I don’t talk about my husband much here. It’s not something he requested, it’s a choice I made on my own.  He’s a private person (he doesn’t even have a Facebook account – WHAT), so it would feel horrible and gross for me to disrespect that part of him. I mean, I can’t imagine getting on here and sharing really intimate details about us. Add to that, the fact that my kids will (hopefully) be able to read one day, and it only confirms this is the right choice. It just wouldn’t feel right for my boys’ friends to read all about their mommy, and how she doesn’t give it up as much as she should to their daddy. They’re gonna need enough therapy as it is, with my genes.

Anyway, talking about him feels weird but, if I left him out, today’s post would end here <—.

I’ll be sure to stick to my standard measurement – Will this get him fired or arrested? – so I don’t over-share.

_ _

So, like I said, my husband is an introvert and I’m an extrovert. But, this barely scratches the surface of our differences.

Seriously, we could not be more opposite even if we tried. And, if we did try I would win, because I’m competitive, and he wouldn’t give a shit that I won, because he’s not.

Some of the million:

He’s tidy and organized and I am…not that.

He is laid-back and mellow and I am LOUD.

He reads really deep shit like The History of The World; I read People Magazine and Twitter.

He is balanced and moderate in his temperament; I am unbalanced and extreme in mine.

He runs, ducks, and takes cover from the spotlight, while I’m all like BRIGHTER, IT NEEDS TO BE BRIGHTER, I SAID.

He is a man of very few words and I am….shut up.

The first time we hung out I asked him, “Are you a mute?” and he said, “Just because I’m not talking to you doesn’t mean I don’t talk.” (But, really guys, it’s been over ten years since then and, trust me, he doesn’t talk.)

I know every single news story ever published throughout the world; He knows only those stories that make the front page of CNN or the New York Times. A seemingly innocuous fact that has caused many an argument.

ME: Hi. How was your day? Did you hear about that little girl’s puppy that was beaten and tortured right at the foot of her hospital bed?

HIM: Jesus, Allison. You’re such a Debbie Downer.

ME: I’m sorry, but I need to talk to someone about these horrible things. Speaking of horrible, did you hear about that plane that was carrying all those nuns? The one that crashed into the orphanage? No survivors. Awful, right? I can’t even imagine. It reminds me of that runaway train that derailed, crashed right into that nursing home, then exploded. They say you could hear the screams from outside, you know.

HIM: ……

ME: Anyway, what should we do for dinner? Wait, what’s wrong, babe? Why the long face? Why are you always so serious?

Our taste in television is equally opposing. For example, I’ve been on an Infested marathon all week. For some reason, he thinks it’s weird that I like to watch scorpions falling onto people’s head from their living room rafters, or Hobo spiders crawling all over someone while they’re asleep. But, really, is there any better way to wind down at the end of a long day than to watch a family spend their entire life savings battling bedbugs? And, honestly, what is better than a family buying their dream home only to find out it was built ON TOP OF A SNAKE DEN? Nothing, that’s what. (Although, documentaries about serial killers do come in a close second.)

Being in a relationship with your polar opposite has its ups and downs, much like a roller-coaster.

At the beginning, when you’re dating, it’s super exciting.

Then, when you move in together, it’s a little less exciting and a little more holy shit what the hell have we done please pick up your gross towel and brush your teeth.

But, it has also has many, many benefits.

For instance, my husband loves that I talk for both of us at parties, because it’s easier for him.

I love that I get to talk for both of us at parties, because it’s really hard for me to shut the fuck up.

And, if I was in charge of paying the bills, I’d be sitting in a dark room telling all of this to my cat, instead of to you, because our electricity would have been shut off months ago.

Sometimes, I wish we were more alike. Sometimes, I think that would make life easier in a less-screaming, door-slamming way.

Other times, I question if easier equals better. Might easier be less-exciting? I guess it depends on the person.

But, at the end of my day, I probably do need someone to keep me in check and tell me when to shut my big mouth.

Even if there’s not a chance in hell I’ll listen.

Wordless(ish) Wednesday: The Bedding Debacle. Brought to You Today With A Shit-Ton of Words.

A few weeks ago, during my search for new bedding, I posted a picture of the two I liked most, to see which one you guys liked most.

Which, come to think of it, is a little weird, considering most of you will never be in my bed. I know. Bummer.


I was partial to the top set from the start, but slightly apprehensive fearing that my husband wouldn’t dig the colors.

Of course, it wasn’t the husband I feared, but the conversation it would sprout.

You know…

Him: Honey, why the hell did you buy us purple bedding?

Me: Oh my god, this is SO not purple. What are you? Colorblind? It’s orchid. Jesus.

And, well, fuck if I wanna go down that spousal street, I have stupid shit to tweet. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Anyway, I held my breath and pulled the trigger on the purple orchid set.

It finally arrived this week.

As I opened the box, I said, “I hope you think the colors are manly enough, babe.”

He laughed, “As long as it’s not, like, dark purple. Ha!”


Oh my god. This is SO not dark purple. What are you? Colorblind? It’s Orchid and Aubergine, both of which are lovely colors. 

At least my dogs like it (yes, there are two dogs in that picture).

The Seven Year Itch.

It was nine years ago.

My husband (then-boyfriend) and I were on vacation in San Miguel de Allende, along with his sisters and their spouses.

Our last night there, we headed out for a late dinner at the most romantic restaurant in the city. Seated around a large table, we were perched perfectly on the roof-top and under the stars.

We’d only been dating for a year, but I already knew that, if he let me, I’d love him forever.

With a quick glance, it was easy to spot the unmarried couple of the bunch. We couldn’t keep our eyes (or hands) off of each other, and I’m shocked no one suggested we get a god damn room.

Someone at our table laughed loudly and told us, “Oh, I remember when we used to be all over each other like that. My how things change after you get married.”

I blushed, and thought to myself…

Yeah right. Things will never change for us. Impossible. We’ll always feel this magic and these butterflies – no matter what.

* * *

A couple of months ago, we were out with a newly engaged couple.

It had been almost ten years since the night I ate chips and guacamole, and humped my husband’s leg under the stars.

Seven years married, we were now the ones sitting at the other side of the table.

A smile crept up on my face and, leaning in, I whispered to my husband, “Oh, I remember when we used to be all over each other like that. My how things change after you get married.”

* * *

March 11th made it official. We finally made it over that seven year hump everyone talks about. You know, the itch.

And, seriously, you guys, it’s been so easy!

You know, in a walking barefoot over open flames and rusty nails kind of way.

Because, here’s the thing.

Getting married?

That was easy.

But, being married?

That’s hard as shit.

Despite all that I was told, marriage is so much harder than I ever imagined it would be.

And, I say this as someone who is married to, and in love with, their best friend.

But, trust me on this, no amount of love can safeguard a marriage from its struggles, hardships, and low-points.

Because, for most of us, there will come a time when…

You love each other, but you don’t like each other.

You get bored.

You feel like roommates rather than a married couple.

Your heart aches for those feelings and flutters that come with first getting to know someone, and falling in love.

There are times when you’ll simply coexist. You’ll pass one another all day long, quickly running by to grab a diaper or prepare a bottle, without so much as a single touch.

You’ll mourn the freedom and ease that came with your independence.

You’ll become annoyed at things you once found OMG SO ADORABLE!

You’ll resent their opinions, views, and values when they collide with your own; You’ll take it personal.

You’ll take everything personal.

You will take each other for granted.

And, while these things aren’t always toxic in themselves, if left unsaid, they become straight-up poison.

Small things fester and turn into big, scary monsters.

The things left unsaid will simmer inside of you until, inevitably, the pot boils over and one of you finally explodes, and screams, “I just can’t do this anymore!”

And, this is the moment when you’ll finally hear all of the things left unsaid…it’s when you’ll start to listen.

Everything around you will stop.

You’ll pull back the rug and, one by one, sort through all that’s been swept underneath it.

You’ll look at what you have and all that you’ve built together, and you’ll try to envision your life without it, only to discover that the thought alone is too much to bear.

And then you’ll frantically search for the reset button, pushing it over and over and over again, like an elevator that’s gotten stuck.

After the feelings have been cleaned and gently put back together, you’ll discover that the butterflies never went anywhere, you were just unable to hear the flutter of their wings because of all the noise.

So, yes, marriage is hard.

But, if you’re lucky, it’s the best kind of hard.

I’ve learned so much about my husband these past seven years. And, I’ve learned just as much about myself.

Through his eyes, I’ve seen how defensive I am at times. I’ve learned how quick my temper is, and how completely irrational I can be when it comes to having serious discussions in which our opinions differ.

I take it personal.

But, I’ve come to recognize that most of these reactions stem from my insecurities. My anger usually has nothing to do with him. The issues, deep-seated, are mine and mine alone, and I’ve carried them with me long before I walked into this marriage.

(And, yes, of course he has his own issues, but that part of the story is not mine to tell.)

I feel like there’s definitely something to the seven year mark. It’s like I’m just now learning how to be married. Or, maybe, I’m just now learning how to be an adult in the good times and the bad.

During arguments in our early days, I would cry and shout, “You don’t care about anything I say. You never listen to me. I feel so alone!” And, after a couple of fuck yous, I’d stomp away, making sure to slam a few doors on the way out.

Finally, some years in, I took a long look in the mirror and realized that I hadn’t been listening to him either. I was so busy talking about myself and where I was coming from, that I never even bothered to ask where he was coming from.

It’s such a funny and odd thing we humans do – always shitting on the person that we love the most. We shout things at them we wouldn’t dare say to anyone else…only because anyone else wouldn’t stand for it. Anyone else might hate us if we showed them who we really are…if we showed them all of us.

Like, when I was pregnant with Leo, desperately clinging to my sanity, I got right up in my husband’s face and yelled, “I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.”

I know.

That’s an awful thing to say to anyone, and the worst kind of awful when it’s to the person you love the most.

Months later, when I was me again, the first thing I did was apologize for that awful outburst.

Babe, you know that I don’t really wish you were dead, right? Like, not at all. It was really me that I wanted dead. And I needed a punching bag, only one that would still love me after I punched it. I’m so sorry I went psycho on your ass.

When I sat down to write our anniversary post, I pictured it being all romantic, full of sweet and schmoopy words.

It was in that moment that I saw the big picture – when I saw the fact that, while I treasure the good times so much, it really is the hard times that have made us as strong as we are today.

I have shown him all of my cards.

Funny, loving, ugly, and hateful, he’s seen the whole deck…and he’s still here…loving and accepting all of me one day at a time.

And, to me, that is more romantic than anything.

Happy Anniversary to you, my sweet husband.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and there’s no one else I’d rather walk barefoot with…over open flames and rusty nails.



I am the most hormonal person on Earth.

Just ask my husband.

(But, for his safety, not while I’m PMSing.)

My hormones dictate everything.

My reaction to things.

My coping skills.

My dietary choices.

My energy.

My parenting.

My intelligence.

My confidence.

My wife skills. I mean, skillz.


Depending on where I am in my cycle, I either love myself, feel meh about myself, or loathe myself.

One week, I’ll feel like the most capable, funny, and skillful writer ever. I feel like my words are meaningful, and add something positive to the world.

But, once PMS kicks in it’s the polar opposite. Rather than funny, witty, or skillful, I feel completely incapable, like my words might actually make someone dumber just by reading them.

Wait. What’s that? You need a visual?

That’s funny, because I happen to have some.

This is an average month for me, depicting how hormones affect every facet of my life. The red indicates the most dangerous time of the month for myself, and those in my immediate vicinity.






For example, let’s take a look at the same scenario – my husband eating my last burrito without asking – at two different times of the month.

Days 6-20, when I’m feeling my best…


Days 25-31, in the throes of PMS…


And, while my husband has learned to identify the danger signs, and has become quite adept at navigating the minefield known as me, others have not.

So, a word to the wise – if you have even the slightest suspicion that I might be under the influence of hormones, please tread lightly.

And, whatever you do, do not eat my fucking burrito.

graphs – graphjam.com
comics – ragebuilder.com