Karen from Simply A Musing Blog asks: Do you ever have to have the last word in an argument or do you let your husband have it? Also, if you let him have it, does that make you a more virtuous wife? Just kidding on the last one – but seriously…my husband will break down each statement I make in the heat of a disagreement and compare and contrast, then alliterate his points and subpoints when making his case. Does anyone else’s husband ever do this? or is this just a preacher thing?

Answer: My husband and I rarely have arguments. This is in large part because we’ve been married twenty years and rather than fuss at him, I have the whole argument in my head. I recite both parts, his and mine, and reach the conclusion of the argument without ever having to involve him at all. I am mostly kidding, but often, I let things slide because I really do hate to argue with him.

I tend to be the one who cannot let things go permanently, though. Weeks after a disagreement, I might bring it up, only to make a sarcastic or wry comment. So I suppose I tend to have the last word since I never forget about the dust-up that we’ve had.

My husband doesn’t break apart my statements, as your does, so I’m going to have to say that might be a personality thing and not a pastor thing. I am more apt to be the one analyzing and trapping him in his words . . . and knowing that I can be vicious with my words, I really do try to guard my words and just let things that don’t matter drop.

I am by no means virtuous, however. I just don’t like to fight with him.

Go ahead.  Ask me a nosy question.  Or ask me something that you have wondered.  Or ask me my favorite color.  (Purple.  Now you don’t need to ask.)
I’ll answer.  (Hey, I told the whole world my weight–170 at the moment–so I have nothing left to hide.)

The Nanny Diaries video

Clearly, a weekend away has left me without a single idea in my head, but remind me to tell you how beautiful the lake was up in Bellingham and about how much I adore the friends we visited there.

You all should know that I have been waking up every morning at 6:20 a.m. to walk for an hour with a friend. I hate this. And love this. I hate it in the two minutes between 6:17 a.m. and 6:20 a.m. when I am awake, still in bed and wondering if there’s any way I can stand up my friend without being rude and embarrassed.

I love it every minute of the day after 6:35 a.m., once I’m underway and after I’m done. Something about early-morning daily exercise makes me feel so virtuous. I am a night person, a middle of the day person, but not at all a morning person. But I like being a morning exerciser, so I make choices.

While the rest of you are melting like an ice cream cone held by a two-year old, I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt while I sit at the pool and watch the kids swim. It’s been 70 degrees here and a little overcast. (A morning marine layer scoots in from the ocean and it takes until noon before the sun burns it off.) I love this kind of weather, although I’d really like to spend more of these cloudy afternoons swinging in a hammock, reading.

And no, I have no hammock, nor do I ever read in the afternoon unless I’m at the pool and then it’s like this: read one sentence, “Mom, look at this!”, look, smile, nod, reread the same sentence, “No, that wasn’t it! Look at this!”, look, smile, give thumbs-up signal, scan page to figure out where I was, read the same sentence again. This is a very slow way to get through a novel.

My daughter has packed up ten stuffed animals, her CD player, headphones, a Petco Pet Member Card, a rubber band, a dolly, and–who knows?–a partridge in a pear tree because we’re going to visit friends for the weekend. She is very excited about this impending adventure, but the 14-year olds are mad because I “ruined” their weekend. “Thanks a lot, Mom!” (They had planned a sleepover tonight and were going to a sort-of birthday party on Saturday. “Can I just stay home?” one of them asked. “No!” I said. “Why?!” he said. “Because,” I said, “You’re not old enough, you’re not responsible, and because I said so.”) I bring joy and despair wherever I go.

Look out.

I’m loving this show, Flipping Out, but I am concerned about Jeff Lewis’ lips. I think he and Melanie Griffith must go to the same plastic surgeon and I just want to say STOP.

I saw a few episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter tonight while I ironed my husband’s pants. I love that show, too, especially Dog’s hair. How can you not, really? And his wife, Beth, rocks.

I heard about the Beckham’s new fragrance, “Intimately Beckham,” and I have to say that I will never purchase said fragrance. I know nothing about David Beckham, but his wife, Victoria, scares me. Does she ever smile? Is she made of plastic? I am boycotting celebrity fragrances.

You’d think my brain would percolate with all kinds of interesting ideas and riveting thoughts, but no. Just . . . no. For some reason, my brain is as empty as the milk container in the fridge. I do hate it when I’m in the middle of a thought desert, nothing but sand as far as the eye can see.

However, I would very much like to be bogged down in a thought dessert, which I imagine would be a giant swimming pool filled with peanut butter chocolate cream pie. With whipped cream. And chocolate sprinkles.

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Book winner is Tammy from Garden Glimpses.   Tammy, email me your address and I’ll send the book off to you!  Congratulations!

. . . will be announced tomorrow. I’m exhausted from a full day of life. And it wasn’t even that exciting, unless you count washing sweaters you bought from Value Village exciting. (Especially when you can’t put them in the dryer.)

Oh, and glory be! My 9-year old burst into tears when my husband reacted to the 9-year old burning his arm on the oven while broiling cheese on bread. I said, “Let me see the burn!” and he said, “It doesn’t even hurt!” and I said, “Why are you crying then?” and he said, “Because I hate it when Dad overreacts like that!”

Ha. I am not alone in my overreactions! This makes me feel strangely happy.

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If you haven’t already, please stop by my other blog. Every click counts.

What I’d like is two extra daylight hours, preferably sandwiched into each day in a time warp of sorts so that no one realizes I’ve slipped away for two hours. Really, I want my own personal wrinkle in time so that no one looks up and says, “Where’s Mom?” and comes looking for me.

I’m treading water and I’d really like to start swimming, making forward progress with my inelegant breaststroke (I never put my face under water). I have places to go! Things to do! And I’m just splashing around, making waves, but not going anywhere.

I know. What am I talking about? Don’t you hate it when people are vague like this?

Well, the truth is that I wish I had a lot more time to be creative, to be silent and creative. I’d love to sew again, but that’s not what’s nipping at my heels and elbows while I bob around. No, I am trying to write, to create a world with words and it’s really tough when my days are full of interruptions and my nights are short-sheeted by fatigue.

I know we all have twenty-four hours in the day . . . anyone want to hand over two of their daily hours to me so I can have twenty-six?

(By the way, I posted my kids’ favorite Crock-pot meal on the other blog, The Amazing Shrinking Mom.)

The last month has begun. The last month of no school, the last month of having a four-year-old, the last month of summer. We’ve had a four year old or a three year old or a two year old or a baby in our house for the past fourteen years, so this is truly the end of an era. Weirdly, I’m not too sad about it.

I’m nostalgic already and when I look at pictures of the children at younger ages, I can forget how they were whiny and prone to tantrums. I can almost forget how one of the teenagers used to spit his medicine back into my face whenever I dared to medicate him. They were so adorable in those pre-acne days. I used to love that whole bathtime-jammies-in-bed-at-eight thing we had going on. (Teenagers, did you know? They stay up late and sleep in if possible . . . they are so much like hibernating bears.)

My daughter begged me to take her to Target today. “Why?” I said. “What do you want to buy?” She explained, “I need some new summer clothes. I want orange shorts and an orange shirt with a star.”We did not go to Target, much to her chagrin. That child loves to shop and wear cute shoes, even if they hurt her feet.

Blogging about a life featuring laundry and empty milk cartons in the fridge is a challenge some days. Perhaps I could tell you how the boys are still nailing cast-off pieces of wood in the back yard? My son came in, flushed, excited to tell me that Dennis, our neighbor down the street gave them yet more wood. (Dennis has people drop off scrap wood at his house all the time . . . then he burns it in his wood stove all winter. The wood supply is endless, so I had to say, “NO MORE WOOD!”)

Or I could tell you my 9-year old is playing football . . . and they practice every single night. My husband takes him, but still. I find no joy in daily sports practices, having grown up in a household with no interest in sports whatsoever. (I played softball as a girl and my parents never attended my games. I ran track only until seventh grade when I realized all the boys were studying me bounce and jiggle around the track.)

I could mention that I keep making all these plans for my evenings, but after getting up at 6:15 a.m. to walk each morning, by 9 p.m., I’ve got nothing left. I’m like a bicycle with a chain that keeps derailing. Hard to make progress when you can’t pedal!

But that would be boring to blog about.