better than me, either. Come on!

So like any totally sane and not at all crazy person would do, I’ve come up with a brief set of guidelines for TFW to follow in the (hopefully unlikely) event that I am met with a tragic fate:

1. If she doesn’t show sincere interest in Bubba within the first five minutes of meeting you, kick her to the curb IMMEDIATELY.
2. It would be best if she looked completely different than me…everyone will think you’re a creepy weirdo if you pick someone with any resemblance to me.
3. She should be uglier than me, and preferably fatter. Dumber, too. And less witty.
4. You should like her or whatever though, I guess.
5. I authorize you to select someone who is superior to me in the following categories only: fashion (maybe she can make sure our son doesn’t go through life looking like a hobo), home decorating, and dancing. I should come out on top in any other comparison.
6. She can’t have big boobs. Ghost-me will get a complex.
7. If she doesn’t like Seinfeld, something is probably wrong with her and you should immediately reconsider.
8. Pick someone who already has a kid or wants to have one with you — my death does NOT mean that you automatically get to win the “Bubba should be an only child” argument. MY CHILD WILL HAVE SIBLINGS WHETHER I’M HERE TO CREATE THEM OR NOT.
9. Make sure she knows how to clean, because you sure don’t and I don’t want my child living in filth.
10. If she rolls her eyes about something awesome like going to Disneyland or watching Big Brother, don’t waste your time. She’s a fun-sucker and should be banished from all societal interaction.
11. If she knows all the lyrics to the Animaniacs theme song, she’s probably a keeper. Quiz her early so you know.
12. Find a way to test her mental health before you get too attached. If she shows any signs of being crazy, like thinking she’s going to be murdered every time she goes out for a jog and then writing lists of requirements for your next mate, get out while you can.

And if you fail to heed these “suggestions,” I’ll haunt you from the grave.

above: murderer-repellant