Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

An entire day devoted to beer, it just doesn't seem right.

How was your weekend? Ours was uneventful, except for the two giant pots of grain, hops and malt which boiled on our stove for 18 hours. Logan and two pals from work have started brewing beer together. The last time they undertook the task I was busy gallivanting about Portland. This time I got to see what it was like. What it was like was watching three overgrown puppies trying to brew beer. No, maybe something with opposable thumbs, like chimpanzees.

The discussion went mainly like this:

"Well, the book says...."
"Yeah, I know but that doesn't matter."
"But don't you think we should..."
"Screw the book man! I think we should be as non precise as possible."
"Yes, I totally agree. I'm going to stick my foot in it."
"Don't leave James alone with the beer."

The good news is, no one had to pee in the beer. They put this moss in it. This moss which smelled exactly like a Leprechaun had peed his magical urine all over it.

Before they got started they cracked open a few bottles of the last batch.

They were a little concerned because the last time they tried it, it didn't have much carbonation.

But look it has a frothy head. [Insert immature statement about getting frothy head here.]

Here's Tyler tasting it. You can tell by the maniacal look in his eyes that it's really good.

Then they got to work. Well first they had another beer.

But then seriously guys. Let's do this.

James may or may not be adding boogers to his sack of grain. He wanted it to be authentic and if you think brewers in the middle ages were all 'sterile' about making their beer you're full of it. In fact, I think monks are the dirtiest people I know and look what they do with beer.

Great news though. This magazine fell right into the boiling pot of wheat beer. It was freshly delivered from the postman and I'm pretty sure his hands weren't sterile. Maybe the beer will have a little Lighter Fresher Tex Mex influence now.

43 hours later and 3-5 mishaps later, the beer was ready to cool and get some yeast.

Logan wouldn't like me to tell you that he asked me to stand outside so we could take this totally gay staged picture of them studying the yeast. Oops!

They're almost done now, but Tyler wants to know exactly how shit faced he could get on this beer so he's testing the alcohol content. He's hoping it's stronger than Canadian beer.

Finally here's a picture of Tito's vodka, something we were turned onto on our last trip to Texas. It's handmade by Tito Jackson I'm pretty sure. It has very little to do with the beer brewing but I've been meaning to tell you about it and it never really comes up. You use vodka to let the air out of the beer as it ferments, the alcohol keeps crap from getting back in. Which is important since the brew already has Leprechaun pee and a totally not sanitized Martha Stewart magazine in it.

Today is St Patrick's Day. To celebrate I am going to be watching Max compete in the Pinewood Derby at school. Maybe they'll have green Kool-Aid!

The Robot Is Sick!

I almost can't believe it. In the 15 years we've been together I've known Logan to get sick, bed bound sick, under five times. This does not include the times he's been stricken with the Irish Flu because earlier models of the Logan Robot did not have a shut off valve on the Drinking Good Time. At one time the Irish Flu was a major program failure and one which involved moaning in bed about wanting to die.

No no, I don't count those as illness.

Because Logan is never sick he thinks illness is a personal weakness. One you may have let happen to you because your mind is too weak and feeble to overcome such a ridiculous thing as a 'virus'. He doesn't feel empathy, he feels contempt in the face of this kind of suffering.

Here's what happens when I'm sick.

Me: "Oh my God, I feel like I'm dying. If I throw up one more time I think my whole body is going to turn inside out."

Him: "Mind over matter baby! Believe it achieve it! You are stronger than your sickness! Dig Deep!!!!"

Or my personal favorite from the catalog of my illnesses:

Me: Sobbing, hysterically with my throat so swollen it hangs in my lap. "Something is really wrong. It's like knives in my throat. I can't make it through another day of feeling this."

Him: "Uh.....Okay! I'm going to work, see you later!"

With all this in mind you'll understand why this morning I just can't help but view the groaning and swollen throat complaints of my spouse with a certain amount of....amusement.

You'll also understand that one part of my yearly goals to have an office space....because this morning as he groaned in bed while I got the kids fed and off to school I could have rather said, "Okay, well I hope you feel better. I'm going to work!"

Internet Crushes are just about the best kind.

Wow, I didn't realize how big a blind crush the Internet has on my husband. My inbox this week represented the 1950's and my email this week sent feminism reeling backwards 15 years at least. I wish I was kidding when I tell you a sentence in one of these emails read exactly like this: "Why don't you try being happy you even have a man." This sentence was followed by a long drawn out summary of all the relationships which had failed this particular woman in the last 10 years.

Not listed was this reason: Sends stupid email to people on the internet implying they should take whatever stupidity is dumped at their feet just to "have a man".

It's true though, bitching about one's spouse in a public forum is not exactly "awesome" but what I didn't tell you is all the stuff which would make me a true asshole. So I'll accept your scorn Internet. I'll accept your blind love for my spouse, and I can hardly blame you. Even with the stupid bull shit I can't quit him, but I also know there are plenty of people out there with truly amazing husbands who sometimes act like ass hats.

I act like an ass hat sometimes too. Although, I'll never run a marathon and also strand myself in New York City without a map, phone or money. But who knows what other stupid thing I'll do, like, I don't know let the pasta pot boil over. Or maybe I forgot a few times to pull the jeans out of the dryer before they were bone dry. I mean we can all do really annoying things.

Thankfully Logan's jeans are generally less expensive than a trip to run a race in one of the most expensive cities in the United States. But sure, both are pretty annoying I guess.

Here's where I explain to the Internet how relationships work. "Sometimes Mommies and Daddies have disagreements. And that's okay. The most important thing is how Mommies and Daddies work through their problems."

This website is volume upon volume of me venting my most intense frustrations. I vent the hell out of them and eventually I figure it out. Does anyone remember the year I cried about my weight? Or the year I wallowed in my (relative) poverty? Who can forget the 37 years I cried about my stupid house.

And look! We figured it out. I work through things while bitching about them. My husband's hobby to family ratio is a little out of proportion right now. I'm bitching about it right now and we're figuring out how to fix it.

So don't worry Internet, I am annoyed with my husband right now and I'm sharing it with you. I'll get over it, find a solution to this particular irritation and move on.

I hope those of you who have emailed me about your particularly horrible spouses, who are admittedly 100 times worse than my husband, and about how I need to be thankful for the wonderful spouse I have. I hope you all figure out your own way to make your relationships work better.

Most of all I hope you have spouses who want to figure it out with you.

Even a bear says, "Screw It" at mile 13.

You'd think I would learn that a 'vacation' with my husband so he can run more than any living thing should run unless being chased by a bear, is not so much a vacation as it is a huge waste of time and money.

I should have realized this after the last trip we took to Chicago so Logan could run that marathon. You see, we rarely go away alone together, one of the unfortunate results of cutting ties with my in laws, who, to their credit, loved having our kids for overnight visits. It's very difficult to organize babysitting and rides to and from school and all the other stuff which needs arranging. Also, travel costs money and it's often easier to spend that money elsewhere on things which may seem or may actually be more important.

It seems the only way I can get Logan on board for a weekend away, to a fun destination, is to tell him a bear is going to chase him for 26.2 miles through the 5 boroughs of New York City.

I made some crucial mistakes in agreeing to this trip. I forgot how much I hate dumping over $1000 into something which isn't exactly fun for me, I mean sure, trying to navigate New York's subway system, walking 83.2 miles is fun sometimes. I guess this weekend, being in New York City, away, with my husband for the first time since the last marathon, the whole run around like a chicken with its head cut off, just wasn't doing it for me.

But you know, Saturday night when we went to bed at 8pm I told myself, "Tomorrow night will be fun."

And Sunday while I walked 428 miles and got on and off subway lines while sweating profusely and trying not to cry in frustration just trying to see my husband run in this race, this very exciting race. Even for just 30 seconds. I consoled myself with the 'Good Time' I was promised. How we were going to have fun! And the guys were going to eat! And drink! And it would be so worth it. Worth the thousand dollars we spent. Worth the night before going to bed in The Meadowlands at 8pm. Worth the day of trying to follow an unfollowable marathon in a city I can't seem to understand.

We agreed on a meet up place, chosen because a team was meeting up there for a celebration. We'd read it would be next to impossible to find each other at the finish line area.

Logan left in the morning to shuttle their way to Staten Island without a map, money or a cellphone. I didn't really think about it because I sort of thought they were grown ups and would think of these things themselves. The thing is I'm the person who thinks of these things because along the way I've become that person. The person who figures out the map and makes sure we have our boarding passes and writes the notes and makes the schedules and figures out things.

By the end of the day Sunday after doing all that, I wanted to have some fucking fun in the city with my husband and friends.

But I didn't do enough planning and coordinating and making sure everything was set.

After the marathon Logan asked a race official which way to Second Avenue. This race official has never lived in the city, has a cruel sense of humor or was smoking crack cocaine because she sent them off, in 50 degree weather after running a grueling 26.2 miles wearing shorts, no coats with no money, no map and no cellphone toward Amsterdam, the exact opposite direction they needed to go. Where Meg and I waited for them and I fretted for two hours, thinking of my husband lost in the city with no phone, no money and no pants.

The anxiety and fear I felt for that last hour was tinged with the worst kind of aggravation. I resented him for not thinking through the event. For not thinking to put a map in their bag, for not putting a couple dollars on them, for not doing what I would have done had I known they would be so unprepared.

I felt angry that I take ribbing for being 'anally retentive' and a 'worrier', when my worrying is what keeps my husband from spending an hour in hell roaming New York City alone after surviving 26.2 miles.

Finally a kindly New Yorker told Logan that Amsterdam and 82nd was not the fastest way to get to 78th and Second. In fact it was no way to get to 78th and Second, especially not after you've run 26.2 miles. He asked if they had a map....or a phone....or maybe money. But they had none and so he gave them $5 to get a bus to where they needed to be.

By the time they arrived at our meet up spot I was incredibly relieved my husband was safe and not freezing walking around New York anymore. But I also had a sinking feeling that this would be yet another night sacrificed to The Marathon. Like the night we didn't go to that party because Logan had a long run. The kids and I waiting to do something on Saturday because Logan has a run. The family dinners we skip each week because Logan needed to get a 2 or 3 hour run in. For the last 4 months, our lives have revolved around this event, even though no one wanted it to, except Logan.

We spent a large portion of our expendable income on this trip so Logan could run this race and I sort of just wanted to have one night of celebrating and fun. I wanted to see friends and make it worth all this money and all this time my family has invested in this stupid marathon. Sure, it's nice to see Logan run. It's nice that he's got the determination to push himself so far. But you know, he's done it 4 times now, it's wearing thin. I'm starting to think a different hobby might be better, like cross stitch.

When Logan arrived, having endured such a ridiculous ordeal, I knew our night would be over before it started and we'd be back at The Stupid Meadowlands watching a stupid pay per view movie and asleep by 10.

And it did.

If this had happened 15 years ago when we were dating I'd have stood on the sidelines just happy for whatever I could do to support my boyfriend. I'd probably have gone to sleep in the Meadowlands, just happy to be with my boyfriend. If this trip didn't go the way we wanted, we'd take another in a few months. When you're dating without kids, time is your friend.

15 years later, this is it. There's just one trip. We dumped all our cash into this trip.

And it sucked.

And I'm pretty mad about it quite honestly. 

On the bright side, today was beautiful. We spent the day walking through Central Park, ate with Isabel and finished up our afternoon with a couple drinks by a lake at the park.

The trains came the way I thought they were supposed to.

The Natural History Museum held our bags for us.

Our cab driver made me want to visit Jordan, but not for a marathon.

During the race Logan was beyond thrilled when people yelled, "Logan! Suburban Bliss!" Thank you so much for cheering him on while I sweat my ass off and fought the subway.

We got to stay with Alice and Logan got to meet one of the women I hold close to my heart for the very first time.

While at the Finslippy home, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about Simon and Simon, specifically the theme song.

On the bright side, today New York wanted to be gentle with me and I appreciated it. Because last night as I laid in bed crying myself to sleep with the frustration of the day, I thought New York wouldn't be happy until I was dead.

On the very brightest side, driving home tonight I realized how good it would feel to be back in our family room. How good it would feel to turn down our street and head to our home.

Max hugged me for 3 minutes straight when we got here. The best part of getting away from the kids is coming back. Even when the trip is a huge disappointment.

Freedom

Logan's computer is stunningly fast. This could have something to do with the fact that my computer is a few years old and currently has about 300 megabytes of space left on it, down from some reasonable amount of gigabytes when I first got it. My computer probably has a little indigestion and can't really get Photoshop started in a reasonable amount of time because he's bloated, all right? Leave him alone and maybe pull some of these pictures off your hard drive once in a while.

My computer has begun doing this really fun thing where, while I'm typing it just *BOOM* shuts off! On the bright side I've become quite adept at saving often, on the dark side I continue to lose data at least once a day.

Most of the time, if I ask nicely, the machine will turn back on immediately after this fun game of "Shut Down!" But with increasing frequency the stupid thing will turn off for hours on end and then, for no apparent reason, it will power back on.

This has been happening for a while now and you may be asking yourself, "Gee, why wouldn't you just take it in to get it fixed? And for God's sake lady, back up your photos!"

The only possible answer is I like this churning feeling in my gut as I ponder all the data I've lost.

My computer was kind enough to allow me to complete both my pieces at The Buzz Off and Ordering Disorder. At The Buzz Off I'm sharing a new (to me) Halloween tradition one can do in a neighborhood where you don't mostly wish a pox upon your neighbors with the boat as big as their house.

At Ordering Disorder I'm cooking from the new Jessica Seinfeld cookbook, Deceptively Delicious with mixed results.

Logan and I have not gone away, without kids, in three years. The last time we left them for the weekend was when Logan ran the Chicago marathon. This was big fun since he had to eat a lot of pasta, couldn't drink at all, had to attend a running expo, went to bed at 9pm both nights and then ran for an ungodly amount of time. Don't worry the night after the run we went out to dinner, or rather we hobbled out for dinner. When Logan saw our table was on the second floor of the restaurant, he threw his body down in the lobby and cried for his mommy. Big big fun!

Tonight after work Logan is running 20 miles as part of his current marathon training. He's doing this because he doesn't want to squeeze it in over the weekend. Because this weekend we will have exactly zero children with us because we're going to celebrate my brother's 40th birthday in Indianapolis.

There are a few things you don't do when you have a rare weekend away without the kids. You don't bite your tongue as you deal with your daughter's rampant anxiety. You don't cut up anyone else's food. You don't wake up at 7 am and you sure as hell don't run 20 miles.

I don't think I've ever been this excited to go to Indy.

That side door holds endless possibility.

For a few years now I've said I wanted to move. I've also mentioned my desire to move to an entirely different state. Logan shudders to hear this because he happens to live with two people who react to change like a cat being dunked repeatedly into a cold pool of water.

Additionally, it's taken me 31 years of my life to find my very best friends and I'm not actually very good at making friends. Note please the prior 31 years where I did not have best friends. So I have to forgive Logan for not jumping on board the Melissa Wants Out train.

Then, right before we signed on to this house, he was offered a transfer. For the last five years I've hoped there would be a transfer or an out of town job which would call out to him and say, "Hey! Let's have an adventure!"

And here it was, at just about the most perfect time. We had no house commitments, the kids hadn't started school. We were at a perfect place for this kind of transition. I felt dizzy with the sudden possibility dropped in our laps just as we reached what I thought was our ultimate goal. The Dream Neighborhood.

When Logan came home that night he said, "You don't want to move out of state now do you?"

And my mind flipped through all the places his job has offices. "It's just for 18 months," he said.

Where could it be?

London? New York? CHICAGO!!!!

But no, it wasn't any of those options. It was Los Angeles.

Los Angeles is more than a lovely place. People love it. When I mentioned to friends this was an option on the table, they assured me not everyone in southern California is totally insane. That there are tons of places to live where people are just like any other people you'd ever meet. I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb they told me.

The thing I couldn't get past is that cost of living thing. I didn't want to be the crazy lady at the market, roaming around screaming at the grocer, "You're charging HOW MUCH for yogurt? It's YOPLAIT! It's just yoplait! How can you charge this much for yogurt? How do you live with yourself? Why are you walking away from me?"

I also looked at the price of housing and I started screaming at the screen, "You're charging WHAT for 900 square feet!?"

I realize it's expensive to live in Chicago and even more so in New York. But perhaps it's the Quaker in me, but I can see myself living in these places. Enduring through the winters, appreciating the summers for what they are. I can easily picture myself raising a family in Chicago and I can imagine raising a family in a suburb of New York, at least for 18 months.

I can't picture what raising my family in London would look like but when I conjure up what I think it might look like it seems reasonable. Maddie would just change her name to Frances and Max would get a real haircut, not that lame half a haircut his dad keeps getting for him. We could do this, at least for 18 months.

Somehow I couldn't get my brain to really wrap around Los Angeles. So we decided to go forward with our lease and let Logan's boss know we were interested in relocation elsewhere if the opportunity arises. (Another reason a year lease was more appealing than buying right now) (Also appealing: Continually dropping housing prices!)

All of that seemed smart at the time and the new neighborhood has worked out as fabulously as we dreamed it would.

Except Logan still has to go to Los Angeles every few weeks from now until quite a while and uh.....this is kind of a drag. Refreshingly, it's not a drag because I have little kids and they wear me out.

It's only a drag because I miss him. Even when his clutter and stupid fucking yearly marathon training is driving me completely insane, I am still so happy when he walks through the side door at the end of the day. This might be the night we make fabulous plans for our future. It might be the night we commiserate over our sometimes difficult daughter. Maybe we'll have a night where we make each other laugh breathlessly. Or maybe he'll work until 2am and we'll slam doors and be irritated with each other. You never know.

When I'm by myself I know what the evening holds: endless hours of really bad television in the form of Law and Order: SVU. I can't help myself. If, God Forbid, I ever end up permanently solo, Internet, promise me you'll come to my house and block all Law and Order from my cable and forbid me from getting any more cats.

Los Angeles really wasn't the right move for us, not without a significant raise (not offered). But still tonight I'm thinking maybe Maddie would look great as a blonde and Max might never have to know the hell that is the long gray winter.

Also this is a very big house to be alone in.

Tales Of A Chronic Pack Rat

We bought a lamp to go in Logan's apartment right after we were engaged in 1996. It was a very simple lamp, clean lines in silver with a round lamp shade and a handy pull chain to turn it on and off. This lamp cost about $20 from Target and we had it in Logan's apartment, then that same apartment when we shared it after our wedding and finally in the home we bought.

We've had the lamp for about 11 years, we replaced the shade twice and in the move the latest shade broke and a couple weeks before we moved the pull chain fell off the lamp making it entirely unusable since, you know, it couldn't turn on.

I thought, when we moved we might consider just dumping the lamp since it was a $20 lamp from Target and not a priceless antique. It gave us 11 good years and when you amortize the purchase, we spent less than $2 a year on the lamp and we could maybe just buy a new lamp.

But no, we couldn't dump the lamp because Logan could fix it! It'd be fine! He'd get to it.....at some point. Logan has a hard time parting with the things we have. It doesn't matter if we use them, need them, could replace them with something a little better. If we have it, we need it. Last night he realized I'd discarded a (sort of ugly) table he purchased 20 years ago for $10 in the move.

"Where's that table we used to have the on the porch."
"I think I left it at the old house."
"What?! I love that table. I bought that table when I lived in Chicago."
"Baby, it was an ugly, unstable and dirty table. You don't need the ugly table so you can remember Chicago. I promise."

I have a very hard time holding onto things I don't like, don't need or don't use. I give away so much the donation guys at Salvation Army know my name and recognize my car coming up the alley. I don't want it in my house and if I miss it at some point, you know what? I'll buy it.

Yesterday we cleaned the garage and found space for Logan's beer brewing supplies, though he hasn't brewed beer in over two years. I also found space for his large collection of unfinished model cars, he hasn't worked on one for seven years. Oh and the two motorcycle helmets he still has even though he hasn't owned a motorcycle for over six years. Oops! Forgot the collection of glass and stained glass tools....though he hasn't worked with stained glass for around eight years.

When we started the process of preparing the house for sale Logan said, "I love living with less stuff!"

Over the last six months I've realized Logan actually likes living with less of my stuff so there's more room for all his crap.

As we finished the garage, I once again held up that stupid non-functioning $20 lamp and asked, "Uhm...where should I put this?"

I then helpfully suggested a few places, "How about there? Oh....that's where your beer crap is. Oh! I know how about there? Hmm....model cars. Okay I know over there! Darn it! Motorcycle helmets."

Finally he had a suggestion, "Just throw out the damn lamp."

Done.

Now to tackle the basement. There may be fist fights.

The best $150 ever spent.

Many years ago when Logan and I were still dating he told me this story as we drove to dinner one night.

He was at a busy intersection and a teenager was trying to cross the street on his bike carrying a big load of sandwiches from the Subway on the corner.

As he crossed the road, all the sandwiches fell out of his grasp and into the road. Logan watched as he hopped off his bike and tried to pick up the sandwiches. Impatient drivers started blaring their horns when the light changed and the poor kid was still in the middle of the road trying to salvage the lunch he was sent to pick up.

He said, as he watched the poor kid trying to pick up his sandwiches he felt sick to his stomach and close to tears. How humiliated and frustrated the guy must have been and how he wanted to punch who ever was honking.

I don't remember if he actually put the car in park and went to help the kid or if he just sat in the driver's seat and felt like crap about the whole thing but either way he told me that story and it made me tear my panties off and throw them at his head.

Logan turned 39 today.

When he was born his parents had to bring $150 to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit to pay their bill and take their new baby home.

I'm so glad they did.

10 years and all you get is tin.

Yesterday was our 10th wedding anniversary. It was a beautiful day, sunny with a nice breeze. Not too hot, not too cold and not at all humid. Perfect.

There's not much to say about my marriage that I haven't said already. We work at it, fight, have great fun together, love our kids and struggle through the hard times. When we were dating sometimes I would stay the night at Logan's place over the weekends. Don't worry, I slept in my clothes on top of the sheets.

Every Monday I'd leave and head back to school and sleep alone with room mates who, left a little to be desired, and wait for the next weekend so I could be comfortable again spending the weekend with Logan.

When we got engaged, the thing I looked forward to most, even more than my actual wedding day, was being able to go to bed, every night with my husband. To wake up each morning with him and to make a home where we both belonged together all the time.

There are a lot of things I love about Logan, things I love about being married to Logan.But I'm still thrilled everyday that I get to be with him. That I don't have to pack up my toothbrush every week and go back to another life he isn't a part of.

I'm happy every day, even 10 years later, that we get to just be together.

I often get panic-y when he's late coming home because I know, considering the way I've handled the sale of this house, I would not be able to pick myself up if I ever lost him.

I've been busy this week worrying about the inspection (still no date!) and a big ball of anxiety has made it's way into bed with me every night. Things are awfully crowded with this anxiety in my bed and I'm ready to be done with this.

Saturday is Andrea's wine party in the dream neighborhood. The wine party I'd planned to stumble home from....to my dream house 5 doors down. Hopefully by Saturday we'll know if that dream still has a chance to come true.

In the meantime, I painted with the kids for the Buzz Off. Not my favorite project so far. I'm also sharing food for busy parents over at Work it, Mom on a blog called Ordering Disorder.

Oh My God, He Really Does Work With Prepubescents.

I misunderstood Logan during our phone call last night. He did not go to the Tiki bar he's been dying to go to for forever.

They went.
To.
Disneyworld.

They went to the Polynesian for drinks, (the 13 year olds had shirley temples) and then they went on rides.

I hope they stuck to ones which weren't too scary for the little kids. Like the Tea Cups.

Madison and Max are pretty much pissed.

If you get this quiz wrong you need a tutor.

Reasons Logan sent me this email today: "FYI: I have to go out of town tomorrow until friday night. Talk to you soon."

A) His eyeballs were being clawed out by a wild turkey and he could only feel around the keys to communicate with me.

B) There was a freak accident in the office kitchen where he lost his tongue and was unable to speak.

C) A wild boar had eaten his cellphone along with his desk phone.

D) He knew I would lose my shit because we're having 30-60 people to our house on Saturday for a party to show off all the work we did to this house for nothing since no one wants to buy it.

Surprise! The answer is D.

But don't worry! We'll get everything done when he gets home, after we take the kids to the Fun Fair Friday night and we'll do the rest Saturday during the day. I definitely shouldn't do anything between now and then because everyone throws together large parties in around 12 hours.

It's not Logan's fault of course and thankfully a lot of the guests are Logan's new co workers who would be happy with a bag of cheetos and some wine coolers taken from someone's parents refrigerator. You know, since they're all 13.

Also, in case you were wondering if I forgot to tell you, no the house hasn't sold. Because probably one day you'll come to this site and I'll be like, "Hey! We were just sitting around having pre dinner cocktails and a couple neighbors popped in while the kids played TV Tag in the front yard with a few kids from the neighborhood."

Right.

My husband: lover of lawn servicemen.

While Logan was with the kids in Indianapolis and I was in San Francisco, the trees finally turned green and the lawn came to life and swallowed our house. When we all got home, there wasn't much time to mow because of the rain and because of our schedules and so we pulled out the machete and cleared a path and left it like that for almost a week.

On Thursday night I was outside taking new pictures of the exterior of our house now that the trees are green and things look alive. My neighbor, not the bad ones, came over and asked how it was going. I told him we'd dropped the price and I was trying to get a better picture with the trees all green.

We both looked at the house for a minute, lamenting the market and he said, earnestly, "Maybe you could mow the lawn."

Gee, do you think the jungle in our yard was deterring potential buyers?

He went on to tell us about his lawn service and how much they charge and on Saturday morning they came to our house and they mowed and weed whacked around the miles and miles of fencing and they edged.....they edged the miles and miles of concrete surrounding our house and our 4 different concrete walkways and the long, long driveway.

And Logan watched and said, "I've never been sexually aroused watching men work before but I'm pretty sure I'm turned on right now."

Then they pulled out the leaf blower and did what it takes Logan and a broom almost an hour to do in 5 minutes, and I think he may have had an orgasm.

***

You didn't think I would miss a chance to talk house did you? Look I put it down here so you could just leave with the image of Logan being sexually satisfied by someone using a leaf blower. But now you don't want that in your head do you? And you can't get it out. Here, read this.

On Saturday we met with the realtors and the owner of the New Dream House, which is right across from the Old Dream House. Dream House is a little overpriced and, even if it were well priced for the market, a little too much for us to afford. But we love Dream House. We love the big open kitchen/dining room and the family room with a doorwall to a brick patio. We love the idea of not living as slaves to home improvement projects and most of all we love the neighbors.

If I could fit Dream House into a Baby Bjorn I'd practice attachment parenting with Dream House, I love it like that. I would never put down Dream House, I would never want him to believe I was neglecting his needs. I wouldn't let him cry it out, I'd hold him until he fell asleep.

While we talked to our realtor after the meeting the neighbors were out and waving over and I waved back and then real live children on bikes (!) rode by and said 'Hi!' and then the sky opened up and koala bears and unicorns and rainbows fell from the sky and I mashed my body into Dream House and told Logan I couldn't leave, this house needs me. He and my realtor physically removed my body from Dream House and my arms ached. As we drove away one of the neighbors said he'd get some holy water to sprinkle on the house to make sure we get it.

I have never been this spiritual in my entire life.

We can't bid on this house or sign anything until we sell this house. I've tried to convince myself otherwise, as you might imagine I would because that's how I am. One-minded. But there's this thing called "Reality" and Reality is cruel. Reality would not co-sleep with me and I would definitely feed it formula and let it cry it out all night long. (Sarcasm Helper: I love my kids and guess what I did when they were babies? All of the above.)

We can't possibly pay for two houses and this market is so fucking annoying soft, (I'm being gentler and more positive) there are no guarantees there will be a buyer for our incredibly well priced house. I tried to make Max look as sweet as I could for the meeting so the owner would fall in love with us and couldn't imagine squashing the dreams of such an adorable little boy, with freckles.

I've decided to live The Secret, no not the one about that thing you do with your ring finger while giving blow jobs*. No the Oprah one about giving power to what you focus on. I am focusing all my energy on the new house, on how wonderful it would be. I'm picturing myself there, shamelessly, without suspicion. Believe it. Achieve It, Baby! (That's a Loganism and one which has caused me to throw a chair at his head in the past.)

I'm picturing the trampoline in the backyard and the kids riding bikes with friends up and down the street and I'm picturing buying more than one cupboard of food at a time and I'm even picturing Mai Tais made with crushed ice directly from our freezer. This could all back fire of course if our house doesn't sell in a month and we can't make it happen because then I'll be spending hours in my mind moving all my furniture out of the place and weeping while I crush ice in the blender for my Mai Tais.

Also the house will weep real tears if we are kept apart any longer.

*I have only one blow job secret and it doesn't involve a technique. Here's the secret: There's really no such thing as a "bad" blow job, especially once you're married. Unless you lick it like a popsicle. Irritating.

**Wow, I thought we were talking house to get any sexual images out of your head. Sorry.

Comparison Vol. 2

Today I took pictures of my closet to help sell my house. As I took pictures of my closet I realized how my husband is not just a slob but also unable to part with any of his clothes. Last weekend he pulled two rubbermaid containers out of the attic full of tapered leg jeans and 63 torn Boston t shirts. As he dug through these containers he said to me, "Jesus, why did I keep this?"

And there was no way I could answer his question without gutting him like a fish.

Only because I told him 10 years ago when he put those rubbermaid containers in our attic, "You know, you're never going to miss those shirts."

But he didn't believe me. So he kept them for 10 years.

The good news is I now have 252 cleaning rags made from those 63 Boston t shirts.

Logan often says, "I have nothing to wear. I hate my clothes."

I often say, "I have 3 shirts and 6 t shirts and that just doesn't seem right to me."

In the spirit of our nightstand comparison from a few years ago, let's compare our closets and our dressers.

I decided a couple years ago I would only keep clothes I felt good in. This decision has resulted in an extremely pared down collection. Here is my closet.

Here is Logan's closet.

He never has anything to wear. Please note the 15 shirts right there in the closet.

But wait, there are more clothes! Here's Logan's sweater drawer.

I don't have a sweater drawer. I have three sweaters stacked next to my t shirts on a shelf in my armoire. See?

I just realized haven't worn that sweater on the bottom in two seasons so guess what? I'm getting rid of it.

I have a stack of 10 t shirts. Logan has a very deep drawer full of t shirts.

There are at least 55 t shirts in this drawer.

Songs on Logan's iPod which might make you think he's a girl. Vol. II

Every single weekend for the last three months we've worked on the house. Logan likes to work with music playing.

Sometimes his choices are, surprising, as I already noted years ago.

Barbara Streisand: Jingle Bells

Beyonce: Irreplaceable "To the left, to the left."

Brie Larson: She Said (Radio Edit)

Christina Aguilera: Ain't No Other Man "Hey! Do your thang honey!"

Journey: Who's Crying Now.

Sixpence None The Richer: Kiss Me

Ashlee Simpson: The Entire Autobiography Album. Holy shit.

Daddy Knows Best

Last week I clocked 17 hours stripping wall paper and I still have nearly half the room to go. I am using a steamer which is slowly searing my fingerprints off and a scraper which has changed the shape of my hand permanently as I slowly scrape, scrape, scrape the walls.

As expected, the wall paper was up for a reason. There are spots on the wall which are fresh plaster uncovered by paint, there are other parts where the trim was torn off leaving exposed door supports and still other places where the walls have cracked and been 'fixed' using something which resembles caulk. Also the steam is causing something, which seems like paint to bubble up and pull away from the paint underneath. I hope the new owners of this house like the 'charm' of slighly lumpy walls.

This weekend my friend's husband Mark gave us his Saturday to help us hang sheetrock on the very shimmed ceiling of our kitchen.

Dear Future Owners, I hope you like lumpy walls and never want to find a stud among all the firring strips and shims we've layered under your new drywall. We did the best we could.

PS: Don't try to install recessed lighting unless you hate life and want to torture yourself.

Because Mark is a process engineer, this job involved no swearing. This might very well be a first for our family.

Since Mark's wife Andrea was out of town for the weekend, we lured Mark into staying for a couple of beers and some pizza with their girls. I left to pick up the pizza and, you know, some other beers because we had run out and since I had two men in my presence (making this all perfectly safe) I had to take advantage.

Logan relayed this talk while I was gone and the guys cleaned up the house from the drywall mess.

Logan, inspecting the swiffer wet jet and attempting to put the liquid cleaner in it starting to unscrew the top of the cleaner. Mark steps in, "No no no. Don't take the top off, just stick the whole thing in there."

Logan grabs the swiffer pad and says to Mark, "This goes on here right?"

"Yes," taking the whole thing from him. "Put it on here."

I think Logan's a pretty hands on guy. He does laundry, washes dishes and what he does with a vaccum is so arousing, I make him wait until the kids are asleep. When Logan told me this story I stared at him and then asked, "So....why did you transform yourself into "Clichéd Bumbling Dad"?"

The drywall guy is coming this week and I got boxes off Craigslist this weekend. This means we're about .0001% closer to actually listing this house for sale. Of course I still have to get the rest of the wallpaper off the walls.

Which will likely happen once every one of my fingerprints is seared off my skin.

I'm really excited about this. Can you get a mortgage if you have no finger prints? Footprints work, right?

Caught.

This morning someone from the dream neighborhood (sniff-sniff) emailed to let me know Logan was in the paper.

With ANOTHER WOMAN!

(photo by Daniel Mears)

I forgot my Man-Saving Panties and look what happened?

Damn, I really wanted to play the whole thing up but enh, it's just not working for me.

Logan and his friend Kim, you might remember Kim from this post, went to have a drink last Friday and got their picture taken. Kim made this delicious dip at that tailgate and I unhinged my jaw to eat it.

Logan is very excited about having his picture in the paper, he feels a little famous. He's hoping Matt Lauer calls to ask him about all of this.

"So Logan, do you really like the Black Lotus Brewery?"

"How were you feeling when this picture was taken? What were you thinking about at that moment?"

"You're an amazing man Mr. Summers, the way you hold that glass of stout, I think I'm speaking for America when I tell you.....we're proud you're one of us."

They also make great rockets.

I have an illness.

When I first started dating Logan, when I was 13, I would often stay the night as his parents place after our dates (we lived 45 miles apart and Logan was living with his parents for 6 months paying off debt).

On one of those weekend overnights, we were with his youngest sister, I told him, "I need to stop at the market. I need supplies."

Supplies as a term for feminine products might be the longest held 'inside joke' of our relationship.

We've progressed from that point, to here, where I can call Logan on his way home and say, "Listen can you pick up milk and supplies on your way home?"

And he knows exactly what I need. 1/2% and Orange (if you know what I mean).

I don't know if I'd put that in a personal ad, "Needs to be unembarassed to pick up feminine products at the store." But it's a nice thing to have in a marriage, maybe put it on your B-List.

Anyway, no, my illness has nothing to do with Logan buying my feminine products. Though, you would think that because the majority of this post involves that subject.

You are clearly not a blogger because I am a blogger and thus verbose and I don't get to my point very quickly. (Wait, you mean some people blog with half the words and twice the entertainment? What? Wha? WHA?)

No, my illness has to do with the fact that tonight I put tampons in a wicker basket because that blue box looked horrible in the closet of my new bathroom. How could I live with that?

I couldn't. I put my tampons in a reasonably aesthetically appealing wicker basket. From Ikea.

I am ill.

The Robot Speaks.

Logan decided he wanted to write something, so he did.

When he finished this post he sent it to me from the other room and prefaced it by saying, "You don't have to post this if you don't think it's good enough."

Ha.

============================================

Our bathroom is, at once, the best and worst part of our over 8 years here. It was inconceivable that we'd live with that room we bought for as long as we did. Mirror tiles! Golf courses of the world! Cheap linoleum tiles on the floor! But live with it we did -- for 8 years. And our vanity took a beating... So did my spirit.

Remember your first home and the joy and expectation and hope of it? I've looked at the fickr set of photos of our bathroom project at least once a day over the past few weeks. To make the transformation real, I think. Because we lived with our crappy bathroom for so long -- putting the improvement of it off for so long to do things like modest vacations up north, and lazy weekends, and soccer games, and Friday-night-out recovery time. It started to seem inevitable that we'd live with that bathroom until we left this house.

It's a fine line to draw between doing what you want to do and what you "need" to do -- in terms of the pay-off of it. Our bathroom has been "in-progress" for over 3 months. A month into the project, Madison asked me if I'd ever spend any time with her doing fun stuff again. That question broke my heart. Living with our crappy bathroom for so long also broke my heart. And started to break my will to rise above it.

There's a phenomenon in our neighborhood that Liss and I have observed over and over. A young, eager couple or family moves in full of life and energy and the excitement of a new home in a new place. And soon enough, things like that old folding chair leaned up against the garage wall get overlooked. Not because it doesn't drive them crazy to see it there every time they come back home after being away -- but because nobody else in the neighborhood seems to mind the folding chair leaned up against their garage wall. And living amidst good folks who don't seem to mind such things day after day after month after year -- it can kill your will to remember how you want to be living. It's tried to kill our will to remember the satisfaction of living up to our dreams. And it's tough, because when it's been a matter of spending time with each other or our kids or spending time making our home what we've always imagined it to be, it's been easy to put the home improvements off.

When we first moved into our house, we spent countless hours, days, months improving -- new paint, new rugs, new furniture, freshly painted trim. And we were very satisfied with ourselves. And then we became satisfied with ourselves for raising children who, even through the worst tantrums and sleepless nights made us very proud to be parents.

There's a saying I repeat to Liss each time she gives me shit for my running habit. I say, with tongue-in-cheek, that good health is its own reward (don't tell Liss, but I do believe it)[Ed Note: Gag.]. Living up to the standards you want can also be its own reward. Whether it's the standard of how you want your kids to grow and learn, or the standards of the environment you want to be living in. Putting off your dreams, no matter how large or small, can kill your spirit. I've felt it for a while now...

I'll be proud to show off our fresh new bathroom to all who enter it. But more than the vanity-depletion-recovery I'm enjoying is the renewal of a sense of urgency I'm feeling to keep the ball rolling. It's hard to keep the ball rolling sometimes, and a remodeled bathroom may not be the best example of a renewed spirit, but I've started to feel the energy of starting a long tough job that's been a long time coming, and getting to the end of it and having it resemble very closely the picture in mind when starting -- and feeling the happiness of overcoming all the setbacks encountered.

And my spirit is soaring...

Maybe I should have married "Always Leaves The Seat Up"

Last night on the way to see friends, Logan is driving and telling me about this commercial.

You should go watch it. Go ahead.

As he's telling me about the commercial he turns left to get on the freeway where there are about 8 signs saying things like, "Your wife always tells you not to go this way and you do it anyway."

So, once again I say, "You know, you're not allowed to get on the freeway from here."

And he ignores me, continuing to tell me about the commercial and the customer named, "Never Listens To Women Ever".

Oh we laughed!

I said, "That could be your name! Or at least your nickname! See how you just turned there and I suggested for the 1000th time not doing that since it's illegal! And you ignored me all those times!"

"I know! Isn't that funny?" he said, shaking his head. "Wait, why is that police man staring at us? Why is he turning around? Why is he getting behind us? Why is he turning on his lights?"

It's all so very "funny". Except not at all funny because this is the month with that big holiday at the end? And we already got hosed by the plumber! And another unexpected expense! I love money so much.

Thank God he doesn't have acne.

Forget what I said about enjoying the posting every day thing.

I never realized how boring I am on a daily basis. Actually, maybe I realized it before but didn't need to write about it every day before.

I made the mistake of trying out Madison's Nintendo DS. She saved half the money to buy it for over a year and got it at the end of the school year. I've mainly ignored this tiny machine for 5 months. Until she got Super Mario Brothers for her birthday. I was overwhelmed by nostalgia and decided to just 'See what's changed' and pretty soon I couldn't put the stupid thing down, dazzling the children with my 'secret' knowledge of hidden tubes and invisible blocks to crack open.

Now we have Mario Kart (another birthday addition) and last night I went to bed with my husband next to me in his underwear driving Mario to his best lap ever. 

Being married to a teenage boy is pretty awesome.

Would-Be Fan.

Logan has had an affinity for Lance Armstrong for many years and the beginning of his affinity for Lance coincided with the time when my husband lost 30 pounds and dabbled with what may have been an eating disorder but was definitely an asshole disorder.

I've sort of tied Lance together with that unpleasant time between Logan and I and because of that I'm not a big Lance fan.

If, after running the marathon Lance Armstrong hadn't just said he "...thought the marathon would be easier."  But had instead come out of the marathon saying, "What kind of asshole runs like this for fun?"

Then I could have been a Lance fan.

Really useful advice.

The other night, on Halloween, after Dutch and Wood had to leave to get their small panda to bed the other three couples sat down in Andrea's living room. Since Andrea's house is laid out exactly like The Dream House let's call it The Dream Living Room.

The six of us sat down and tried to have a conversation. Between the six of us we've had sex at least nine times and all nine of those times were represented by children. Some of them quite small and in need of things. Often in need of things every 1.3 seconds and when you have nine children in need of things every 1.3 seconds you've got someone asking for something pretty much continuously.

Andrea has 3 girls five and under and Leslie has four kids 5 and under. At one point Leslie had two of her four kids hanging on her while she tried to talk and Andrea had one of her three kids hanging on her as well. But Logan and I were completely free of children hanging on us.

Logan says, "You know, I've got to recommend having your youngest child be five. I mean we've found that works out really well for us when socializing. So if you can make that happen, I'd try to do that."

Best Halloween Ever.

Halloween was eventful for the Summers family.

We were invited to hang out at my friend's house in The Dream Neighborhood. And it was...dreamy. Full candy bars, lots of kids and people handing out beers.

The Junipers also came out to The Suburbs to partake in the trick or treating with their adorable baby panda.

Last year we tried to take the kids trick-or-treating in our neighborhood and made it to three houses before the children had a total meltdown. They were afraid and uncomfortable and we went home in tears.

I was relieved it went so well but also a little forlorn because well, I may have mentioned this before? But I, uh, really hate my neighborhood and am dying to move? And we have to unload the house before we can move? And we can't really afford the neighborhood I want?

Look how talented I am! I just took a positive and flipped it into a negative. My therapist loves me.

But you don't want to hear about that. You want some pickle action!

Yes! Logan ate the pickle and he moaned and whined and complained the entire time. You would think he was being forced to eat a barrel of hissing cockroaches. The man can run 26.2 miles, but the pickle. The pickle nearly killed him.

I taped the 4 minute ordeal, where you can hear Logan's claim that it's just like Fear Factor. Then you can hear Dutch say, "Fear Factor for the biggest wimp on earth."

So I didn't get any pictures, but as you can see in the video, there are plenty of flashbulbs going off during the ordeal. Here's one of Dutch's pictures.

You should go watch the video and I'm going to go back to trying to conquer my massive 'get the house on the market right this minute' to-do list. The list includes "Throw hands up and wonder how it is anyone ever moves."

Thank you again to everyone who sponsered Logan's marathon via the MS Society. $2500. Internet, you amaze me.

Oh Pickle Boy.

He did it and he didn't die.

Here he is at mile 21, still smiling.

Of course here he is at mile 24 and he's not so much smiling.

Ouch.

I think maybe that was the mile when he realized he was really going to have to eat the pickle. The $2500 Pickle. You guys either really hate MS and want to see it stopped or you just love pickles.

Yesterday, after Logan soaked in ice for 15 minutes and then napped, we went and looked at houses. There I tried to convince Logan and our very reasonable realtor that my "Gut" says if we bid 50K below asking on our dream house and they actually give it to us for that price, it was meant to be and everything will fall into place.

Logan said it isn't my gut telling me that but rather my obsessive nature. The realtor also didn't help telling all kinds of stories about people who bought a house and hadn't sold theirs and then they lost their jobs, or went blind, or grew a third head all because they didn't find a buyer for their own homes first.

(The house yesterday had two laundry chutes.)(And a sand box.)(22 cabinet doors to my current 9.)

I'd hoped the marathon victory would have made Logan a little loopy and once he saw the house and was feeling happy I could maybe just slip a piece of paper in front of him and say, "Hey, will you sign this? Thanks!"

But no.

Pickle Day is Tuesday. Logan's been on an alcohol and fiber free diet for the last 2 weeks. He deserves a couple of days to eat and drink whatever the hell he wants. But Tuesday night with an audience, he's going to devour that pickle and I'm going to cheer and so are you.

As a tie in to this weekend's post about Free Hugs. I think I outdid myself this weekend. Even moreso than the Dutch hug from a few weeks ago. The drinking numbed the awkwardness of that moment, it was only after the fact looking at the pictures that it was really awkward.

Yesterday though, oh wow. You remember Logan's friend I have a weird crush on? It's all from afar since I'd only met him once as he walked across the street while we were in our car. Yesterday he ran the marathon as well and at the end he was with Logan so we had a chance to chat a little more.

If only all we'd done was chat. I should write a book about all the ways hugs can go wrong. About how you know the hug is about to go wrong and there is not a single thing you can do to stop it so you hurtle toward the awkwardness knowing what's about to happen.

So yesterday we see Logan's friend, Logan says, "Melissa you remember John, right?" I put my hand out to shake his hand and I say, "Of course. Hey! You did it! You made it to the end!"

And instead of shaking my hand, he reaches out and tries to hug me around the shoulder, you know the side hug? Where you're not facing each other but standing next to each other with a little squeeze around the shoulder?

Right that one, that one that's friendly and not at all awkward, the one that I didn't do. I don't know what I was thinking but I turned my body for the regular style hug which was clearly not what was supposed to happen. Why? Why did I do that? It's like I have a program embedded into me and it says, "Okay, I guess we're hugging now right? Must turn body, arms up and around, okay next step squeeze but don't pat the back. Just squeeze with the affection human beings sometimes share."

At least I didn't take out any of his teeth or an eyeball.

A Pickle Of Charity.

There is a lot to love about you guys today. First I got this pair of earrings in the mail to match my fabulous Superhero necklace, from Wendy. Wendy who was smart enough to contact Andrea at Superhero Designs to have her send me this gift.

I feel embarassed when you guys do these types of things to me. To say "Thank You" often feels like not enough and to gush about how sometimes it's hard to not feel loved by a whole slew of people I don't know but who know me and like me anyway. It feels awkward to gush because it seems braggy or incredibly sentimental. But it seems even more ungrateful not to tell you how much your kindness means to me. 

It means a lot to me.

Onto......PICKLES......

You don't even have to send me anything since you share my sense of pure electric glee at the thought of Logan eating a pickle. Not just any pickle though: A Pickle Of Charity. Look at what that little running man did. He made it all the way to the end. In one day!

I raced this morning before painting the bathroom (again) to get this post and my post at The Buzz Off up, because I figured we'd need all week to raise $1200. But you guys....you guys....you love the same things I do. Things like forcing Logan to eat something which causes him physical discomfort because he's a huge baby who just can't for the life of him understand why it is dinners with our daughter often end in tears because that pasta is a different shape than she's used to. I just don't know where she gets it.

Maddie understands Logan's pain which is why she laughed and laughed and laughed all evening when we explained the Pickle Challenge and then offered up 1/4 of the part of her allowance which is alotted to charity to the cause. Somehow this makes the pickle even sweeter...or more sour I guess.

When he started this last phase of training, he went to what's called a low residue diet. Which is polite speak for "Food With Less Fiber So You Don't Crap Yourself While You Run". It's amazing how much fiber we eat in this house, what with our fruit and vegetable consumption and our whole wheat bread and pasta. Everything Logan tries to eat, he has to put back because of the fiber. Pretty much Logan can eat white rice (we eat brown), corn flakes (we eat shredded wheat) and grilled chicken from now until the marathon.

So, I'm not making him eat the pickle until after the marathon on Sunday. I'm also giving him a night of really bad for you food and all the things he loves, like beer and cocktails and anything with fiber. But then I'm buying a big jar of pickles and there will be much fanfare as we present the pickle to Logan. Many pictures will be taken...maybe even video.

Remember when I made that chicken with the mayo and didn't tell him? This is the same kind of giddy excitement. It's not even that I want him to suffer, it's just that at one point he wouldn't eat sushi and now he loves it. I know his taste buds can change and really if I have to drag the kids out to Detroit on Sunday in the cold to drive around Detroit and cheer on Dad?

There'd better be a pickle somewhere in it for my enjoyment. Well and some money for the MS Society.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Logan walked around like a man on death row tonight. He can't believe he's eating a pickle. Which to me is all the more reason to make him eat a pickle. If eating a pickle is causing him angst? Clearly I'm carrying all the real angst for this family.

Update: We beat last year's total! I can't believe how badly you guys want Logan to consume a pickle. Hooray!

The Pants Pickle Challenge

[UPDATE: He did it. You helped us raise over $2500 and he ate the pickle. You can see the video over here.]

Last night my Nicer Funnier Sister In Law sent me an email letting us know she'd signed Logan up for the 'Eat a Pickle Make a Wish' fundraiser in Indy. The thought of Logan eating a pickle for charity filled me with an unbelievable sense of joy.

Logan's extreme hatred of pickles has been well documented on this site. I once shared the story of Logan openly weeping when a pickle touched his sandwich. He really hates pickles.

Within the second month of Logan's new job, his coworkers had experienced the Pickle Distress first hand when Logan's sandwich came to the table with a pickle on the plate (when he'd specifically said NO PICKLE!) and to make matters worst there was russian dressing all over his bread, even though he told them NO DRESSING. Logan's irritation with the pickle on his lunch plate caused his new coworkers to make a 'No Pickles' sign for outside his cube.

I was only half joking when I wrote about the Mayonnaise Rages and our prenuptial agreement protecting Logan from all forms of pickled produce.

This website is like the antithesis of Logan's experience with pickles. (The next person who tells me how stupid it is to write about one's life is being directed to the "I love to eat Claussen pickles" page.)

As we went to bed last night Logan lamented his fundraising efforts this year. How he has a week to go and he's not going to raise the money he'd hoped to before the marathon on Sunday.

I asked, 'Well, how bad do you want to reach your goal?'

It was then I suggested the Eat a Pickle For MS fundraiser.

If we all pool together we can make Logan eat a pickle. You guys! A pickle! A cucumber soaked in evil!

At first he bristled, "There is no way I'm eating a pickle. No way. No. I'm not. I can't eat a pickle."

Then he said, "Maybe a sweet gherkin." (I said, no.)

I said I wouldn't force him to eat one of the oversized pickles from the supermarket deli, because I love pickles but those pickles even repel me.

We settled on a Claussen Pickle. Not as green and mushy as the cooked grocery store ones, but not just barely vinegar-ish like the homemade ones. Perfect.

He's agreed to eat a Claussen pickle if, by the time he runs the marathon Sunday morning, he's reached his $2000 fundraising goal for the MS Society.

So far we've pooled together $800, so we need to raise another $1200 by Sunday morning. Once we reach the $2000 goal (which is still over $100 shy of last year's fundraiser), I will go to the store, purchase a big jar of pickles and then, with camera in hand, I will document Logan eating a pickle in the name of the MS Society.

Maybe you're feeling bad for Logan being forced to eat a pickle. Logan's not allergic to pickles, Logan hasn't eaten a pickle since he was a child, and like we're always telling Madison, "You have to keep trying foods you think you hate, because your taste buds are always growing and changing."

It's crunch time people. Let's raise money for the MS Society, give Logan the chance to love pickles and give me the joy of watching Logan eat a pickle. It's win/win.

Go, donate and prepare to be dazzled by Logan's will to overcome even his most deeply held food phobias.

PS: More Halloween talk at the Buzz Off.  "Are these costumes lined in gold? Equipped with tiny gnomes who regulate your child's body temperature in the frigid Halloween night cold with tiny warm puffs of their boozy breath?"

The MS society is not a private club for Max Summers, Madison Summers and Melissa Summers*

The other day Logan laid next to me in bed reading Runner's World. He let out an exasperated, "Enh! You've got to be kidding me."

I barely looked up, saw he was reading and braced myself for some sort of shoe stats or a particularly 'intriguing' new runner's snack. He ignored my disinterest, because that's what we do for each other.

"Listen to this question....this is an advice column....'My friend always asks me to hold her power gels because I run with a belt and she does not.' Isn't that so rude!?"

I looked over at him, and he said, "Right, never mind."

This is our new understanding. He runs and loves it and I silently roll my eyes at this hobby.

Remember last year when I secretly wished Logan would break his ankle when he was training for the marathon so that running would not be the center of our lives any longer. This year I'm not as annoyed with the schedule because it's a lot less demanding.

This year I have a better attitude about the marathon. Mainly because Logan's training with that one guy and because, like last year, he's running with a purpose. He's raising money for Multiple Sclerosis a cause which is more dear to us now than before as it's hit someone Logan and I are quite fond of.

Last year, the marathon happened the weekend before Halloween weekend. The weekend where Logan was a Shriner and drank so much he was driven home at 3am by the party hostess. No, not the hostess of the first party. The hostess of the second party.

This year the marathon is scheduled the day after the halloween parties we've been invited to. Logan's passion and sacrifice knows no bounds.

Last year you guys, our friends and Missy's friends and family helped raise 4% of the total fundraising goal for the entire marathon. Let's see what we can do this year.

For my part, I'm drinking for two in the next few weeks. It's a tough job, a lot like running, with the endurance and stretching (of my liver). Generally I don't drop any toenails or crap my pants while drinking, but I just want to do my part, you know?

*I swear to God we didn't intend to give everyone in this family the same initials.

I'm a lesbian....except if I want you to cheat on your wife.

I vaguely mentioned some Logan Branded Jackassery™ last week on my birthday. It kind of ruined my birthday and not for the reason I first thought.

A few weeks ago Logan met with Mr. Handsome for a night out. Mr. Handsome is single, Logan is not. They were at a local bar and Mr. Handsome struck up a conversation with a woman he may have been interested in. With her was a friend, so Logan began chatting with her too. I'm not sure how it came up but he mentioned he was married and this 'lady' (though I use the term loosely) replied, "That's fine, I'm a lesbian."

Logan told me this story and I thought nothing of it, except something along the lines of: "Right...you're a lesbian. Right." Because I'm a skeptical bitch, who thinks sometimes girls like to act as if they like to make out with other women as a way to pique male interest in them. (As evidence: please see all shows on MTV.)

As they chatted they found they had something in common as she is an editor at some publication Logan thought may be of interest to me. He mentioned his freelance work as a graphic designer and my freelance work as a writer and so, they exchanged business cards.

He told me all of this that night and I teased Logan about not knowing when he's being picked up and he laughed it off.

On my birthday Logan and I met for lunch (a lovely perk of the kids being in school...midday private lunches!) and he told me about a really funny email he got from his 'lesbian' friend. Gee Whiz! It turns out she's not a lesbian but is bisexual so maybe they could get together.

He replied how that was all very interesting except he's still married. He wasn't making that up to add to his mystique as the purpose of her 'lesbian' story seems to have been.

So yes, Logan told me this story and I had a lot of emotions about it and I won't bore you with the full spectrum of those emotions. (There was the "Are you Stupid?" thread I mentioned in my earlier post about my birthday and that was a fun time. Believe me.)

I trust Logan a lot and appreciate who he is so his nights out with friends still don't really bother me. I trust him because if I didn't trust him I wouldn't want to be married to him because I don't see the point. I already explained that before and my feelings on the topic still haven't changed.

He didn't cheat on me, had no intent to cheat on me and was up front about the whole thing. So why was I so upset?

After discussing the whole thing with a few friends, I realized what I'm really upset about. Here is a picture of Logan and I when I was 21 and he was 26.

Yes my hair is rather long and lifeless. But my face is fresh and I am thin and tan and full of life. Logan looks like, frankly, kind of a dork.

Here is a picture of Logan and I on our honeymoon. I am 24 and Logan is 29. You can't see it here but I'm very thin and you can see I am full of joy and tan-ness. Logan is rounding the corner of his awkward 20's and looks better than he did at 26. We both look pretty happy and attractive.

Then we had Madison and I stayed at home and I kept it together pretty well. My body changed a little but I still got my hair done regularly and wore clothes that looked good. Then I had Max and I tried to keep up but things started to be a little more difficult to keep up with, but I still did okay.

Then Logan started working at the agency and I came to his office a few times and it was like a campus, a campus full of girls with long blonde hair, Dana Buchman suits and ominously pointy shoes. The men were no better in their designer denim, artfully untucked button front shirts and body
concious polo shirts in retro colors.

Let's not even get started on the photographers he worked with, with their Prada shoes and "Trying to look like I'm not trying too hard' looks. Logan liked this world he jumped into and he started running and he started buying himself his own 'Trying but trying not to look like I'm trying too hard' looks.

In contrast I started to gain weight and the more weight I gained the less I felt like I could even look okay. I was also at home, not in an office surrounded by designer denim and shoes which will poke your eye out.

Logan kept getting more and more attractive and I, well, kept getting more and more beaten down.

Last week, on my birthday, during yet another of what I'm starting to call 'Ugly Weeks' which I should actually call 'Ugly Years' because I've had at least 52 ugly weeks so far, Logan told me how this lady (again, I'm using the term loosely) found him attractive enough to have an affair with.

I sat there across from him in my one pair of well fitting stylish jeans and a v-neck t-shirt, one of the 10 I have which I've worn everyday for the entire summer, in my one pair of summer shoes, with my hair that's way overdue for a new cut and color, with the sagging circles under my eyes and I felt completely used up.

It was never my intent to be that stereotypical 'Mom'. The mom who just lets it all go and becomes worn out. The one who puts herself last and doesn't bother with herself. But here I am.

I don't know when it got this bad. I'll try to make a hair appointment, but then I think of the dozen other ways to spend that money. But then Logan is sure to make his hair appointment every 4 weeks like clockwork. I think I'll go get a few more pairs of my favorite jeans, so I have more than one pair. But then it's fall, and the kids need new jeans. Logan has, literally, ten pair of jeans alone. I know there's a product out there which will help me with these horrible under eye circles and puffiness. But when I research I feel overwhelmed at the thought of spending money on my eyes of all things.

Over the summer when we visited my sister in law, Logan tried on every single pair of sunglasses she had (she's a sales rep to optometrists). The glasses were cheap for what they were, I could have had a pair, a nice pair of sunglasses I'd love. There Logan sat trying on every pair and looking incredibly hot while doing so. I sat there and tried a couple pair of glasses on and thought, 'Why bother? Look at my hair and my stupid clothes and all this weight. Why am I going to bother with cool sunglasses. I have a pair, it's fine.'

I've become my mother.

I thought about this and thought about this all last week. I wondered what I'm going to do about this, about how awful I feel about myself. And as I explained all the ways Logan takes care of himself and pampers himself and makes himself a priority, I thought, "What? I want him to stop being so attractive?"

Is that what I want? I don't even know. I liked him back then, when he wore sambas and jean shorts and glasses with lenses as big as a baby's head. I've never felt more attracted to him than I was then. I'm happy he's happy with himself, but I've loved him the same forever.

So, do I want him to be less attractive? That's a silly thing to want, it makes no sense. "Be less attractive for me honey. Please?" Besides I can't put my happiness on someone else and their actions.

What I'm realizing is that I've built up a lot of resentment toward my husband for making himself a priority, while I continue to be pulled down by my own martyrdom and weight. It's not fair and it's not kind and I'm not happy I've allowed that to happen. But there it is and our lunch conversation about his 'Lesbian' (though she uses the term loosely) friend, forced me to pull it out and look at it a little closer.

I realized maybe the answer isn't asking Logan to sacrifice his designer jeans or regular haircuts for the kids. Maybe the answer is not asking myself to sacrifice those things in the name of motherhood or because I'm too fat so I don't deserve to look good.

This weight isn't going anywhere. I've written and thought a lot about my weight and over time I've come to the conclusion that in life there are priorities and being a size 6 isn't one of my priorities any longer. I'd like to be that weight again, but my body and life have changed and what it would take to be that thin is no longer worth the end result.

I've been trying very hard not to hate myself for making that choice and I've been trying really hard to look at myself after I go to the gym and say, 'You're fine just as you are.' I'm going to have to learn what looks good on this new shape I have and stop dressing as if I have the same body I've had for most of my life.

I have to make myself feel good and I know that buying lots of things will never give you inner happiness. But I do know that caring for myself and treating myself as valuable can only help me be the person I want to be.

At Blogher I eyed these necklaces and I thought how beautiful they are and how I would love one. I asked someone how much Andrea was selling them for and that inner voice said, "No, you don't need a necklace. Not when you could get the kids at least 4 outfits with that money. You'd have a nice necklace but the same stupid hair and the same stupid clothes."

So I didn't buy it.

But then, after my birthday, I changed my mind.

(I can almost hear the click-click-click of frantically created TypeKey accounts with usernames like, "Just Saying!" or "Here's A Thought" or "Duh! Money Doesn't Buy Happiness" or "I'll Say I'm A Lesbian If It Gets Me Into Your Husband's Pants". And I can hardly wait. Though I use the term loosely.)