Tag Archives: marriage

Finding Love as an Old Married Couple, or the Difference Between Paris and Madrid

A vacation without kids, sounds perfect, no? Well, about five years ago I took a trip to Paris with my husband and it was. Romance, sex, monuments, and did I mention the sex? Fast forward five years to the beautiful city of Madrid and it’s a very different picture.

Paris: Long romantic walks along the Canal St. Martin, collecting Buckeyes and kissing languorously at every bridge.
Madrid: Holding hands as we stroll around the Plaza Mayor. Oh, hey, we should probably kiss.

Paris: Aw! Look at the babies! I really miss our kids. We need to bring them next time.
Madrid: Aw! Look at all of the puppies! I miss our dogs. Do you think anyone has a dog we can rent?

Paris: Three hour dinners, accompanied by at least two bottles of Bordeaux, while we make friends with the couple next to us and we all drink and chat until the restaurant closes.
Madrid: The Spanish eat at what time?! Oh, hell no. Let’s get some bread and cheese at the corner market and have a bed picnic in our room. Done.

Paris: Selfies at the Eiffel Tower, on the top of the Arc De Triomphe, next to some hobos.
Madrid: Hubs chases me with a camera, I take photos with my cell phone of every monument. Token selfie in front of a statue (maybe Christopher Columbus?!).

Paris: Ten minute commentary on the virtues of Caillebotte and how his paintings reflect the transformation of Paris from Medieval city to modern marvel.
Madrid: Let’s play guess the name of this famous painting in the Prado. I’ll go with, “Woman with a candle.”

Somehow, even though the conversations and French kisses are not as deep, they are just as romantic. Maybe it’s a reflection of the maturity of our relationship, or, more realistically, we’re too old to impress each other anymore. Either way, there is still l’amour. And sex.

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Love, Disney Princess Style

When I got married almost 10 years ago, I thought it would be a Disney princess, happily ever after story. I mean, we were young, stupid, and madly in love. Why wouldn’t it be picture perfect?

I’ll wait for the laughter to die down.

The pee-soaked diaper of reality slapped me in the face 10 months later when my first child was born, and every high and low since then has flown in the face of storybook perfection. But, it wasn’t a nightmare; it was actually pretty good.

Sadly, over the past few months, my marriage has struggled against villainous tests and there were moments when I thought I’d have to go through the horrors of dating again. I mean, divorce is easy compared to entering the dating pool again. Even in the shallow end, I would be devoured by douchebag-shaped piranhas.

I have leapt free of the piranhas, and learned a few choice lessons about what makes a good relationship.

Books are the way to a woman’s heart. I fell in love with the Beast when he took Belle into his library. There is nothing that makes a woman’s panties drop like a thoughtful gift. For me, yes, it would be a magnificent library, or even a few books. When it comes to literary gifts, it doesn’t take much to get me off.

Love, Disney Princess Style | Ponies and Martinis

When you feel sexy, you are sexy. Cinderella had some hot glass slippers that took her outfit to the next level. Once she put those things on, she felt amazing, looked amazing, and got the man of her dreams. Or, at least the guy that could pull her out of that rat trap of a home she shared with her stepmother. So, find your slipper. A sexy skirt, some hot red lipstick, whatever it is that gets your mojo running and work it harder than a pimp turning out his most profitable trick.

Sometimes you need a little extra help. Did Snow White singlehandedly clean the dwarves’ cottage? No. She had some chipper little woodland creatures to help her. They used their tails and wings, and worked that shit out. The cottage was shiny and Snow White looked like a hero. My chipmunks were the maid service my mother paid for after my son was born. My home was clean and I got to nap with my kid. Lemon-scented cherubs filled my dreams and carried me away on clouds of sanitary sweetness. Oh. Hell. Yes.

Not speaking the same language is OK. John Smith and Pocahontas learned to speak with all of the colors of the wind, but even if you don’t have a talking willow tree as your own Tower of Babel, it’s all good. Once upon a time, I traveled abroad to visit a friend who lived in France. While she was in class, I was left to my own devices. I must have looked like a lost sheep because this ever-so-helpful Frenchman took me under his wing and showed me around Lyon. My French and his English were equally as awful, but he was hot and I was young so it was all completely magical. Le Mew, Le Sigh.

Take a catnap to work out your issues. Sleeping Beauty had a lot on her mind. The women who raised her were not her parents, she found out she was a princess after living out in the woods for 16 years, and there was a curse hanging over her head. Can you blame her for taking a powder? I would have too. Also, I never bought into that whole “don’t go to bed angry” business. Sometimes, you are angry and tried, and you’d rather sleep than face that cocksucker you married. Mostly, because he’s being an ass,  but you also know that sweet somnolence is restorative, and in the morning, your sweetie will seem more like the sexy beast you married. At least if he knows what’s good for him.

Ah, love. Spectacularly twisted. I am slowly finding my way back to the land of sparkly, twinkly, unicorns prancing through rose-scented aphrodisiacs. To get there, I shall strap on my favorite heels, brush up on some French, and prepare for some amazing sex atop a pile of books.

L’amour.

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Date Night is Not My Bag

Last night, my husband and I had a night out on the town without kids and I had an epiphany; I am not a fan of date night.

Hold back your horror. I’ll explain. I absolutely love spending time with my husband. He’s smart, funny, and wicked sexy. It’s all of the other trappings of date night that I don’t enjoy.

First, there’s getting ready. I gave myself a pedicure, because my hooves were looking rough and I didn’t want to expose them to the world without at least sandblasting the callouses.

Then, I spent a good 10 minutes debating the merits of showering and shaving my legs. I had taken a power yoga class that afternoon and I think I last shaved about…. well, see that’s my dilemma. I have no clue when I shaved last. I also spent additional time sniffing my shirt to see if I could get away with wearing it for a few more hours.

Date night with a cat

This is the kind of date night I can get behind.

In the end, I didn’t shower or shave, but I did change shirts, apply a fresh layer of makeup and engulfed myself in a cloud of perfume. I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself. And I am almost 100 percent certain I didn’t stink. Okay, maybe 95 percent.

I had secret hopes that my husband would travel from work on one side of the town and then drive me, but, alas, I was forced to drive my own carriage.

You know, my husband is usually pretty chivalrous, but in this instance he failed me. I wanted to gaze upon him adoringly without children asking me for water or goldfish. I also wanted to enjoy a martini or two, and you can’t exactly do that when you are driving.

We ended up at a comedy club and had a blast. The comedian was inappropriate and awesome. And there were mozzarella cheese sticks. The sticks were my favorite part.

And it was all downhill from there.

Afterward, my husband wanted to go out and get crazy. I wanted to go home and pop some corn and watch Orange is the New Black. You can see how this might have caused some conflict.

After a long day of work and kids, I feel like I have been beaten like a circus monkey. Getting me to a comedy club is probably the most you can get out of me. If I could wear my jammies to the club, I might think about extending the night, but since I can’t, well, my couch wins out every time.

My poor husband. All he wants is to feel like a man instead of a kid-toting donkey.

I tried to rally and he offered to drive to the casino on the other end of town. And what did I do? I fell asleep. At 10:30. I suck at dates.

There has to be something in between couch surfing and partying until 2 AM. I don’t know what that is, but until I figure it out, I’ll be in my jammies trying to figure out how to make things up to my husband.

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Brilliance, Interrupted

I sat down to write a fresh blog today. I imagined writing something that would be amusing, touching and entertaining. Something that would delight the masses. Or at least the three people who read my blog (Hi, friends!). That did not happen.

Every time my butt hit the seat, something else demanded my attention. First, a dog wanted to sit in my lap. Since she is the size of a chinchilla and has the saddest, most soulful eyes, I can’t say no. So, I pause and get her settled. Then the other dog wants me to throw her ball for her. And you can’t ignore her either, because she drops the ball on your lap, staring at you intently. If you ignore her, she will bore into your skull with her eye lasers. Not wanting to ruin any part of my pretty little puss, I oblige. Then, when I throw said ball, it causes the little one to shift, and then she looks up at me with hurtful eyes because, in her mind, we were having a nice, quiet, snuggly moment and I RUINED it by throwing the ball. How could I be so cruel, her chocolatey eyes say. How could I?

I get the little one settled, and then I completely lose my train of thought. I do not have one funny, insightful topic in my head. I rack my brain for something I can write about. I start to reach for a thought when… my husband needs something. Holy hell. Why can’t this man find anything? It’s not like I put things in odd places so he can’t find them. Keys? Hanging up where they usually are. Gloves? In the basket with all of the other gloves, scarves and random ass crap that I happen to toss in there.

Then, I spot a weird dinosaur squirt gun. Seriously, why is that thing in there? It’s creepy. You have to wrap your hands around his nether-regions to squirt the water. I don’t get it. Maybe I’ll take five minutes and clean out the basket. Of course, I find too small gloves, summer hats and dog hair.

I find dog hair everywhere! I swear I clean my house, but gnomes come in the middle of the night, rip fur off my dogs and sprinkle it all over the bloody house. The probably also bring dog poop inside and deposit on my carpets. I’m always finding a dried up turd wherever I go. Or, if it isn’t gnomes, it’s probably my kids pooping in a corner and laughing their heads off when I have to clean it up.

OK. Dogs happy, husband gone, dog hair vacuumed, poop picked up… and I’m ready to be brilliant. Here comes something interesting…

And my husband calls while running errands. Can I…..? And would I also…? Sweet baby Jesus. He better come home with wine and a funny story for me to blog about. If not, I’ll be forced to write about sorting gloves or I’ll start taking pictures of dog hair tumbleweeds. No one wants it to come to that.

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