Sixteen years ago, on this very day, I was getting ready for the biggest day in my life. It was the day in which I would place The Biggest Veil Ever Known to Mankind upon my head and marry the man whom I loved.
(To boink.)
(But mostly just loved.)
(To boink.)

16 years ago on this very day was “My Wedding Day”. Also knows as “The Day of Big“.
Big Veil, Big Cake, Big Glasses , Big Bows, Big Puffy Sleeves, Big Bangs.
(Also? Big Hickies in the Big Limo on the way to the Big, Boring Reception that had NO liquor nor any dancing but! It sure did have a Big Punch Bowl with lots of alcohol free fruit punch!)
Here’s what I wrote on our 13th anniversary.

I will never forget that day, 13 years ago. I was a hot, 19 year Germican beauty with a tight body. Tony was a thin, 25 year old mexican with a head full of hair.
And we were both madly in love.
I remember it was a beautiful day.
I remember Tony’s grandmothers lobsided boobs. I remember my dad’s 3 hour sermon and rolling my eyes every 3 minutes because I wanted him to STOP ALREADY. I remember when we sang to each other, I remember the screaming baby in the background. I remember yelling at the photographer to stop taking pictures already because we needed to get to the reception and telling everyone “DON’T LISTEN TO HIM ANYMORE, JUST LEAVE, WE NEED TO LEAVE!” I remember making out to the Righteous Brothers in the back of the limo that my long lost Godfather rented for us out of guilt for not being there for me as I was growing up. I remember showing up to the reception with hickies all over my neck. I remember our boring ass reception because we weren’t allowed to have a dance, because it was against my fathers religion and I was still too scared to stand up to him. I remember the ride home, people honking at us, while I leaned out the window screaming “WOO HOO, we’re married!!!!!”, I remember getting home and NOT having sex because I was on my period and you were sick as a dog.
I also remember making up for not having sex that night by having sex 4 times a day, everyday for the next 3 months. I remember you not being able to put on your pants for work because of “rawness” to a certain area on your body.
Tony, I remember it all.

I still remember it all. Just as if it happened yesterday. And it still makes me smile. (Well, except the part about not having a dance at our reception because of my dad. That still makes me a little mad. But I’ll get over it someday.)
I recently found a box of our invitations. I do remember when I picked them out that I truly believed they were the most romantic wedding invitations to have ever been printed, but looking at them 16 years later, I have to say, they weren’t romantic at all, they were just very “Christian Bookstore”.
“Companions in laughter, friends in tears, today we shall marry and share our love forever.”
That was the saying (puke) that I had printed (puke) on the inside (puke) of our invitations (puke.) If I could have seen into our future when I had picked out our invitations, the saying would have went a little something like this:
I pee with the door open, your farts smell just like my grandpa’s farts, and yet, we love each other enough to do actually go through with this. I hope we still want to have sex with each other 16 years from now.
The good news is that we still do want to have sex with each other because we still do love each other very much, even if I do want to punch him in the neck for trying to use “big words” when we argue and even if he does have to refrain from tripping me on purpose because of the continous eye rolling.
(The romance, it’s just oozing from my fingers to the keyboard, is it NOT? One should never try writing an “anniversary post” while “pre-raggin’ it.” God.)
We don’t have any plans for “our big day” as he’s working late and I have cramps, but maybe tomorrow, we’ll finally go see “Borat” and maybe, if I’m lucky, we’ll have dinner somewhere fancy.
(Mmmmmmm buffalo chicken salad.)
I’m saving the lovey dovey stuff for the card that I shall give him later on tonight, but I did want to say “Happy Anniversary, My Sweet PigHunter. Thank you for falling in love with my underage ass, because were it not for you, I’d not have 3 of the most beautiful children to have ever walked the face of this earth. I love you.”

On the way to the hospital, my husband said “You have to wait on me hand and foot when I get home.”

“Oh really?” I replied.

“Yes. And you have to bake me cookies and serve them to me on a platter! Look! It shows you right here in the vasectomy handbook.”

Oh, how I laughed, because that? Was hilarious.

Whenever we’d talk about The Vasectomy, he would tell me about his fears. I would listen, then ever so gently remind him about the pain that I endured, three times over, to give him the children he loves so much. (Without an epidural and HELLO? I tore down there and had stitches.)

When he went in on Thursday, I knew he was scared, but when I’d ask him, he’d say “I’m ok, what you went through was SO MUCH WORSE.”

He was being sincere, I know he was, but I couldn’t help but feel like a jerk. Yeah, what I went through was worse but it was unfair of me to diminish what he would be going through just because “MINE HURT WORSE, MAN.”

My husband is admittedly a baby when he’s sick or in any amount of pain and yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something about seeing him laying there with a bag of frozen peas on his lap that makes me want to take care of him and feel sorry for him and get him whatever his little heart desires. I LOVE that he did this for us, I love that he’s “taking it like a man” (whatever the hell that means) and I love that every time he hurts, he chants “My wife gave birth, my wife gave birth, THIS IS NOTHING, my wife gave birth.”

It kinda makes me want to jump his bones. Except, I am pretty sure that if I did that right now, I may kill him.

So, instead, I do nice things, like go to Barnes and Noble to buy him the latest copy of Shotgun News, let him control the remote, wake up every 2 hours to make sure he’s comfortable. But most importantly?

I bake him some cookies.

“It” is done. And “It” is quite possibly the most HILARIOUS thing that has EVER happened in our marriage and I can not wait to tell you all about it.

But for now, there are bags of frozen peas to be applied, beers to be fetched, tylenols to be given, cookies to be served on a shiny platter (because THAT’S WHAT THE WIFE IS SUPPOSED TO DO! And there’s a picture in the vasectomy book to prove it!) and a pair of stitched up balls in need of a little love and um, tenderness.
*For the Record: I have full permission to post the photos.

There was a time in my life where I decided “Hey! I think I want blonde hair!”
When I told my stylist, she looked at me funny and said it would be a good idea to add blondISH highlights and gradually lighten it. I wasn’t having that, I was like “highlights? Hell naw. BLEACH IT BLONDE. NOW!”

She let it be known that she was against this going all blonde thing and I let it be known that I didn’t care because I wanted to be blonde.

A few hours of processing later, I was a Blonde.

I immediately drove to my sister’s house to show her and she was all “THAT LOOKS HORRIBLE!” Her main issue with that it wasn’t really blonde, but kinda orange, much like the color of my skin, which meant that my skin and hair all kind of blended together making me look like a giant stick o’ bronzer.

My sister has an incredibly awesome sense of style and I trust and value her opinion when it comes to matters of hair/fashion. But, I didn’t want to believe her about this because I wanted to be a freakin’ blonde.

Later that day, when I was outside watering the grass, my neighbor -who happened to be the ceraaziest, most hilarious person I’ve ever had the pleasure of living next door to- drove by and looked at me in a way that led me to believe she did NOT like The Blonde.

She walked over and in her crazy way of talking said “What the fuck did you do to your hair? Your hair matches your skin and you look all one color and it’s creeping me out, woman.”

Even though two people had just given me not so positive feedback about The Blonde, I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe that my hair looked great and that “Blonde was my color.”

Why? I do not know. But, looking at a bunch of old pictures that I found last night, I realize just HOW RIGHT they were and how BAD IT LOOKED (and these pictures were AFTER I agreed to let my stylist “weave in a little brown”.) and how desperately I wanted to believe that I could pull of blonde hair.

“Go Carrot. It’s your birthday. We’re gonna party like it’s your birthday”.

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I spend a great deal of time and energy complaining and crying about things that I don’t have in my life.
A house. Extra money. A thin, toned body. Perky boobs. a nice camera. Etc.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting a house to call my own. There’s nothing wrong with wishing for extra money to take my children on vacations and to buy a nice camera with. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get in shape and be thin.
However, when wanting and wishing for those things consumes my time, my thoughts and robs me of joy, something is wrong.
Especially when what I do have is worth so much more than what money can buy.

Laughter.
Joy.
Closeness.
Bonds that can’t be broken.
(Unlike the wind that surely broke as this picture was taken.)
But most of all, Love.
(Brought to you by Love Thursday.)

Yesterday, I told my husband that I hated him.
My exact words were as follows. “You know, I love you, but when we paint? I hate you.”
It sounds so horrible and harsh, but you’ve never painted with my husband.
Ever since he got his bonus, we’ve “discussed” what we should do with the money. When you give Perpetually Broke people a check for $1,500, it’s as if you’ve handed them a check for one million dollars and the possibilities seem endless.
“We could take a cruise! Or buy furniture! Or go out for a nice meal at Chilis! AWESOME BLOSSOM, EXTRA AWESOME! Or! Or! Or! We could blow it all on a crazy weekend of bowling, Fuddruckers, smoothies!”
After much conversation and fantasizing about what to do with our WAD OF CASH, we decided it was time to give our teenage son his own bedroom, so we headed to IKEA with the intention of buying him a new bed and dresser.
Surprisingly, the trip to IKEA went smoothly and we agreed on a bed, dresser and a few accessories without a single argument or Flipping of The Fingah. The next day, I picked out a comforter and the color of paint. (Yes, he lets me make the important decisions, but trust me, it’s only so that if they turn out to be bad decisions, he can turn to me, point and say “HEY, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PICKED IT OUT!”)
I wanted to do a dark gray, PigHunter wanted to do a dark blue. I compromised and got a dark gray/blue paint that we both ended up loving. (See? I am The Great Uniter! The Compromiser Extraodinaire!)
Five minutes after we began to “prep the room” the HATRED began. You see, my husband is a good man. A good man whom I love deeply, but anytime we do a project together that involves paint, nuts, bolts and /or power tools, he becomes this passive aggressive know it all jerk who uses every chance he gets to remind me that I DO NOT KNOW MORE THAN HE DOES ABOUT SUCH THINGS.
When I am right about something, he’ll flat out refuse to acknowledge that I was right and will say stupid things like “I’m NOT going to argue with you about this. If you want to argue, that’s your problem, but I refuse to argue about this any longer.”
To which I respond with something a little or EXACTLY like this “ASS!!!”
I’ll admit that the things we argue about are STUPID and that the things which I want him to give me credit for are ridiculous. Example.
Me: “I DID stir the paint, I’ve BEEN stirring it for 10 minutes. I am not stupid! Why would you assume that I DIDN’T STIR THE PAINT? I DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE IT BACK AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I STIRRED THE PAINT!”
Him: “I refuse to argue about this.”
Me: “I’m not arguing! You accused me of not stirring the paint and I TOTALLY stirred the paint! YOU BETTAH RECOGNIZE!”
Him: (rolling his eyes, because, you know, I’m so immature and he’s SO above arguing.) “I told you, I’m not going to argue, woman.”
It’s that attitude that makes me HATE HIM when we paint together.
Don’t hate… just shut your mouth and PAINT.
How can I say that about the man that I love? Seriously, I LOVE HIM. And awwww, look at us, how cute we are together, all in love and stuff.

But that is because we hadn’t attempted to paint anything together that day.
When we paint together, it looks a little more like this…

I’m not placing all of the blame on him. I’m no joy to work with either. I have a chip on my shoulder (I’m not stupid! I know how to paint! I may not have a college degree, but I know that I need to stir the damn paint!) and I overreact to pretty much EVERYTHING. As much of a jerk as he can be when we do project together, I actually feel sorry for him, because I truly am psychotic in the “home improvement” environment.
Day One wasn’t too bad. We had a few arguments, but overall, we got through it without too much emotional damage.
But Day Two. OMG. DAY TWO.
I thought we should start the day off with a little fun, so we went bowling. Then, Tony decided that we should go to “Fuddruckers” for lunch, because we had never been there and because he “always leaves Rubios feeling hungry.” (Because, Rubios was MY suggestion for lunch.)
We ordered our food and IMAGINE MY HORROR when the lady was all “Ok, that will be FORTY DOLLARS.”
Forty dollars? FOR BURGERS?
Oh hell naw.
I know, I shouldn’t care! We are rich! HE GOT A BONUS! But, that’s insane to me. BURGERS SHOULDN’T COST $40!!!
When she told me the total, my head whipped around, I looked at my son and son “OH MY GOD, I AM SO PISSED. Go tell your dad that I am pissed.”
The woman at the register was like “OH-KAY, psychotic mother in the house!”
When I first got to the table, Tony was all “HAHAH you’re pissed!” But 5 minutes after hearing me bitch and moan, he was all “Take it outside, woman. Chill out, for reals. Yeah, that was a lot for burgers, but it’s not the end of the world.”
Do I need to tell you that the rest of the day kinda sucked? And that when we finally got home and busted open the paint, that ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE?
He was mad. I was mad. The kids were like GROW UP Y’ALL. (Which, (YOU GROW UP, CHILDREN OF MINE. GROW UP AND BUY YOUR OWN DAMN FURNITURE ALREADY.)
At one point, he started “bossing me around.” (See! I AM grown!) and commanded me to start taking the clothes out of what is now Ethan’s room and hanging them in Andrew’s closet. I gave him an attitude at first (“I’ll hang them up after you are done, WHY I GOTTA DO IT NOW?”) but I finally agreed to meet his demand and went to start taking the clothes out of the room.
As I picked up a pile of shirts, I heard a huge CRASH and looked up to see the TV, that Tony had carelessly placed on top of a pile of clothes, had flipped over and hit the wall, putting a giant hole in the wall.
He flipped the hell out and blamed me.
Me! Who was just doing what he had asked and had done nothing wrong whatsoever! It wasn’t my fault that he put the TV in an UNSTABLE place.
Yelling, fingerpointing and blame ensued until I finally snapped and said “You either admit that you were wrong for putting the tv there and that this was NOT my fault, or… I’M LEAVING! FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!”
“HA! Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll go somewhere! (SNAPS) now, say it wasn’t my fault!”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense!”
I lost my shit. I threw the clothes that were in my hand up in the air whilst shouting “OMG. I’M OUTTA HERE!!!”
(A little advice. If you ever decide to go all dramaqueen and declare that you are leaving, make SURE that you don’t have to pee before saying it, because, man, having to come back home after only 7 minutes so that you don’t piss your pants is pretty damn embarrassing , even after you give your “I’m only back because I love my son and want to get his room finished” speech, you end up looking like a pathetic loser.)
The good news is that we FINISHED. The room is painted, the furniture assembled and my son has his own room.
The bad news? We’re painting Ethan’s room next weekend and blame for the hole in the wall has yet to be claimed.