I remember promising drunk Mardi Gras blogging. Apparently I’m a liar. But an authentic one! How could I drunk Mardi Gras blog when I didn’t get drunk at Mardi Gras.

What? What is this Mardi Gras blasphemy?

I know. Please don’t tell. I could never live it down. In fact, I may be barred from our private, elitist balcony if the truth got out and I would have to whore my balcony privileges back through multitudes of chocolate chip cookies given to Wally’s boss.

I guess hitting the very beginning edge of middle age is already taking its toll on me. Five straight days of Mardi Gras parades and I barely got a buzz. I acted all responsible and crap. I don’t think this bodes well for the future. I must need a fun intervention. You may all get together and plan it, preferably one that includes absconding me to a tropical island with sexy, topless cabana boys and fruity alcoholic drinks in pineapples.

On top of the “responsible drinker” role I am now playing, Wally is on vacation this week. That means I’m also playing “dutiful wife” who initiates stimulating adult conversations during our six hours of alone time while the kids are in school. So far we have discussed…

Amendments to one of our sons’ IEPs

Selling our house in the worst housing market in decades

Painting our bedroom

The awesomeness of Le Creuset

Aaaaannnnnddd that’s about it. What the hell do you talk about after almost 17 years together?

It’s like we don’t know how to break out of Parent Mode and back into Couple Mode in just six hours. The half-life of uranium is something like 704 million years, people, and if you’ve ever seen a playroom after 8 kids eat red-iced birthday cake, you know children are more unstable and destructive than uranium. So I’m thinking somewhere around 2.3 billion years are needed to reclaim half of your identity as a couple.

Summary: We are screwed.

Each time we’ve asked one another what we want to do with our six hours of freedom (times 3 days), the conversations rapidly deteriorates into mouth breathing and nose picking. And when I say rapidly, I mean instantly.

And I’m sure many of you are thinking SEX. HAVE SEX, DUH, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

It seems logical, doesn’t it? No kids = mad monkey sex

But come on. SEVENTEEN YEARS, PEOPLE. Seriously. Three months shy of it. And after that long, we’ve done it here and there, we’ve done it everywhere, every way. It’s great, it’s fun. And then what?

It may not be cool to admit that in our mid- to late thirties  sex isn’t the end all be all of our relationship, but there it is. (Remember: I’m an authentic liar) We enjoy it, sure. But damned if we want to run around our house naked for six straight hours, pretending to be a lust-crazed, co-dependent couple who just can’t get enough of each other.

Believe me, we can get enough of each other.

We’re down to our last 6 hours alone tomorrow (Friday), and with us visiting the library twice already, shuttling me to and from the chiropractor and subsequent back spasms, clearly we’ve used up all of our fun ideas.

So did you catch a theme in the Superbowl Ads this year? I certainly did. I shall call it…

PROTECT YOUR BALLS, MENZ,
‘CUZ THE WIMMINZ WILL EAT THEM RAW IF YOU LET THEM!

What the hell was that all about, this throwback to the old definition of what it means to be a man?

This is because of the Great Recession, isn’t it?

I can see how it’s connected. Men are losing their jobs (not like they are the only ones) and this really puts a kink in their definition of self (understandably) and so of course the women are trying to steal our manhood!

Total rational leap.

Take this Super Bowl commercial in particular – the one for a Dodge Charger.

As a feminist, I admit this rubs my non-Brazilian waxed bottom the wrong way. Quite frankly, if I were a man, it would probably rubbed my hairy-I-don’t-really-have-to-do-manscaping-because-all-my-underwear-and-swimwear-covers-everything bottom the wrong way. But the last time I checked, I’m not a man. So as a woman, I have many things to say to this commercial and I will.

I will get up and walk the dog at 6:30 am.

I will remind you that you wanted the fucking dog, not me.

I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast.

I will eat some fruit as part of my breakfast too. Because neither of us revels in the idea of having sex with a fat ass, so you’re welcome too.

I will shave. I will clean the sink after I shave.

I will shave too! And I will clean up any mess I make, like a grown-up too!

I will be at work at 8 am. I will sit through two hour meetings.

I will wonder what the hell this has to do with me.

I will say yes when you want me to say yes. I will be quiet when you don’t want me to say no.

I will investigate what kind of shit drugs you are on, causing you to have delusional conversations with yourself. Fuck, you have a job (that you go to at EIGHT am!), we can afford better street drugs.

I will take your call.

I will take your call too. And all the calls from the school regarding our kids.  That’s my two to your one, you self-centered, pussy-ass whiner.

I will listen to your opinion of my friends. I will listen to your friend’s opinion of my friends.

And I will listen to you fart when you pee. We both hear shit we’d rather not hear.

I will be civil to your mother.

I will be civil to yours. We should prepare ourselves to be showered with honors for our great acts of humanity.

I will put the seat down.

I will think, hmm, you lifted it up.

I will separate the recycling.

I will cook the vast majority of your meals.

I will carry your lip balm.

I will carry your children. For forty-weeks. I will vomit for 16 of those weeks. Boy, you’re right, carrying my lip balm every now and then is a lot to ask!

I will watch your vampire TV shows with you.

I will watch your blow-shit-up-for-no-reason man shows with you. See how give and take works in a relationship?

I will take my socks off before getting into bed.

I will put on attractive night gowns before getting into bed.

I will put my socks in the basket.

I will wash and dry them. See how team work is applied to real life?

And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive. MAN’S LAND STAND!

And because I do this, I will…..I will…..Shit, what  will I do? Buy the jewelry I want to buy?

I think if I need an expensive object to compensate for the way our lives meld together, for the way we dance in and out and around each other, day after day, sometimes leading, sometimes following, then the expensive object I need the most is probably a divorce attorney.

I think this is the post where I’m supposed to amuse you with tales from my Christmas. Well, I can’t be one to break with blogger conformity, I mean tradition!

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Fudge

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Presents

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Overeating

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Wow, wasn’t that like the most amusing and interesting Christmas recount out of all the millions of post-Christmas blogs right now? So let’s move on to what I really want to talk about – DRYERS.

I know what you’re thinking: Please, God, tell me Santa left Heather a new dryer so she will stop bitching and complaining about her horrible dryer and the heaps of ironing she is forced to do because of the horrible dryer.

Santa DID NOT.

I know! I feel compelled to do emotional binge eating too, why doesn’t Santa love me?

What Santa did give me was money. And a brother-in-law who is a super genius at mechanics and told us how to fix my old dryer so it will heat once again.

On the Sunday after Christmas, I masterminded an escape from my current house arrest and got away from my small rabid co-inmates who have been lodged up my craw for a week. Meanwhile, Wally promised he would try to fix our old dryer.

“Oh honey, if you can fix our old dryer, I will (specific sexual favors redacted), that is how happy it will make me!”

Wally made a beeline for his Craftsmen tool set. Of course he did. Because he loves to make me happy, I’m sure, and not because he really wants to (redacted).  I bebopped out of the house, deciding to price out some new dryers, just in case he can’t fix it. And that’s when I went into a fudge-induced diabetic coma OMG, NEW RITZY DRYERS ARE A THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS.

But I recovered quickly. It’s not like I didn’t know they were that expensive. But still, being faced with the price tag while in serious consideration of buying? I need smelling salts just retelling it.

The salesman tried time and again to impress me with one fancy dryer option after another.

Machine sanitizing option!

Eh, we’re too germophobic as a society. A little bacteria is good for us!

24 button control panel!

Yeah, I use all of two settings on my dryer. Seriously.

STEAM!

$1500 for steam. Are you fucking kidding?

I continued to be unimpressed, insisting I wanted a dryer that (are you sitting down?) simply dries clothes without everything coming out wrinkled. I’m so demanding, I expect dryers to perform miracles!

When I returned home, Wally proudly showed me the relay out of the dryer, thinking that’s the mechanical problem. And won’t that be an easy fix?!

On Monday he went to the appliance repair store and bought a new relay, plus two other thingies that control the heat of the dryer. One of these three will fix it! For sure!

“Really? That’s great! How much were the parts?”

“Only $75 for all of it.”

“You mean I’ve carried out 4-6 hours of ironing each week for over a year when all it cost to fix our dryer is $75 and two hours of your time?”

“Um.”

Yes, yes I have. I did four loads of laundry yesterday. In my old dryer that is now heating. And there were no clothes that needed ironing. So now I’m forced to renounce my offer of (specific sexual favors redacted) and reevaluate exactly who owes who what around here.

Let’s see: 4-6 hours a week or ironing, we’ll say an average of 5. At least $10 per hour for menial labor (I’m cutting him a deal.) That’s $50 per week, 52 weeks. I think I’m owed somewhere around $2600 just for labor, and what about pain and emotional suffering from the ironing?.

When I presented this offer to Wally his response was, “It would be cheaper for me to buy you a new fucking dryer.”

Ok, fine.

In return, though, Wally agreed to make some housewife p0rn for me. And because I love my readers, I am going to share it with you.

Untitled from Heather Hitchcock on Vimeo.

That is some of the best p0rn ever.

I should be ironing right now. There’s a mountain of wrinkled clothes the size of Mauna Kea piled on my bed. Would you like to know how many of those wrinkled clothes belong to me?

ONE.

That’s all. The remaining 1,573 wrinkled pieces belong to the short and loud people in the house who show no appreciation for all the ironing I do every week.

Some of you may think it’s my laziness that causes so much ironing. I must not get the clothes out of the dryer promptly! Well, you’re wrong. The buzzer doesn’t even finish buzzing before I’m in there, desperately pulling clothes out, trying to prevent wrinkles. It never works.

The real culprit of the weekly mountain of wrinkled clothes is the goddamn dryer. I once had a wonderful dryer. WONDERFUL! Then, after a mere 6 years, it broke. Stopped heating, just like that! I guess Kenmore isn’t so wonderful after all.

We considered buying a new dryer, but did you know most new dryers cost more than a house payment? I’m not even making that up. It’s insane. Do people make it a habit of stealing from their kids’ college savings in order to afford these things?

Lucky for us (or so I thought at the time), my dad had an extra dryer since he’d just purchased a new one. Yay! No need to fork out $1200 for a dryer right now.

Now I know why my dad bought a new dryer. Everything comes out of this dryer wrinkled. EVERYTHING, even the wrinkle-free clothes.

So I really should be ironing right now and for the next three hours instead of writing this blog post. But I’m not. I can’t make myself do it. There are so many other things I’d rather do. In fact, I decided to share with you the things I’d rather do than iron.

• Pluck toe hair.

• Pluck my husband’s old-man ear hair.

• Listen to my kids cry and whine when I force them to do their homework.

• Read blogs.

• Like The Bloggess, who, thank god, doesn’t get Twilight either. I’m adding her to my Christmas list, along with all other Twilight haters. I hope she likes handmade scarves. I plan to knit one that says FUCK EDWARD, COUNT DRACULA HAD BALLS!

• And Stacey, whom I love with the strength of a thousand moons. That’s in direct opposition of how much I hate doing push-ups on the 30 Day Shred (with the strength of a thousand suns). That is how much I love Stacey’s writing. I can’t recall her thoughts on Twilight, but I’m hoping I can keep her on my Christmas list too.
• Look up when to use “whom” or “who.”

• Give myself an enema.

• Give an old person a enema, that is how much I hate ironing.

• Discover the cure for male skid marks, which would make me rich enough I could hire someone to do my ironing. Or just buy a new ritzy dryer.

• Have sex with Santa in exchange for a new ritzy dryer.

The extremes in which I would go to avoid ironing knows no bounds. Except for one. I’ll iron for 40 straight days and 40 straight nights before reading the rest of Twilight. I read all the way up to page 285 and had to stop in order to make my last will and testament before killing myself, that was the torture I endured. Never again. Not even ironing is that bad.

But it’s close.

When Wally got home, I cried and demonstrated the extent of my suffering to him by serving cold leftovers for dinner. And to this he replied, “Honey, I’ll do the ironing for you.”

That’s just like a man, getting in the way of a woman’s success as a martyr.

Wally and I have decided to decorate our new house. It’s only been four years since we moved in.

Okay, truthfully, I decided to finally decorate our house. Even though Wally also complains our house looks like we just moved in and wants it to reflect more of who we are too, I’m the only one who has gotten excited and energized over turning our house into a home, finally. Men.

Anyway, I’ve gang pressed Wally into service by making him design some art for the walls. And this MUST BE DONE BEFORE THANKSGIVING! I don’t know why I’ve set this deadline for myself. I guess I imagine my family walking into my home on Thanksgiving oooh’ing and aaah’ing over the new splash of style, the artful way I’ve transformed our home during the Great Recession through awesome Goodwill finds and my own personal slave labor.

What are the chances that will actually happen before they begin their roles of Frank and Estelle Constanza? Let me put it like this: I’ll turn it into a drinking game where for every 15 minutes that goes by without my parents commenting on the new decor, I’ll do a shot of bourbon. I’ll be drunk before 9 am. If I add in a shot for every time they yell at each other like Frank and Estelle, I’ll pass out before 10 am.

I love quotes and plan to incorporate them into some of the artwork Wally is designing. But I don’t want the “Live Laugh Love” or any of the other commercial sayings that are all the rage right now. It must be more original than that, yet thought provoking, yet not schmaltzy, but yet still short enough to fit in the frames I scored at Goodwill.

This is my latent anal-retentiveness coming out. It’s a life-long disease, really, one in which you may manage but never fully recover.

So I decided to make up my own quotes, ones that reflect the times in which we live, the things we currently value, spend energy on – you know, that kind of stuff, etc.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far.

“I have 1,147 followers on Twitter.”

“My blog is in the top 1% of blogs.”

“I have integrity. Because I have an HTML-embedded badge on my blog saying so.”

“Have you felt my Twitter influence? I just moved up 5 places on the influence chart.”

“I get at least 50 PR pitches a day, my ability to whore products is that respected.”

What do you think?

No?

Okay, how about this one?

“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.” -Oscar Wilde

That one is probably a better quote for bloggers but still not quite it.

“I don’t want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.” -Zelda Fitzgerald

Yes, that’s it. One down, two more to go.

(*I don’t always get 50 PR pitches a day. Sometimes it’s 0. Okay, most days it’s 0.)

“Oh, I ate too much tonight,” groaned Wally.

This is man-talk for “not tonight, I have a headache.”

“Yep, that was some good food,” I replied.

“Yep, we work well together in the kitchen,” he said. “I made the BBQ, you made the cake, now if only someone else would wash the dishes.”

“I just know the Dish Fairies will come tonight. I feel it!”

To this, Wally announced “Um, I don’t believe in Dish Fairies.”

Gasp!

“No damn wonder they never come here. You must believe in them before they will come. It’s your fault I’m always doing dishes, you bastard.”

The millions of dishes I’ve washed for 13 years, all because of him and his refusal to believe in the Dish Fairies.

Fucker.

He probably doesn’t believe in the Cleaning Fairies either and that’s why all the little boy dirty socks that appear in the hallway every night after their baths are still there in the morning.

Whatever am I going to do with this unbeliever I married?

Isn’t there a place in hell for unbelievers? Like a purgatory of infrequent sex or something?

Please, readers, tell Wally of the special place in hell reserved for the unbelievers.

The other day, Wally and I had this exact conversation…

Wally: I think I’ve lost my crazy.

Me: *blink blink* Please, God, tell me “crazy” isn’t secret man code for “ability to get it up.”

Wally: Or maybe I never had Crazy?

Me: *blink blink*

Wally: Okay, I must have never had Crazy.

Me: What do you mean, lost your crazy?

Wally: I feel like I’ve lost what makes me different. I don’t do anything off the wall anymore. I never write anymore! I wanted to write a book.

Me: Um, since when? You never write.

Wally: Back in college. I wrote a lot. I have an idea for a book, you know.

Me: *blink blink*

Wally: We watched that Apple commercial the other night and I realized I’m not one of the crazy ones. Waaahhh!

Can you believe this, people? This is what I have to put up with – a man trying to steal my thunder. I can’t even have an early mid-life crisis to myself, for fuck’s sake.

On Friday night, Wally (aka Thunder Stealer) had a “business dinner” with a client. I can’t say whom but they are in the business of gambling and rock and roll memorabilia.

Tell me, is it really a good idea to confess your own midlife crisis to your wife the day before you go on a “business dinner” that involves gambling, rock and roll, and a client guest list that is almost all women?

Wally kept saying “but I won’t have a good time without you there!” Who does he think he’s talking to, someone who made a C in Calculus III? I don’t think so. I know he just wants to get lucky when he gets home from his night of fun with other adults.

I spent Friday night not having adult conversations over a dinner of shrimp au gratin and crab meat with people whose business is gambling and rock and roll. Instead, my dinner conversation was with a paper cow over a Chick Fil A sandwich. After this succulent dinner, I spent the rest of my evening helping my oldest son put together his first Erector set. If that one act doesn’t cement me as a nerd, I don’t know what will. The worst part? I had to do this sober.

Who really deserves the pity party: me or Wally? Sister, please.

(P.S. Wally hasn’t taken me out to a dinner party in over 18 months. We know what happens when I don’t get enough socialization. )

Well, I’ll tell you who actually deserves the pity party: the entire world and humankind, that’s who. After putting together that Erector set with the tiniest screws and nuts and bolts in the universe, I’m practically an engineer.

So you have me with my straight A’s all through calculus, an Erector degree in engineering, a psychology degree in which to manipulate the thinking of an entire nation, all backed up by a “Crazy One” science genius and a little math whiz by the name of Parker. I’m now fully prepared to seize control of the U.S. government.

I hope you’re afraid.

And is it just me, or didn’t that Apple commercial make you want to hump your Macbook too? I mean, my god. I’m just like Einstein, Amelia Earhart, Gandi and Muhammad Ali, all because I own a Mac and it makes me think differently. Plus I have  two evil genius heirs to take over my reign once I’m gone.

Here’s to the Crazy Ones!

You should really be afraid now.

Sometimes I think I am the greatest wife in the world. Part of my greatness, aside from my effervescent charm and gourmet cookies, is achieved through lists.

Oh, how I love lists.

My grocery list? Is divided up into categories (staples, canned, dairy, frozen, etc.), and it doesn’t stop there. The categories are in the order of the shopping aisles of my local Super Wal-Mart. You won’t find me backtracking in Wal-Mart.

Whenever I have a big event coming up, like a birthday party or my entire family staying for Mardi Gras, I take list making to new heights. I become a complete and total list whore.

When family visits, my house must be absolutely clean, including the baseboards and the sliver of flooring behind the toilet. Because I know my family will get down on their hands and knees and inspect my baseboards, and if they can not lick an accidental drip of fondue cheese off of them, I will be shamed forever. SHAMED!

And if my pantries (yes, I have more than one) aren’t a testament to Martha Stewart and her organizational skills with lined baskets, the world will swallow me whole then shit me out in purgatory where I will spend eternity organizing pantries that never stay organized.

Wait a minute. That sounds like my real life pantry. What the hell? Have I died and gone to purgatory and don’t know it? I suppose that’s what I get for not reading the Bible. But shit, I have a MacBook and WiFi in purgatory, so at least it’s a purgatory for white-collar yuppies.

With all the preparation I put into hosting a family gathering, it’s easy to see how I might get a tad overwhelmed. This is how lists save the day.

I write down everything that needs to be done, organized by the day the chore needs to be done. Really, you don’t want to clean your refrigerator out too soon in advance or else you’ll end up having to do it again.

But what do my lists have to do with being the greatest wife? Because it sounds like I’m always shoving a honey-do list in Wally’s face, doesn’t it? Well, no one likes a list harpy!

(Which is why I call myself a list whore and the ‘whore’ part makes Wally happy. Jedi mind tricks are so easy on the weak-minded.)

Truthfully, I’ve never made a honey-do list. Ever. In 13 years of marriage.

Instead, I made a couple-do list and it’s things we are to achieve “together.” It’s like Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson singing about ebony and ivory all over again – it fits because I have jet black hair and we’re white.

So I have the couple-do list…well, ok, two of them. Or maybe three. Anyway, I have these multiple lists and we were going to work together as a team. Rah!

But then I get a loving hair up my ass. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, really. I find myself crying over commercials and talking about a cat that died 6 years ago. And then I cried during The Perfect Storm movie, during a scene that shouldn’t involve tears.

I stood at my kitchen counter, feeling all teary and hormonal, and decided I would do a good and wonderful thing for my husband and start working on the couple-do list BEFORE THE WEEKEND. How sweet of me! And so thoughtful to spare my husband.

This is what great and wonderful wives do because that would free up our weekend for quality family time, say, over foam and sticker crafts. Wheee! Like, Daddy could bond with his sons over glitter!

I am SO THE GREATEST WIFE IN THE WORLD!

Only now I’ve had to work hard vacuuming up glitter and cleaning baseboards and vacuuming glitter and wiping dirty fingerprints off of walls, door jams and doors, and vacuuming glitter, and organizing pantries, and vacuuming glitter.

This white-collar yuppie purgatory isn’t that great after all. And I think Satan invented glitter.

Obviously I am a housecleaning genius, no? I can kick Fly Lady’s ass all the way to aisle 8 in Super Wal-Mart, which according to my list, is the chip and soft drink aisle. As you know, I’m a giver, not a taker, so I will gladly give my housewife knowledge to you FOR FREE. And if you aren’t satisfied within 90 days, you can give my advice back FOR FREE.

All you have to do is click here with your burning housewife questions, such as how do you make your cookies so freaking awesome, oh wise Heather. Or! Will Johnny Depp play your gypsy lover in the movie based on your life, Chocolat Cookie?

Hi, my name is Heather and I have a drinking problem. My husband royally screwed up our bank account and now I’m forced to buy extremely cheap wine. Save me from destruction.

Reader, I obviously need your help settling a marriage dispute between Wally and me.

A year ago (more or less), I decided 11 years of carrying 80% of the marriage responsibility was long enough. Yes, quite long enough. I became disillusioned with marriage. It was so one-sided! It benefited the man more than the woman!

As I pointed out over at TMHs, when you get married, research proves men actually gain an hour of free time a week while the woman gains 7 hours of more work. What the fuck? Fuck that shit! And all those other expletives that could be used to convey a sense of ridiculousness and outrage.

I even threw away sexy but tasteful and flattering lingerie in my protest. Threw it in the trash. Do you know how hard it is to find those three qualities in lingerie after having children? Nigh impossible when you’re dealing with a lower stomach mutilated with stretch marks and loose skin after carrying a 9.5 lb beluga whale pup all out in front.

But I’d be damned if keeping the spark alive was all my responsibility, or keeping our money straight was all my responsibility, or running every single thing about our life but the bread winning paycheck would be ALL my responsibility.

(I am woman, tossing quality lingerie away. Hear me roar!)

Apparently throwing away lingerie will get your husband’s attention, or at least mine. After my tantrum, we reevaluate the balance in our marriage, understood things in a new way, did some reshuffling and change the things that were no longer working after a decade of matrimony. Wally also bought new pajamas for himself.

Good, right?

And things changed for the better, if “change for the better” means my life began to eerily resemble a Happy Days episode. Wally took over the finances and cub scout meetings, I baked more cookies and…um, shaved my legs more often?

I don’t remember the exact changes we agreed on, I only know the weight of 100% financial responsibility was off my shoulders and that was something. I no longer felt so overwhelmed keeping up with PTA meetings, class parties, dentist appointments, play dates, birthday parties, menu planning, grocery shopping, teacher conferences, homework, test schedules, spelling words, lunch boxes, clean clothes, outgrown clothes, holey socks, and dirty dishes (my god, I think I just shit a crinoline skirt) on top of our finances.

So things went merrily along in this traditional manner. Until I discovered the Economics class Wally took in college was actually for the mentally impaired. And he almost failed.

Without going into the details, let’s just say it’s imperative that I take the finances back over.

Great.

But the great scales of blind marital justice must be balanced! It’s only fair that since I am taking this bill paying stuff back over, I give something up, right?

But what to give up?

Laundry? As much as that would make my heartstrings sing, Wally also accidently on purpose sabotages the laundry, ruining clothes. Not an option, mostly because I’ve seen our check register and I can’t replace a wardrobe right now.

Should he perform my home pedicures since it’s all I can afford?

Take over kitchen cleaning duty on the weekends?

Conduct my home bikini waxes since I can’t afford a professional?

I know. He should do my 30-Day Shred exercises for me.

Or construct a shrine in honor of my financial brilliance, made completely from neighborhood construction cast-offs and duct tape?

What should it be? We must have balance.

I left off my love story with the admission that I was involved in a love triangle while dating Wally.

It really happened.

The End.

Wasn’t that a thrilling story?!

Gack, I hate my impulsive tendencies sometimes. I wish I hadn’t said it now. Not because I want to hide it, but because I don’t know what to say about it. Or rather the things I have to say about it cause me too much confusion and could potentially bring on a marriage crisis.

But I’ve said it now, so wheeeee! Let’s all watch as Heather questions her 13 years of marriage and the entire definition of marital love. All while her husband reads her blog!

Where to start…where to start…

Ok, once there was this guy, we’ll call him Charles. I could call him other things, such as Dirty Little Peckerhead, but that would show blatant immaturity and you know how I pride myself on my maturity.  So Dirty Little Peckerhead it is!

I loooooooved Dirty Little Peckerhead. I mean LOVED HIM in one of those all-consuming, I will go to hell and back for you kind of ways. Dirty Little Peckerhead loooooooved me too.  LOVED ME. When we entered a room, random pieces of furniture would spontaneously combust from the power of our chemistry. Or maybe that was my underwear and not the coffee table.

So how did it go wrong? I still don’t know and neither does he. Is there such a thing as too much chemistry between two people? To the point where all-consuming love takes a literal meaning and the intensity of the feelings scare you away? The overwhelming chemistry did lead to instability and we were always off again/on again.

It was during a long-extended off again period that I met Wally, the antithesis of Dirty Little Peckerhead in all ways. And I do mean ALL ways.

Wally was the opposite of Dirty Little Peckerhead’s more annoying traits of moodiness, unpredictability, and by that I mean suddenly ripping out my heart and eating it for lunch. Wally was and did none of those things.

Which that sounds great, right? Wally, the cowboy in white saves the damsel! Only Dirty Little Peckerhead would repeatedly crop up between me and Wally for the 3 years we dated, which, I’m ashamed to say, led me to do to Wally what Peckerhead had done to me – rip his out heart and eat it for lunch.

See, my feelings for Wally were the exact opposite of the ones I had for Dirty Little Peckerhead.

There was no overwhelming passion, no stage of mad-crazy infatuation. Where Dirty Little Peckerhead was a tempest, Wally was the clear blue sky after a storm.

With Wally, it was more of a slow burn. Obviously there was a spark or I would have never asked Wally out. (Oh yes I did.) It was just so different, the burning of that spark. So slow and so…I don’t know, what’s the word for unfirework-y?

I never felt like I needed Wally, not the way I needed Peckerhead.

Is that the difference between co-dependent love and actual true love?

Or did I play it safe and hedged my bets on the boy next door?

Wally and I were talking about this last night in bed– this question of whether we married each other to play it safe, what other factors played into our decision than just love.  Does anyone get married based solely on love?

“Why is it the girl wants the bad boy while the boy next door looks on?”

“The boy next door usually wins in the end. At least that’s how it goes in the movies,” he said.

“But is that because he’s the underdog and that story sells?”

“Well, look at Spiderman!”

(because real-life relationships should always be based on movies, especially comic book based movies.)

“Yeah, but Spiderman had superpowers to win her over. What’s your superpower?” I asked.

“Hmmm. The ability to bore people to sleep in a single conversation!”

Do you see why I love him?

Earlier that evening, Wally was outside, swimming with Parker. Suddenly, I hear Wally’s deep, spontaneous laugh rush through the walls of the house and to my ears. My heart soars with the sound of his laughter and my face splits into a smile.

I find myself clinging to the feeling, just to prove to myself I have it. See, Heather, you feel something for him!

Yes, I do love him. I’ve always loved him for who he is, not for how he makes me feel.

Is that true love, the kind that lasts a lifetime?

I can’t say for certain. And neither can anyone else.

But if it is, then why do I feel regret that I never went through that stage of all-consuming love for him?

And I still wonder if I only played it safe.