This is a Not a Dramatic Pregnancy Blog. Except for the Parts About Pregnancy and Drama.

This did not start as a pregnancy blog,but it could very well turn into one, seeing as how I am (guess what?!) three months pregnant.  I am not sure why I haven't felt the need to post until now; I suppose it has been a lot to process.  That and the fact that the last few weeks have been spent feeling the shittiest I have ever felt in my entire life, all day every day.  Who wants to hear about that?  Not even other pregnant ladies.  And definitely not non-pregnant people, including my husband and anyone else still capable of eating foods that don't come from the children's menu.  So I guess I just keep trying to keep all the bitching in, but then it comes out in big piles of bitching. Maybe if I just kept up low-grade bitching at all times, I would be better off. 

Honestly, while I have felt, and still do feel, so terrible that I can barely function at work or keep up on household chores, I also do feel very lucky.  This happened very fast for us, faster than we'd anticipated by far, and I am so excited to become a mom. 

I feel like P may have different thoughts, but he is just one to take some time to warm up to things. Right now, I feel like he wants nothing to do with me, which is actually kind of heartbreaking because I am scared and vulnerable and kind of need him right now, and I wish I could get him to explain what is bugging him.  I realize that going down to once-every-1.5-week sex probably sucks, but then when I go to try to initiate it to make sure that he is getting his needs met, like this morning's back and butt-rub.  He ignores my touch, and then hops in the shower to jack off.  And there I sit, useless and chubby and queasy. Just a baby incubator for a baby that maybe only I want, worrying about horrible things like cheating and divorce.

Bleh. Drama, I guess.  I hate drama, and now I am creating it on my own blog, which should be drama-free to match my spectacularly drama-free lifestyle. I guess I just thought things were supposed to be really happy between us right now, and instead, I am just worried about it all.  I guess that is what pregnancy does to you. Makes you worried and sad about what is probably nothing, but what could be something. I'm sure it will pass.

More happy, fun, hilarious pregnancy and life stories to follow. No more of this sad sack crap. I mean, seriously, I could be Octomom. Now that is drama.

Asia on My Mind

I have been away for a couple weeks, but when you have a super-secret blog, where very few people depend on you writing every day, you are allowed to take breaks without feeling pressure. So I did.  No pressure whatsoever.

Today I was vaccinated for our upcoming Asia trip.  In just over two weeks P and I will be arriving in Bangkok and exploring much of Thailand and Indonesia and possibly Laos for 16 days.  I am excited, but the nurse who vaccinated me today managed to scare the crap out of me along with making my arm hurt like crazy. I am basically convinced now that I will be ridden with malaria and rabies by the time I return.  Remind me not to pet any stray Thai dogs. Because I can promise you I will want to.

Does malaria make you lose weight?

I finished my last pack of birth control pills, which is kinda of funny and freaky and weird.  Spent my first 35 years trying successfully not to get pregnant, can't imagine it is that easy for your body to just switch gears.  I will be 35 in a couple weeks, which, in baby-making land, is considered advanced age. In addition, I have polycystic ovary syndrome.  I have a feeling that this is either going to happen super easy and fast for us, or that we're screwed and should consider picking up a baby girl or two whilst in Asia.  Either way, I feel suddenly very grown up and as if my being suddenly has purpose.  I am not used to having a purpose.

Week in Review

Ho. Lee. Crap. That is my full review.

This week has been insanity, starting last weekend with a 150-mile bike ride (um, 120 for me).  I am off work tomorrow, but agreed many moons ago to take my six- and seven-year old niece and nephew for the day. 

What the hell am I going to do with two kids for 9 hours? 

Maybe we can just take naps all day.  Kids like naps, right?

Leaving on a Jet Plane

P's business trip this week is just a short one-nighter with him leaving this morning.  Although I miss him when he is gone, I was kinda hoping for three or four days. Or maybe even five days because, you know,  that's a good, solid number of days.  No seriously, I miss him. I do.

One of the hardest things about a relationship and marriage for me was that I had to give up a lot of my alone time and personal space. When P and I moved in together I had spent the previous five years in my own apartment in one of the coolest neighborhoods in Denver. I spent hours on end alone and got so used to that space in my head, that place I could go to find balance and calm and quiet.

Upon moving in with P several years ago, I initially felt suffocated by the lack of control I had regarding where things went and my comings and goings and my ability to tap out endless paragraphs on my old laptop while smoking cigarettes without any interruption or commentary, without someone inquiring about the location of his wallet or ski helmet. After a childhood sharing everything with my sisters, I had experienced the Utopia that comes with being the owner and controller of everything around you, and I wanted that back. Like a whiny little baby.  Mine! Mine! Mine!

I no longer smoke, so I don't need time alone to hide that nasty little habit from anyone. I have learned to write at Panera Bread or Starbucks when I require the quiet time, although I have to force myself to quit my endless gawking and people watching in order to actually put something on the page. I have also adjusted to cohabitation and sharing  fairly well, minus the occasional knock-down drag-out over the organization of the Tupperware cabinet. (who cares?!  The answer to that question is P. He cares very much.)  The fact that P travels for work is, however, a huge relationship bonus. I love, love, love him, but I need, crave, require some time away for a recharge. So as long as he is not using his business trips the way Tiger Woods or Anthony Weiner might, (it just occurred to me that BOTH of their names are penis euphemisms..seriously, I am on to something here) I am all for his traveling to exotic locales such as Milwaukee, Wisconsin and Montgomery, Alabama. I'll be happy right here in Denver, thank you very much.

So for my special day today, I am working from home, then I am going to walk the dogs and go to the gym to swim laps until I earn two glasses of wine. Then I am going to loiter in the steam room, pick up takeout sushi, come home and pour myself those glasses of wine and work on my Levi's. I am also going to read Real Simple Magazine on the patio with the dogs.

And the wine.

Hopefully I can fit it all in.

For those few hours, I will say very few words and spend very little time wondering what anyone else thinks of me and I won't even stick my foot in my mouth once. Eventually I will find the old Schmenver quiet place somewhere under all of the career and domestic goddess and marriage layers, and I will spend a little time hanging out there.

And then, I will use my long, tall body to create a giant X across our queen-sized bed, and I will sleep my ass off, snore- and cuddle-free.

Tomorrow evening when P returns, I will kiss his face and love him just a little bit more because of my chance to miss him, if only for a day. We will live happily ever after until his next work travel itinerary pops up in my inbox. And then it will be Schmenver-time once again.

Earn Your Alcohol

Beer makes me fat. Well, beer and wine. 

And mojitos.  And the occasional margarita.  

And a good, strong Grey Goose and tonic.

In addition, when I drink too many of those things I begin to think I am beautiful and thin and, therefore, immune to calories. So, then I eat things like french fries and chips and greasy lo mein noodles from Peter's Chinese to counteract the feelings of thinness that accompany drunkenness and the subsequent starvation and self-loathing that come with the hangovers.

P and I both regularly drink beer or wine while we hang with our friends or go to fun social events or watch football or have a nice dinner. After all, this privilege is one of the good things that come with being DINKs and living in brewery-land, USA. However, as we have aged, we have both put on some weight.  And because we are quite active, we know the issue is the probably the drinking, as well as the foods we tend to eat when our ability to choose vegetables over bacon-wrapped butter pats is impaired.

We both have about 25 pounds to lose from our tall frames. We are not fat-fat, but we are active-fat. That is a phrase I just invented that is defined by the fact that we can run far and bike far and swim far, but we have not-flat tummies and maybe a little arm flab and the occasional double chin sighting. In addition, my particular brand of thighs should be required to carry a license of some sort.  We are muscular and strong and healthy, but there is some fat covering our muscles, and beer is the culprit, and we want to get rid of it (the fat, not the beer).

We probably would have a hard time quitting drinking cold turkey, and besides, why would we want to?  Our social life is very alco-centric.  We ski, and then drink beer.  We run races and then drink beer.  We hang out on patios with our awesome friends and have a margarita or two.  Rockies game?  Beer and a dog.  Maybe two of each.  Denver is beer country.  P works in the beer industry, and we like beer.  And wine. And mojitos.  And the occasional margarita. And a good, strong Grey Goose and tonic. We like all of those, too.

Do we sound like giant alcoholics?  I assure you that we are not. We both hold down good careers, maintain a household and are responsible dog-parents. We are functioning members of society, I swear.  I am even sober right now, the wine from breakfast having mostly worn off.  (Kidding!!) We are pretty normal, drinking-wise, except for that we cannot seem to stay as skinny as our other drinking friends due to our gene pool being polluted by chubsters from both sides.  Our future kids are so screwed.

So last night whilst we lay in bed discussing said future kids and other things that may or may not happen in the next year or so, we got on the subject of how we want to lose this extra weight.  P, who is a genius, came up with a system for earning our beer or wine, so that while we do not have to quit drinking altogether, we will surely be thinking about and earning every fabulous libation that touches our lips. I think it is going to be awesome.  

He basically divided up an Olympic distance triathlon, which consists of a one-mile swim, a 25-mile bike ride and a 6.2-mile (10k) run. He decided in his brain that each element of the triathlon would be equal to one beer or glass of wine or cocktail. So if you swim 1600 meters, you earn a beer.  Or if you go on a 25-mile bike ride, you can have a cocktail after work. A nice six-mile run or an hour on the elliptical gets you a glass of red wine with dinner that night.  If you are so inclined, you can save all the drinks you earn for the weekend and get crazy with your friends.  All drinks earned reset on Monday morning and do not carry over, but you do get an extra one on your birthday (I added that rule because my birthday is coming up, and it only seemed fair)

I made this magnetic weekly drink chart following a lunch-hour trip to Office Max and Michael's:

Picture is not great, but still, awesome, right? We swam together last night, so we each earned a cocktail. It's like a drinking game for the chubby, post-college crowd, like the new Jenny Craig, although we need a better sponsor. Someone who is slender and athletic but still likes to party. Matthew McConaughey?  Um, he seems like more of a Mary-Jane guy.  Hmmmm. 

Earn Your Alcohol.  EYA: It's like CYA, but a little bit more fun.

EYA is now actively seeking celebrity sponsorship. You heard it at Denver Schmenver first.  Patent pending!

Trendsetter, Old-School Style

These are seriously perfect.

In high school my girlfriends and I used to go to the Levi Surplus store at the start of every summer.  We would dig through the racks of used men's Levis 501 button flys, looking for the ones that were as broken in as possible, always a few sizes too big so they would hang just right off of our bony hips.  We would cut off the legs and fold up the cuffs, and then we would get busy with sandpaper, razor blades, and a little bleach here and there to make them super soft and super faded.  We would basically hang out around one of our houses for the first week of summer washing, bleaching and destroying a perfectly nice pair of jeans.  Then we would put them on while they were wet and sit there, miserable in soggy bottoms like a baby with a wet diaper, eating chips and watching Oprah until they dried.  Then we would start the process over.  The end product was a perfect pair of baggy cut-off Levis that looked adorable with everything we owned.  We would wear them the entire summer, not caring that we all looked the same because we all looked so damn cool.  Long tan legs everywhere, cute sandals and belts, faded t-shirts.  Damn, we were friggin awesome.

Lately, I have gotten a wild hair and have an outfit craving (do you get those, too?) for an old pair of beat up Levis that will make me look as cool as I did back then. I like to think the larger buttocks I now have will only add to the cool factor. Plus, I have the perfect Anthopologie loafers and Gap boyfriend t-shirt and Grandpa cardi.  I just need the perfect Levis. 

I am already fantasizing about them.  Now that I am a grownup, I think that I will not cut them off, and settle instead for rolling up big cuffs for the summer.  Then I will have an equally awesome pair of warm jeans to wear with my Frye boots and a kicky little hat during the winter.  Smart, right?

So because I am really tall and because I am no longer in possession of the bony hips of my youth, I ordered a giant pair of super long Levis Shrink-to-Fits from eBay for cheap and will begin my bleach and sandpaper experimentation as soon as they arrive next week.  Luckily this whole process will coincide with P being out of town on a business trip.  He would surely not understand the value of paying for a pair of new jeans and then trying to destroy them and would probably be equally perplexed at the sight of me sitting around in soggy britches.  Nor would he appreciate that this will be, by far, not even close to the strangest thing I have gotten up to when he is on a business trip. (binge-eating ice cream while cranking showtunes, crying, and trying on your late mother's clothing anyone?) But, as I always say, you can't put a price on happiness or perfect pseudo-vintage denim that squeezes your buns just right, even if it means a little sweat-equity. And wine.  Don't forget about the wine.

So I am already planning my wine-jeans-destruction party (where you drink the wine and destruct the jeans, not the other way around) for next week; I only wish that I had talked friends into ordering some, too so that it could be like old times. I guess they will just have to be jealous of my perfect jeans.  *Excited!*

Housekeeping!

We have friends coming over for dinner Friday night.  Two couples, the women of both being former co-workers from our first ever corporate jobs. When we were young and single and on track to take over the world.

Because of their impending visit, I am in stress mode over the condition of my house. With two dogs who track a constant trail of dirt in through the dog door all day and the fact that my husband and I are clutterers and we both work a million hours a week, and because he seriously barely helps with day-to-day chores, my house is a damn mess.  How do other people do it?  Why do my friends' houses look so clean by comparison?  Am I a harsher critic of my own dirt?  Can I just see it more?  Do they all have cleaning ladies?  Are their husbands better?  Unemployed? Clean-freaks?  Gay?

I actually have discovered through taking stealthy surveys of my many friends that most of them do in fact have someone come in once a week to clean.  Several have mentioned that it has saved their marriages.  And so I decided that I am going to get myself a cleaning lady.  But, first, I have to talk P into it, as he is the boss of the budget. 

He is not the keeper of the budget because he is the man, or the breadwinner; we make fairly equal money. He is the keeper of the budget because if the budget were left to me, we would spend all our money at Crate and Barrel and Sephora and would barely have enough left to eat at the end of the month, whereas he has us on a steady but generous monthly diet of saving and paying attention to where our dollars go.  Smart, that one. 

However, as smart as he may be, he is still not smart enough to notice that when my house is sparkly clean, he gets sex every time, Pavlov having apparently dropped the ball on that scenario.  Seriously, for the low price of approximately $65 a week, he could have sex whenever he wants.  Seems like a good deal to me, in a perverse wife-housekeeper-husband-prostitution-love-triangle way or whatever. It's like the whole Arnold Schwarzenegger thing without the giant love-child.  I'm not even using sex as a bargaining tool, I am just honestly in the mood when my house is clean.  And when my house is covered in muddy little dog footprints and piles of junk mail and shoes, I feel unsexy, un-horny, and like I have no will to live. I also want to kill the man who thinks it is ok to keep bicycles and tools in the dining room and pile his dirty clothing in the hallway on the floor, mere centimeters from the opening of the laundry chute instead of get naked with him. If only he got it.

So because of the budget requirements, I told my husband that I wanted to trade my personal trainer budget allotment for some housekeeper dollars.  And then I told my personal trainer that while I was truly sorry, and although I am still on the chubby side, I would be upgrading from him to a housekeeper.  (I did it over email so I wouldn't have to face him with the bad news. Good plan, I thought)

And now, suddenly as I start researching housekeepers and asking all my friends for recommendations, I am feeling, first of all, a little skeeved out about having a stranger in my house when I am not home, and second of all like I have to do a shitload of cleaning before I even begin to let said person in and third of all, even though I bust my tail to make good money, kinda guilty about needing to hire someone to do my dirty work.  And now I am stressed.  And not feeling like it is saving my marriage.  And definitely not in the mood.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the world, people have real problems. Pass me the caviar, Buffy, I'm just too tired from my massage to get it myself.

Foot-in-Mouth Disease. I Has It.

What I should have said:
Hey, I brought you this shirt because they sent me an extra and I knew you liked golf as much as I do, plus I figure we wear the same size.


What I did say was devastating and involved the phrase "larger lady"and mentioned how my other friends are all so damn tiny.  I hate myself.

P, who watched it all go down, goes, "What was that?!"

I should not be allowed to leave the house. The sad thing is, that was me trying to be nice.

I Could Kiss Jack Black on the Lips

Not this Jack Black...

but this Jack Black

As a Colorado native and the owner of some severely dry, sensitive Irish skin, I have developed over the years what I call an affinity, though some may say addiction, obsession, or borderline hoarding tendency, for lip gloss, Chap-Stick, lip balm, you name it.  If it is not lipstick, but still goes on your lips, I will spend endless dollars buying it, typically only to wear it once or twice, decide it is slimy or drying or sticky or doesn't last long enough, and then banish it to a giant Zip-loc bag that resides in the back of my bathroom cabinet.  That bag probably contains at least a thousand dollars worth of lip accouterments that I should probably just throw away, but won't because I feel guilty about the whole thousand dollars thing. 

I was out for dinner and drinks with my best friend and my sister one night and we got on the subject of my lip gloss problem.  I defensively pointed out, while many of hers were probably dark lipsticks and fancy lip-glasses or the like, that if my best friend and I were to empty the lip-related contents of our purses right there at the table amidst the beer glasses and leftover nacho bits, her collection would surely rival mine.  So we did.  We had a duel of the lip gloss.  My purse contained 31 lip items (one for each day of the month maybe?).  My best friend had approximately 25.  So I like to think we are typical, if not completely average. 

Three of mine were cherry Chap-Sticks and the rest were items in the $10-20 dollar range.  So not even counting the Zip-loc of doom in my bathroom, I had several hundred dollars worth of lip gloss on my actual person.  And the only ones I have ever used more than a couple of times were the Chap-sticks because I could never find what I wanted in a lip gloss.  But I kept trying, kept searching for that holy grail of lipwear that would meet my needs.  And I think I just found it yesterday.

My monthly Sephora order came in the mail yesterday.  I was working from home, so I was able to scamper to the door and retrieve it just as soon as our big, old dog finished trying to maim the UPS man limb from limb through the window.  I have a Sephora problem that is directly associated with my lip gloss problem and made worse by my flat hair problem and my wrinkly forehead issue.  I probably drop $200 a month there.  I am not sure if I can stop until I have tried everything they offer.  And they offer a lot. Oh, also, please do not tell my husband that. I make my own money, and we are both "allowed" to do whatever we want with our fun money each month, but the look of disdain that would accompany his finding out that I spend so much on makeup and lip gloss and mousse each month would be upsetting to me.  So it is my secret.  My super amazing fun little secret!

As an addition to my usual order of Living Proof mousse and Fresh Black Tea Serum this month, I was tempted with a last minute offer of two Jack Black lip glosses for $10 at checkout.  Because I have never tried it before, and because I was curious about what I thought was a men's company making lip gloss, and because I am a marketer's dream-$$$-cha-ching-sucker-poster child, I accepted the offer and added the unassuming little buggers to my cart.  Little did I know that my life would change within mere moments of receiving my package.

I giddily opened my Sephora box yesterday, pulling out my usual goods, setting aside and then tearing into the new lip glosses first.  I received two flavors of Jack Black Intense Therapy Lip Balm in the box. Black Tea-Blackberry and Grapefruit-Ginger.  I tentatively applied some of the Grapefruit and waited for one of the following offenders, typical of many lip balms:

• the slime factor
• the sticky factor
• the nasty-taste factor
• the comes-out-way-too-fast-or-not-at-all factor
• the smells-like-crap factor 

I experienced none of the above on first application.  So I sat there at my computer doing actual writing work for the man and waited for some of the other lesser known lip balm issues. 
I waited for it to be gone within ten seconds of application (Kiehl's)
I waited for it to dry the hell out of my lips (also Kiehls, plus Smashbox, Bobby Brown, Clinique, MAC,and about a trillion others)
It did neither of those.  So, an hour later, when my lips still felt soft and glossed but not slimy, I decided to go look in the mirror.  What I found was that gorgeous matte-shine that you get from Kiehl's, but it had lasted more than a millisecond.  My lips looked totally kissable and moist without being too shiny.  I then experimented by adding a little lip liner for some color. I wanted to kiss myself.  And it lasted for three hours, even with drinking from my water bottle the entire time!  THREE!

I liked the Grapefruit flavor way more than the Blackberry, but I am not really a berry person, so if you are, I think it would work out just fine for you.  I am excited to order the other flavors like mint, lemon chamomile, and vanilla-lavender straight away.  Keep in mind, there is no taste to it, but it smells great. Also, they are all SPF 25!  (their website is getjackblack.com)

While I realize that this is a LOT of babbling to do about lip gloss, I think many Colorado women would agree about the importance of finding one that works, looks good, and holds up to our ridiculous dry weather, not to mention the skiing, biking, etc that we all do (I am assuming here based on wearing it to swim laps for an hour and still having some on afterwards). This is the best stuff I have ever had on my lips, and believe me, I am an EXPERT. That sounded kinda gross, but you know what I mean.  So barring any rash or irritation that I could experience a few days down the road (those labels always say discontinue use if you experience rash or irritation...I'm like ok, twist my arm) I think I have found my new best friend. My purse is going to be much lighter.

Oh, and I am obviously too new on this block to be receiving any sponsors or freebies for promoting products.  I am just seriously THAT into lip balm.  Kisses!!

Training to Ride 150 Miles

Is it just me, or is my bicycle seat made out of knives and old, rusty scissors? I feel like I've been on honeymoon with Wolverine.

In other news, my calves are starting to look sexy.  This could be what rids me of that last 10 (read 20) pounds.

Bad at Date Night

I am in a total daze today after getting up at five to swim before heading to work.  We had our golf league last night, too, so I was up later than anticipated.  I need to be in bed by 9:30 these days it seems. Old lady, here.

I didn't even want to do golf league this year, mostly because it is almost impossible for me to get all the way from my office to the golf course in less than an hour and a half or so, given that I have to drive there at rush hour to make a tee-time between four and six in the afternoon. I end up needing to leave work more than two hours early, which is hard when you are important, or more correctly, would like to be someday.  I told P I would pass on golf this year, dreaming of the quiet solo Tuesday evenings I would enjoy drinking wine, reading, weeding the garden, playing with the dogs, etc., etc.  But he signed me up anyway, stating that it was his treat. I am always getting treated to things I don't especially want.  

At least I know that he wants to spend time with me. 

That being said, I had a really good time with P last night.  We are both terrible golfers who have occasional shining moments on the course. We had very few of those moments last night. Luckily the team we were supposed to be playing no-showed, so it ended up being more like a date than a regular league night.  It was actually nice.  We caught up and drank beer and made derogatory Tiger Woods jokes at each other's expense.

Sadly though, for us on a date, this can be a rarity.

We get way too few dates.  Mostly this is because we are slaves to our jobs and constantly booked with social stuff.  However, sometimes I think we avoid dates because we frequently end up in fights while we are in public together, just the two of us.  Does this happen to anyone else?  Or are we doomed?

I feel like most couples happily plan and look forward to dates with each other, many even making cutesy references to "Date Night" in front of other couples, or marking their calendars with red heart stickers or some other ridiculousness like that.  I dread it. We argue over where to go and what to do, or sometimes we just argue over who's turn it is to choose where to go or what to do.  Then we get there, settle in to dinner at some restaurant that only one of us is really into due to the fact that we are complete polar opposites, and then we sit and make small talk until the shit hits the fan. Because it is often the first chance we've had in days or weeks to really sit down and talk, it starts to seem like as good a time as any to air some grievances. Then someone gets pissed, someone cries (ok, that would be me) and someone begins the silent treatment. Of course, we end up having a terrible time.  Seriously, is there something wrong with us? 

We argue normally, sure.  But most days, over dinner or laying in bed or during any other average moment of an average day, we engage in real and interesting conversation.  And we make each other laugh and smile and we goof off and flirt. All of this happens regularly around the house, in the midst of the daily grind.  But sit us down in a French restaurant with a couple hours on our hands and force us to "relax", and it isn't long before we are at it.  Quietly and through gritted teeth, of course, to maintain the appearance of being a happy couple out on adorable, red-heart-sticker, cutesy effing Date Night.  

What is that?

The Beginning of Denver Schmenver

Our one-year anniversary is in two weeks. We haven't killed each other this past year, not for lack of trying or wanting some days. We still love each other, and we are even pondering starting the child-creating process before my 35-year old ovaries actually shrivel and fall out of me on to the sidewalk. So all of that is good.

I never wanted to get married until I did want to, which came after five years of relationshiphood down some pretty rocky paths with P. We saw each other through a lot and managed to figure it all out despite our debilitating differences and our respective inclinations be so opinionated that we can't even stand to be in the same room with ourselves sometimes. The five years we made it through before our wedding day seemed like such a big deal at the time.  However, now, with the rest of forever staring us in the face and the prospect of kids and more dogs and more undone chores and hurt feelings and bouts of moodiness and forced in-law visits, and snowshoeing (I have tried all your damn sports, and I HATE snowshoeing. There is no Colorado law that says you have to like it! Stop trying to make me go!) five years seems like a minuscule accomplishment.  

This blog will be written and maintained under a pseudonym. The facts are:

• I am a professional writer, and I live in Denver, Colorado.
• I will be 35 this summer and am on the brink of finishing off my last package of birth control pills.
• I love my husband with every ounce of who I am, except when he is being an idiot, at which point several ounces of me are reserved for disdain, sarcasm, criticism, and sometimes unintentional meanness. But through all of this, I love him deeply, and he loves me back.
• Marriage is hard. Relationships with family and friends are hard. Deciding to have children and thereby combusting your current lifestyles into tiny pieces of former freedoms is hard, too.  But they are also all very, very funny. 

I am keeping this anonymous for now so that I can experiment with my own honesty.  I have been writing for other people for my whole life. This is mine.  And yours to enjoy and join in on the adventure if you wish. 

A few weeks after we got married, I would drive to and from work through quaint Denver neighborhoods, and I would look at cute houses with For Sales signs and think, "I'll get a house like that when I get divorced"  And I would even look to see if there was a big yard for my dogs. 

"Oh, nice, that privacy fence will come in handy when I am laying in my bikini in the backyard."
"This is a good school district. I might be a single mom at that point, so I gotta be prepared"
"Ooh, automatic sprinkler system.  Perfect."

I do not know if that is normal behavior. But that is what I did regularly for the first few months I was married, the reality and legality of the commitment apparently settling in at an odd angle. I feel better now, though.

Honesty experiment one: complete. That felt decent.   

Join me, won't you?