“I did a bad thing.”


My husband crawled into bed next to me and laid his head on my shoulder. He opened his mouth and instead of sweet words of love pouring from his lips, five scary words came out instead. “I did a bad thing,” he mumbled into my arm with worry.

“What did you do?” I was not too concerned, but my heart fluttered a tiny bit and my stomach did a little flip.

“I ate your all of your reese’s pieces.”

The body spin cycle stopped and I wrung out my emotions by hand.

“Oh. I don’t care. I forgot I bought them.” Then I laughed. I stopped and looked at him.

“It’s not like The Twix Bar.”

“I didn’t eat that Twix bar! Look, I ate your candy and then I told you about it. If I had eaten your Twix bar, I would also have told you about it.”

“Not if you are trying to throw me off your trail.”

“Are you saying I ate your reese’s pieces and then confessed just to convince you that I did not eat your Twix bar sixteen years ago?”

“It is highly suspicious.”

“I didn’t eat your Twix bar!”

“That is exactly what someone who didn’t eat my Twix bar would say.”

The criminal sighed into my arm. His breath smelled of sweet peanut butter… And lies.

How I Met My Husband


I originally typed in, “Ho I Met My Husband” and quite honestly I sometimes (I just spelled sumtimes, so gather what you will from this ongoing statement) think my typos are my brain’s way of communicating the truth of the matter.

I was working at a bank, that shall remain nameless, and I had just been promoted to New Accounts. This pretty much entailed me running over to the account floor from my teller station when the call came that they were too busy. My new promotion came with a tidy no-raise.

One fateful day in September of 1998, I received a call from, hmmm, let’s call her Carla (which ironically might be her actual name as I have long forgotten it but that sounds familiar), that she was swamped and needed someone to help her in New Accounts. I, being that someone.

Let’s get to what I was wearing, since that is the most important not-important part. I always tried to wear a pencil skirt to my work. The skirt was to be as tight and short as I could get away with. Of course. I was twenty one and wanted to exude some sort of professionalism. It just was not the sort of profession I probably thought I was showcasing. That day I was wearing my favorite lime green suit. It was actually citron and it had a permanent pen line right across the butt that I had never been able to get out. However, I refused to stop wearing it. I just assumed no one would notice.

I sat down at my least favorite desk. It was right in the middle of the floor and could be seen from all angles. To this day, I prefer to sit in corners, my back to a wall, so I can face out and see what is coming at me. My exposed back, having nothing whatsoever to do with a black line across it, made me feel frazzled and exposed. Plus, I felt a heavy burden in New Accounts. I, myself, did not bank with this particular bank. I was burdened with some of their practices. I felt by opening an account there for someone else, I was partaking in their sins. It made me feel bad.

I gathered my necessary items and nervously stood up. There was a line of people waiting. I went to the board where the first name was written and I called that person’s name. The first part of the name was a name that I had loved in high school. I once had a crush on a boy strictly because he had this name. It would be a name that I am glad I pronounced correctly, because it is one that I now say every day.

The young guy grinned at me when I called his name and followed me to the desk.

I remember asking him if I had pronounced his name right and him telling me that I had. It would be the first thing I would ever say to my husband.

He sat down across from me and we began the procedure of opening his account. I would later learn that two days before he came to that bank he had moved to that town. The day before he had sat in that chair, he had been in a car accident in front of the bank, the bank where I worked, and while he had waited for the police to come to the scene of the accident, he would decide that he would come back the next day and open an account at that bank. And I would later learn that when he came home from the bank the day I had opened his account, he would exclaim to his visiting relatives that THE HOTTEST GIRL (yes, I am using all caps here. No apologies) had just opened his account.

But sitting across from him in that chair I knew none of his past or his future.

I studied him as I asked him the routine questions.

He was wearing a faded green thermal henley shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was brown and his eyes matched the green of his shirt. It would not surprise me when later in the year, I would stand in his green bedroom and learn that the color that he wore and decorated with was his favorite and always would be. He had perfectly full lips which would one day kiss me in such a manner that I would crave them forever. He had his shirt tucked in and his pants were rolled. I remember them as being terribly unfashionably pegged, but my husband reiterates time and again that they were just rolled. And so we will give him the memory credit here. His shoes were Vans. There was something rugged about the way he was dressed. An air about him that spoke of the outdoors. He was different from the typical California guys that I had grown up with. I now know that this is because he was from Oregon. An Oregon boy who would never quite get used to California and would always long for the land he once knew. But at this moment, the moment we are meeting him, he is simply dressed like a boy from Oregon. We do not yet know his heart. We do not yet know the struggles of his soul.

I remember holding my breath as I waited for the screen to tell me if we could proceed with the opening of the account. So many young people I had previously seen come in had been denied this step. It was always embarrassing for both me and that person.

He was approved.

I then asked him his occupation. His age. His marital status. His address. His previous address. His phone number. His debt. His income. All routine questions from the bank. Not routine questions that you get to ask a suitor.

Seriously girls, if only all women had access to the kind of information I had access to before I started dating my husband…

He answered all of the questions. I remember being impressed with his career because he was so young. I had never met anyone his age that was so confident, secure, and sure of themselves before. It was dissettling. So, of course, I assumed he was lying. It is sad that that seemed more logical to me than the idea that a young man could have his life so well organized and together. He wanted direct deposit and I signed him up for an account that would be free with direct deposit. But being new at New Accounts, I also remember blasely thinking, “We’ll see if this actually works.” It wouldn’t. A month later I would see him at a pool hall where he would approach me and tell me that he had been wrongly charged and get my phone number.

But at that moment, what I told him was, “let me know if you get charged and I will take care of it.” Of course, I didn’t mean it. He smirked at me and I remember feeling irritated and displaced that a guy with his pants pegged rolled would be so cocky. Especially one who was so obviously lying. It would only be later that I would learn, this boy never lies… Except about eating candy bars.

Then he did the unthinkable.

My heart sank when the cute, but cocky, twenty five year old guy across from me did not want the free checks. The free checks that were free and practical and a good financial choice. For some reason, I felt very strongly about those free checks.

What checks did he want?

He wanted… Looney Toons.


Looney Toons… Playing sports.

I do not remember the rest of the conversation. I remember ordering his checks and being unsure if the order went through. But I was not too concerned. At that point, the guy had lost some of his appeal with his check making decision.

He stood up to leave and he grinned at me. I remember my heart racing in my chest and being annoyed with myself because I could not understand why I was feeling this way towards a dishonest boy with pegged rolled jeans and looney toon checks.

I watched him walk out of the bank. I watched him walk through the parking lot. I watched him stand next to a beat up old van and I assumed wrongly that he had gotten into it. I assumed wrongly about a lot of things that day. I turned to call another customer. I thought about the boy with the green eyes for the remainder of the day.

Less than six months later that boy and I would share the same last name.

But that is a story for another day.

I will tell you, that boy turned into a man who only orders the free checks.

His marital status has changed.

He now does drive a beat up old van.

But his pants are no longer pegged.

The First Theft


We have discussed my husband’s scheming plots here before. His sneaky thefts did not start with the iPod. The looting started long before that. His trickery is a repeating spiral of deception (this is where I feel the need to add for those that do not get my humor, that I am kidding. My husband is the sweetest man alive. The following story is told with tongue in cheek)

When my husband and I first got married, we had a little argument. It has been almost sixteen years. I have never let it go. I think this is not healthy.

You see, I was pregnant and all I wanted besides hamburgers, cake, and ice cream were Twix candy bars. I would buy them by the handful at the grocery store.

One day something tragic happened.

I opened the cupboard before I went to work and there lying on the shelf was the only survivor of my traumatic food binge from the night before. The gold wrapper of the Twix bar sparkled like tears in the fluorescent kitchen light. I thought about sparing the poor soul. But then I remembered he was made of chocolate. I patted his crinkly skin and vowed to end his torment the moment I got home from work. I gently shut the cupboard doors and begrudgingly left for work.

All day I daydreamed of my victim.

The gooey caramel that would spill forth when I bit into its chocolate flesh. The scream of the wrapper as I ripped it apart. The crunch of its cookie foundation as I devoured its essence.

I could not wait.

The moment I got home I ran to the cupboard. I threw open the doors expecting to see my gleaming golden prize.

Instead I saw…


There was nothing there.

I knew only one thing could have happened.

Someone else must have gotten to my source of happiness first.

I spun around and faced my husband who was innocently humming to himself as he fried some onions in a pan for dinner. He did not know he had the worst kind of monster behind him.

The hungry angry wife.

“Did you eat my Twix Bar?” I practically shouted. I really did not need to hear his answer. It was quite obvious that he had. There were two people who had a key to our apartment. The two people in the kitchen. And those two people had an unhealthy obsession with Twix Bars.

My husband spun around surprised. “N-n-n-o.”

“Well then, where is it? I left it right here before I left this morning.”

The candy thief My husband had composed himself while I spoke. Now he was indignant. “Well, I didn’t eat it. Maybe you ate it and forgot.”

Maybe I ate it and forgot?

The devoured Twix Bar probably boiled like lava in his stomach from the fire shooting from my eyes.

Six words had never made me madder.

As if I would not remember the experience of eating my chocolatey treat. As if I was some sort of candy eating creature who searched the cupboards and thoughtlessly devoured anything sweet in sight (let’s forget about the Twix’s brothers that had disappeared, themselves, throughout the week. This was simply about Twix himself and I knew I had not eaten him).

“I didn’t eat the Twix bar! You ate it! I know you ate it!”

“I didn’t eat it! I didn’t even know we had a Twix bar!”

“I know you did it. Just admit it.” (This was the time in our lives when our only VHS tape was a Chris Rock video. I am pretty sure he did not mean a candy bar when he said those lines).

“I didn’t do it!”

This went on and on.

For sixteen years. We go back and forth about the candy bar a few times a year. Isn’t that sweet?

But I know my husband ate my Twix Bar. I sometimes wish I could go back in time and go over the crime scene one more time. Smell his breath. His fingers. Check the trash can for the the wrapper. But I can’t. So now I just need him to admit the truth.

He has maintained his innocence for more than a decade. I don’t believe the facade for a second.

We have gone through years of Twix slogans taunting us on the television.

A few years ago Twix ran with the phrase, “Two for me. None for you.” I would glare at my husband and ask him in response to the commercial, “Did you write that?”

There is now the more recent campaign, “Need a moment. Chew it over with Twix.” I can perfectly picture him reliving the moment when I first asked him if he had eaten my golden candy bar. If only he had had a moment to think of a better answer…

I think my husband has a secret side job.

How else to explain the ads?

My children have been born and raised with the Twix homicide story. I have not asked them to take up the case when they get older. It is not a mystery. It is not an unsolved crime. We do not need a detective.

I know my husband did it.

Now I just need him to admit it.

Any ideas on how to catch a criminal? Do you ever have ridiculous fights with your partner? Did the Twix Bar get up and walk away from its captors? Most importantly, do you think he ate it?

In the words of the candy bar in question, “Try both and pick a side. Chew it over with Twix.”

“Bonk! Bonk!”


Okay. I had to fit those words in somehow. I cannot recall a time I have ever actually said those words before this week. My husband and I were laying in bed after the kids had gone to school (I selfishly love his crazy hours). And he proceeded to tickle me. I think I scared him silly when to get him to stop, I started yelling, “Bonk!” But it sounded more like a “honk” from a semi-truck being blasted through the horn of a fifty year old bouncer at the end of a long shift guarding the door to a room full of frogs that he had spent years trying to imitate.







It was at this point that one of us erupted into a fit of laughter. And for the first time in history, it wasn’t the person being tickled.

“I think you broke my laugh box,” he said to me.

“Yea, well, that’ll teach you.”

Teach him what? That somewhere in the depths of my soul a semi-truck bred with a crazy clown and the only offspring they managed to produce was a terrifying sound?

I have to wonder what other freaky infant noises are being harbored in my soul.


That baby might just be the most annoying creation in history. I need to quiet the urge.