5 Reasons I Should Never Fight With My Husband When He's in Charge of Grocery Shopping

Adam's a SAHH right now. That's "stay-at-home-husband", in case you don't speak cyber. His job doesn't officially start until after he gets his Bar results, so he's basically doing everything I ask him to do. Not. But he does do the important chores i.e. make my dinner, rub my feet, draw my bath, massage my ego, etc. etc. etc.

Last week, we had a brawl reminiscent of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia (even though I was disappointed in the movie, I'm still committed to using Hunger Games references in everyday life). I can't even remember what we were bickering about. Probably who wore it better.

The next day, Adam made the grocery list, which included "Something Yummy for Emily's Lunch," and went to the grocery store. And he came home with 5 Reasons I Should Never Fight With My Husband When He's in Charge of Grocery Shopping.

1)2)3)
4)5)If you're wondering what #3 is, I can't help you because I don't know. And I'm the one who ate it. It might have been fish. But it might also been breaded spite.

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I'm Hungry

A friend recommended I read The Hunger Games. This friend also recommended that I read Twilight. Scoff. If Twilight is on her radar, her judgement must have gone to Spring Break in Cabo.

Dear Friend Who Recommended I Read The Hunger Games,
I'm sorry. Can we hug it out?
XX
-e-

I realize that I'm soooooo last summer, but let me come to my own defense: I tried repeatedly to get this book from the library last year. And may the odds be ever in your favor when scoring bestsellers from the city library. I eventually just forgot all about it.

Why didn't I just buy it, you ask? Welp, hold up a book and a pair of colored skinnies and see which one I reach for.

Before leaving for Utah, I was at Target breaking the piggy bank - literally, I dropped a piggy bank and broke it - and I snagged a copy for the plane.

Only I devoured most of it before I even got to the airport. Katniss and Peeta are to blame for making me miss my train stop.

When I got to the end of book one, I hauled trash to the store and purchased book two IN HARDBACK. 24 hours later, I finished book two and spent 30 irrational minutes trying to figure out how to get book number three at midnight. And my hands started shaking. (morphling)The Hunger Games have crept into my life and I'm a woman obsessed. I haven't felt this way since the Friday Night Lights gang abducted me.

I threatened to fight my three-year-old niece to the death if she didn't stop interrupting me. That did NOT go over well with her mother.

I pretended to shoot arrows at my sister. Luckily, she's a fan too, so she responded with an air spear to my side.

I accidentally called Adam "Peeta."

I purposefully called Adam "Peeta."

I volunteered as tribute when my mother asked for someone to come help her with dinner. She didn't even bat an eye because she already thinks I'm a maniac. (she's right)

I was deleting some files from a computer system at work and I got a warning: "You are about to delete 16 children." I spent the rest of the day feeling melancholy for the reaping that plagues the districts of Panem. It took six Vanilla Tootsie Rolls to cheer me up. Apparently, "children" is HTML geekery, but neverthelessandwhathaveyou.

The only problem is, that ship has sailed for most everyone but me. This same thing happened when I met Harry Potter...six years after he became BMOC. There's a good chance this will also happen with I finally cave and get Pinterested.

So...when I do a j-high schoolgirl scream, and announce that the movie comes out on video tomorrow and I've been waiting all summer to see it because I'm morally opposed to movie theaters and my excitement will probably keep me up all night so I'll have to find a fork in the branches of a tall tree and belt myself in to get any sleep and screw it, I'll just go wait in line at Redbox now, and then do a herkie, NOBODY CARES.

That's OK, though. Just gowon with your on-trend flannel peplum blouse. I'm fine over here with my Myspace page. The cheese stands alone, suckas. I am a rock. I am an island.

OK, for realz. Who's excited about tomorrow??? Anyone??? Just me and my co-worker's eleven-year-old???

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Finally, go time

I've been impatiently waiting all summer long for the wild blackberries in my yard to ripen.Let's all pause to digest the fact that I just wrote "the wild blackberries in my yard."

Wild blackberries. IN MY YARD. It never gets old, does it? Don't answer that.

Since we moved in and I spotted those beauties, I've been worried that the wildlife would nosh them before I could pick them.Pause here again: "Wildlife."

WILDLIFE.

I'm like freaking Snow White. Only I'm pretty sure Snow White owned darling Hunter Boots that she could wear whilst blackberry picking, thus making her and her blog post cuter. Our deers, bunnies, and wolverines didn't seem to have a taste for blackberries, thank goodness. Minutes before we left for Utah, I saw that they were finally ready. I drug my tired bones out to the patch in 95% humidity and picked until my fingers were red with berry juice and blood. Them thorns take no prisoners.
Despite that Mr. Bar Prep was about as useful as a football bat, and instead stood around pretending to be Batman, I still got a pretty decent haul. It was just enough to make three cups of the sorriest looking but best tasting jam ever made by me. Also the only jam ever made by me. I sweated bullets into a saucepan full of quickly dissolving berries while screaming incoherencies at my mother who was trying to coach me from the speaker phone. Sort of a low point in the whole experience. My life, really.

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His turn

I asked Adam what his birthday wish was. He told me all he wanted was for no pictures to be taken. Just keep wishing, Loser. Just keep wishing.

Happy birthday, Ady....last Sunday. You are indeed the Cher to my Sonny.*The birthday boy sent this to me at work today. Why? THAT'S another blog post altogether.

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These are my people

I'm back from the annual Double-You family reunion in Utah. My entire immediate family, with the exception of my oldest sister and her family, made the trek to come play grab-arse at my parent's house for an entire weekend.

The party broke up on Sunday and, for some reason, I broke down. Boobed through the good-byes and cried the entire way home.

I guess it's because these are the people who continue to hand me their babies even though I dip their pacifiers in chocolate ice cream. These are the people who fought over who would house us if Adam doesn't pass the Bar. These are the people who love me when I'm not so loveable. These are my people. And DC is so far away. And one year is too long between visits.

Ah, well. Face forward, as my Dad says. I'll just dry my eyes on the fact that they called my maxi skirt, pajamas. Those jerks.

My niece slash sidekick slash protégé slash beneficiary, Sissy.
The hottest lunch lady I've ever seen. My niece Ali took a sting to the face and morphed into Quasimodo. She rocked it, though.
I got them all to laugh by shaking my bum at them. Repeatedly.
Oldest brother, Mark, fresh from Nashville.
Guns.
He l-uh-oves his grandmother. Almost codependenty.
This child has never said a word to me.
The ever darling, AJ.
My dog-niece, Daisy.
It's AJ's little brother! Can't you tell?
You know. Just hanging out. Cornering Adam about his politics. Playing with baby dolls. The usual.
Don't do it, Ian! We'll give you another ice pop! Just don't jump! (the drop is like, four feet)
I cannot believe that this little girl is now this little girl.
The grill master himself, my daddy.
He's thinking, "Hmmmm. Her maxi skirt looks like pajamas."
My oldest nephew building a rocket. Because it's not a reunion unless something gets blown up.
And then there's this. This, who I wanted desperately to be besties with. This, who brutally rebuffed me. This, whom I will get next time. Dun, dun, dun.

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