Being Married To Me


My poor husband. He doesn’t ask for much. Really. Just love. Soap. Me to be happy. Clean underwear. I do not know why three of those tasks are sometimes impossible for me to accomplish.

I do the laundry.

I swear.

But, if there is just half of a load to do. Or three quarters of a load to do. Or ninety-ninth of a hundredth of a load to do, I will put it off. I mean I would not want to waste water on a not-full-load. I am not always irresponsible. Somehow all of my husband’s underwear ends up being in that ridiculously light load. Every time.

The other day, he decided to do a batch of just his underwear.

All of his underwear.

In one batch.

All. Of. It.

This would be a wonderful idea. It would even make sense… If he wasn’t married to me.

The sad part is he didn’t even complain about not having any clean underwear.

He didn’t say anything.

He just decided to wash them on his own.

And the sweet underwear got washed.

And the sweet underwear got dried.

And the sweet underwear got folded.

And the sweet underwear got put…

I can’t remember.

I put it somewhere safe.

I vaguely recall carrying it in my hands.

And then…


I’ve got nothin’.

I have looked all over the house. In every clothing drawer. In every drawer where clothes could hide. I cannot find them. He cannot find them. He is finally getting a little upset.

I have tried to tell him that maybe his underwear ran away to go make baby…dimes.

This did not help the situation.

Then I told him maybe Tinkerbell stole them.

Not. A. Hint. Of. A. Smile.

Today my day will be spent checking the freezer (where I once put our keys) , the baseboards (where I found my diamond earring), the pantry (where I found my glasses), the entertainment center where I found my… You get it. Well, unless you guessed brain. Then I would know you have not read my blog. I obviously left that one… Somewhere safe.

Actually, what I will really be doing today is going to the store and buying him some brand new underwear. Then I will come home and I will wash them. Dry them. Put them…

In his hands.

And be declared The. Best. Wife. Ever.

‘Cause that is what it is like being married to me.

He will feel so…lucky…

Until he finds his other underwear one day. Where I put it safely. In his briefcase. When he opens it at work.

Just kidding.

He doesn’t even have a brief case.

But I think that is definitely where those underwear went.


The Lord Of The Pizzas


No. This pizza is not really “Lord of the pizzas.” Nor am I, “Lord of the pizzas.” In fact, the title was simply in reference to some silly movie quotes throughout this post.

Blame my thighs. They lord over everything around here.

One of my favorite things to make at home is homemade pizza. We take the term “homemade” a little loosely in our house. We made it in our house. But everything is bought and put together. As in pre-made. And put together.

As in my lazy soul continues to be happy.

And my thighs continue to rule them all.

Isn’t that how the saying goes?:

“One thigh to rule them all. One thigh to wine them.
One thigh to eat it all and in the kitchen dine them.”

Or somethin’ like that.

I have tried almost all of the different store’s pre-made pizza dough. And I know which dough is my favorite. Safeway’s pizza dough can’t be beat. And I will not use any other pizza sauce except for Pastorelli. As for the cheese, I use whatever I can get on sale.

So, my ingredient list has my preferred labels for the pizza I make at home.

With school being out for the summer soon, I know my kids will want to be in the kitchen cooking more. I wanted to post this in case you, too, want to trick get your kids to cook dinner for you this season.

This would be great for second breakfast, too.


Ingredients for two pizzas:

2 Safeway Select Traditional pre-made (but not precooked) pizza balls of dough (usually found next to their pre-made take and bake refrigerated pizzas and usually $1 each)
2 8 oz. cans of Pastorelli Pizza sauce (you can use a 15 oz. can and split it in half. I buy the two little cans so each child has their own can to work with)
4 cups shredded mozzarella cheese


We use:

1/2 cup feta cheese
1/2 bag pepperoni
1/3 cup chopped sun dried tomatoes

Any other topping you like. Maybe Po-ta-toes.


Let refrigerated pizza dough rest on counter for thirty minutes before using.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Since I have two children, I let each of them roll out one ball of dough. Stretch the dough. Pull the dough. You really cannot hurt it. The more you work pizza dough, the better it gets.


My kids do all of the following instructions. What do I do? Well, somebody has to drink the wine.

I always have them make it in a rectangular shape. This is so the finished product fits on my baking sheets.

The baking sheets should be lightly oiled with olive oil.

Once the dough is made into the desired shape, place each pizza dough on a baking sheet.



Pour one can of pizza sauce on to each pizza dough. Sprinkle two cups of cheese onto each pizza. Then top with your ingredients. One of our children likes plain cheese. The other, pepperoni. And our whole family likes sun dried tomatoes and feta.


Those last two ingredients are not added until there are only two to three minutes left to the baking time. I want them warmed up but sun-dried tomatoes burn very quickly, so you can not put them on at the beginning. I feel like feta dries out if I put it on for the entire baking period because the flakes are so small. But you can definitely add it for the entire baking time if you prefer.


Bake pizzas for 13-15 minutes. The cheese should be melted but not brown.

Let the pizza rest for 3-5 minutes. Cut the pizza into slices.

Plate the pizza.

Serve the pizza with salad. I use this easy recipe.


Homemade pizza. Spinach salad. Red wine.

It doesn’t get any better than that.

Isn’t that right, my precious?

Paisley Dress: You Wreck Me


Oh, Paisley Dress, you have me torn.


I purchased this Free People Paisley Dress from the Nordstrom Rack awhile back (link goes to a different site). And I really liked it.

Except, after wearing it for a day I realized the pattern (on the dress I purchased) does not sit correctly in the middle. Which is probably why I paid so little for it.

My OCD self tried to ignore this. I had all ready worn it, so I had to keep it. Despite that flaw, I still like the dress. It can be worn with a slip and sandals. And in the winter time, skinny jeans and boots. The colors are ethereal.


I also liked my hair… Until my daughter came home. I just knew she was going to love my hair. I was so excited to show her.

I said, “Do you like my hair? I tried something different.”

And she said, “Oh. You wanted to look like Miley Cyrus?”

Argggghhhh! Aaaahhhhhh! My OCD self officially withered into a ball but not before I tore the hairstyle out and put it lower on the nape of my neck.


Have you ever really liked something you were wearing? Or a new hairstyle you were trying? And then hours later completely second guessed yourself?

It happens to me all of the time.

But that’s just part of the fun.

Dear Children: Yours


When you are sick. I am nauseous.

When you are thirsty. I am parched.

When you are in pain. I am in agony.

When you have heart ache. My own heart breaks.

When you cry. My own eyes run rivers.

And it is not enough.

If I could but take all of your sickness. Your thirst. Your pain. Your heart ache. Your tears.

I would.

All of it.

All at once.

Not only would I take it.

I want it.

For my nutrients were once your nutrients. My blood became your blood. I once breathed air for you. The breath of life into you.

How is it then that I can not control the elements of your being?

I created you.

Yet I cannot control you.

Or the illness that strikes you. The sun that beats down on you. The movement in your body. Or the movement of another’s harsh words rolling from their tongue like a knife to your heart.

I once moved for you.

You once moved in me.

And there are no movements I can make to change the circumstances that face you.

It is every mother’s battle.

The inability to take on their children’s trials.

It is a war every mother would gladly fight.

We have polished our armor. We have sworn our oaths. Our swords belong to you, my children.

We are an army ready. Waiting. Eager.

We run our hands over your fevered brows and then those same hands tighten on our swords.

We wait for an opponent that will never face us.


For although your life is yours, my child.

When the sickness, thirst, pain, heartache and tears come, I want it for my own.

What is mine will always be yours.

What is yours is yours.

Not mine.


And I crumble next to you from the harsh truth of those words.

The ugliness of those five unchangeable letters.

As I search for the unsearchable. As I beg for the unattainable. As I reach for the unreachable. And I hope for the impossible.

I will wipe your brow of your heat, your eyes of your tears, your back of your worries, your mouth of your sickness, your shoulder in your pain.

I may not be able to take any of those troubles from you. But my heart. My soul.

My hands.

They are yours.