I am directing today’s message directly to the male of the species, specifically to those who inhabit a dwelling shared with one or more females of the species.

It may have thus far escaped your notice that we women are plumbed differently than men. This difference in equipment dictates that we do not have regular occasion to lift that ring of contention known as “the toilet seat.” That’s not to say that there aren’t those among us who, at some point during our formative years, didn’t experiment just to revel in the liberation of  carrying out certain necessities of nature while standing upright. But such attempts are generally one-time occurrences, being met with varying degrees of failure  and subsequent clean-up efforts.

And coincidentally, it is the very topic of “clean-up efforts” that concerns us today. For you see, having but rare motivation to lift the seat, those of us who lack a Y chromosome are ignorant—perhaps blissfully so—of the ecosystem which from time to time lays claim to the territory below. In fact, it is generally a great shock when we do find ourselves exploring the porcelain realm of man and discover the proliferation of flora and fauna establishing their colonies like coral along the Great Barrier Reef.

While diversity of life is to be celebrated in the ocean or the rainforest, the underside of the toilet seat is a different matter entirely.

It’s called a Clorox wipe. Would it kill you to use it?

5:01. 

AM.  

There is a small person beside bed. I’m dreaming. That’s it—25 days of Christmas has gone to my head, and I’m dreaming about elves.

This is evidently Whiny the Elf.

“My noisemaker stopped working.” Sniff, sniff.

I look at the clock. But that’s not how I know it was 5:01 am, because there is no clock. Or rather, there are no bright red numbers hovering nearby.

Hubby sits up and looks around. “Power’s out.” Then he looks at his Blackberry, which is how I know what time it was.

Now, in my book, 5:01 am is still yesterday. Me and 5:01 am, we do okay as long as we stay out of eachother’s way.

The 6 year old (oh yeah, about the whole elf dream—it wasn’t) tells me she’s too scared to go back to her room, and frankly I’m too tired to get up and walk her, so I give her the go-ahead to hop up under the covers with us. It’s at this point that I realize it’s a school day, and since my alarm clock is, for the time being, merely a chunky plastic dust-magnet, there will be no blaring Spanish-language-hip-hop station to serenade me out of the oblivion I’m hoping to sink back into. There’s an upside to that, of course. A power outage is the perfect guilt-free excuse for getting the kids to school late. Except that I’ve just received a letter telling me that my preschooler has been late or absent just a few days shy of the school district filing class C misdemeanor charges against me.

I go grab my cell phone.

5:07 am

The Hubby calls the power company. The android on the other end tells him that our power will be up before midnight, which is 18 hrs and 59 minutes from now. The Hubby hangs up, perplexed, then calls back. By now the android tells him a crew has been dispatched, and our power will be restored by 6:19am.

5:12 am.

Still trying to program the alarm clock function on my cell phone. Having once accidentally deleted the camera function on this very same phone, I’m a little wary of pushing too many buttons. I finally get it set up to go off at 6:10—less than an hour away. I debate resetting it for 6:13, so I’ll have at least a full hour—because we both know that 3 minutes could make all the difference. I go ahead and turn my clock alarm to “radio” so that it will come on when the power comes back up. Just in case my mad phone-alarm-programming skills fail me.

5:17 am.

 Amazingly, I’ve managed to fall almost asleep. Then The Hubby announces that he is getting up, because he needs to leave the house by 6. I’m delighted that he values my opinion enough to run this decision by me.

At this point, I remind him that the tankless propane water heater has an electric starter (for the record—this is the only drawback to the tankless propane water heater, and it has only come into play twice in 5 years. I feel like I should have a bumper sticker that says “Ask me about my tankless water heater.” And I should get commission for it, too), so we have no hot water. Not only that, but before I went to sleep the weatherman told me that it was going to be in the low 30s, so “no hot water” is a gargantuan understatement. Try “might as well just dump the ice tray on your head.”

One thing I haven’t told you about The Hubby yet: he grew up in a completely different world than I did. Probably than you did, too. They didn’t have indoor plumbing until his birthday cake had double-digit candles on it. In order to shower, they’d boil water on the stove, then take it out and dump it into a barrel and cool it down with water from…well, I’m not sure where the other water came from. A pump, or maybe a hose. I know ultimately it came from an irrigation canal that runs behind their house. But that’s not really the point. The point is, as long as we have a gas stove, a little thing like a power outage isn’t going to stand in the way of The Hubby taking a shower.

5:25 am

I had no idea boiling water could be so noisy. Have I been making this much noise when I boil water all these years? Who knew. I guess it never mattered since there was never anyone trying to FALL ASLEEP IN THE NEXT ROOM.

5:35 am

The Hubby is heating yet another pot of hot water to dump into the Home Depot bucket (Home Depot buckets are indespensible. I think I’m going to start giving them as wedding presents. No home should be without one) when the smoke alarm starts going off.

See, I have a commercial propane stove. It gets really hot. So hot that it requires a commercial vent…which runs on electricity. So at this moment, the fan is not running. My best guess is that during the food-fest that was Thanksgiving weekend, something got spilled on the stove and collected on the drip tray beneath the burners, and that something is now giving off smoke.

Our smoke alarms are really loud. Really, really loud.

5:45 am

In the past 10 minutes, the smoke alarms have gone off 4 times.  The Hubby has alternated tending the water on the stove with rushing to fan the smoke detector with a placemat. The 14 year old and the 10 year old are now awake, and they are all having a conversation in the living room. The fact that the alarms went off 4 times before they came out to see what was going on doesn’t instill much confidence in me that my children will actually respond in case of an emergency.

5:59 am

The Hubby finally has enough hot water to take a shower. If I fall asleep right now, I will get 11 minutes before my phone alarm goes off. I am almost there. I hear the shower door open and close, and then blissful nothingness….

6:00am

The sound of Spanish language hip-hop blares me back to consciousness. “Hey, look at that honey—they got the power back on 19 minutes early. I guess you could have waited after all.”

6:01 am

Nothing that happened after this point should really go into print….

The Hubby loves me. And he does his best to show it, honest he does. After 23 years of intense training, he’s learned to express his feelings. He realizes that I need to hear things like “I love you so much,” and “I find you irresistable.” It took some coaching (and by coaching, I mean that I literally had to tell him things like, “Honey, this would be a good time for you to say, That dress looks amazing on you.”) for it to become almost second-nature for him to dole out the loving affirmations. But even after all my patient guidance and all his diligent effort, it doesn’t always come out right…

Presented for your amusement, a list of things that The Hubby meant as compliments, but that somehow got lost in translation.

“I thought that maybe after I pay the mortage I could set aside some money for you to go get your hair done.” What he means is “Gee, I know you’ve been wanting to go to the salon, but you’re worried about spending the money. I’ll make sure to put it in next payperiod’s budget.” But of course, what I’m thinking is that if HE’S noticed that I haven’t been to the salon in a while, it must really be bad. Like, Bride of Frankenstein bad.

Today, I told him a story related to a baseball game, and I made the comment “…left field, or maybe it was right field. I don’t know which is which.” He listened to the rest of the story and said: “Since you’re a walking encyclopedia, you need to know something. If you’re at home plate, THIS (pointing with his left hand) is left field, and THIS (pointing with his right hand) is right field. It would be really embarrassing for you to know everything else and not know that.”  See, what he meant it “I married me one smart cookie!” But what it came out as…well, notsomuch.

And my personal favorite: “Today I was sitting in church, before the service started, and I noticed how all the women had their perfect hair and their expensive shoes, and nice jewelry that matched their outfits, and I realized that I am so lucky that my wife isn’t as high maintenance as that.”

Yeah, that one kind of goes without explanation, doesn’t it?

It’s a good thing he’s a cute man….

First, a warning: This is for grown-ups only. Not that it’s anything bad, it’s just about all that icky kissy-face lovey-dovey stuff that you find repulsive anyway. So if you’re my daughter or one of her friends that friended me on FB, go back to playing Farmville. Nothin’ to see here. Move along.

In my last post, I shared three of my tips for rockin’ your marriage. Again, they’re not in order according to importance. In fact, if I had to pick my favorite, it would be this next one.

Four. Don’t nag. Anyone who’s ever watched a TV sitcom knows that men don’t like to be nagged. What you don’t find out until after your married is that their definition of nagging is fairly broad, including any sentence starting with “can you,” “would you,” “did you,” or “I wish you.”

Pretty much kills the honey-do list, don’t it?

Okay, here’s the game plan: Next time you catch your hubby in the process of doing something helpful–even if it’s something as menial as putting the seat down or something he does without being asked, like mowing the lawn–watch him. When he turns around and sees you, smile, do the lip-biting thing, let your eyelids flutter a little while breathing through puckered lips (practice this first to make it all natural, so he doesn’t think you’re having a seizure or something) and say: “That makes me so hot.”

He will probably think you’re being a total goofball, or that you’re teasing him. Here’s where the most important part of this whole scheme–I mean marriage building strategy–comes in. Follow through. And when you follow through, make sure you remind him what got you so hot in the first place.

Now, I’m NOT talking about sex as a reward. Don’t go there–it’s dangerous, because the flip-side becomes withholding sex as a punishment. Don’t ever do that. Ever. Bad. More about this later.

On to the next step of our plan. Let’s say you have a honey-do item you really need your honey to do. The first time, I happened to need the suitcases put up in the attic. Corner your hubby. Get close, hands on pecs or shoulders, nibble his ear and whisper: “You know what would make me really hot? If when I got back from the grocery store, the suitcases were put away in the attic so I didn’t trip on them on my way into the bedroom.”

If you don’t play this right, he’s going to feel duped. This is where you plant the big, passionate kiss on him. A little tease is okay, too. If he laughs, or shoots you one of those “you are so kidding me” looks, assure him that you are completely serious. Oh–and slap his butt on your way out of the room. That’s good, too.

More likely than not, he will comply with your request. Again–follow through. And your regular-old Tuesday night routine isn’t going to cut it. You promised him that not tripping over the suitcases was going to make you really hot. Step it up, sistah.

In the unlikely event that he doesn’t comply, you’re going to have to repeat a step, just increase the intensity to let him know you’re really, really serious. You might even make a small good faith payment up front.

5. NEVER use sex as a punishment. Ever. Dangerous, relationship-killing stuff here. Just don’t do it. Now, that being said, there are times when we women can be so wounded that intimacy isn’t a happy thought. It’s okay to have that talk with your hubby. Let him know–without blame or accusing words–that you feel hurt (did you get that? Not “you hurt me,” or “you did this wrong.” Say something like “I’m feeling hurt because of…”), and that in order to be intimate a woman needs to feel safe and open with her husband.

In my experience, the best time to have this talk is snuggled up in bed. Even if you’re mad and hurt, cuddling up in his arms will encourage the feelings of safety you need. And your hubby’s less likely to be defensive in the dark with your face pressed against his chest. Of course, he probably has other incentive to listen to your side and make up. This isn’t the time to get caught up in what his motivations are. I’ll fill you in on a little secret: 98% of a man’s motivations in a relationship are related to sex. That might be a conservative estimate. As long as you are more winsome than whiny, this kind of pillow talk can be more valuable than all the money you could ever throw at a marriage counselor. Especially if you’re doing that touching him on the right side of his body thing while you’re talking.

And a final gem of wisdom: If you want to be treated like a treasure, act like a treasure. Wherever you are in your marriage right now, stop and ask yourself this question: Do I want to be head-over-heels in love with a man that feels the same way about me? Do I want knock-the-world-off-its-axis love, the kind that curls my toes and makes people wonder what the heck I’m smiling about? Just say yes, because trust me–it totally rocks.

It takes two to make a marriage work. But it takes ONE to start the process. Don’t worry about whether your mate is doing his share. You can’t control that. But you can influence it. And telling him that he’s doing everything wrong is going to have the wrong kind of influence. Act like a treasure. Be the woman he can’t wait to come home to. Be the woman he can’t keep his hands off. Set your alarm to go off 20 minutes before he gets home from work, and go put on some make-up and perfume.

It doesn’t mean you have to be June Cleaver (thank GOD, because I would so be sunk….). But make the effort. Tell him what you appreciate about him. Tell him how sexy he is. Even if–no, ESPECIALLY if–he’s growing a bald spot and his six-pack abs show that he’s had a few too many six packs. Smile. Let your words be sweet. Make him feel loved, and he probably won’t be able to keep from reciprocating. Trust me, the pay-off is well worth the effort.

I went to a party recently. You know, those Tupperware-ish parties, only this wasn’t Tupperware. It was a Pure Romance party. And yes, it’s pretty much exactly what you’re thinking. The hostess was a dear friend of mine from Church, and she has made a ministry of helping women reignite and keep the spark in their marriages.

When the time came to order, one of the guests–a very conservative looking woman in her 50s–held up one of the sample bottles of lotion and whispered to me, “My husband will think I’ve lost my mind if I come home with any of this stuff. I just don’t know how he’ll react!” I smiled and said, “Honey, I can tell you exactly how he’ll react!”

I hate to generalize, because someone always lets me know that THEY are the exception to the rule, and I’m sure this is no exception to the exception rule. Men are, for the most part, slaves to a certain part of their anatomy. Not a big secret, right? And it’s not a bad thing.

After all, it makes them a whole lot easier to figure out….

On my very first post (About the chaos), I said that this blog would not improve your life. Except for the free tidbit about using a blowdryer to defog your bathroom mirror, I think I’ve done a pretty admirable job of following through on that promise.

But as I prepare to celebrate 19 years of wedded bliss, I’m feeling the urge to impart some marital wisdom, so I hereby revoke the aforementioned commitment to irrelevance in favor of invoking something relevant about commitment.

You might be wondering about my qualifications at this point. I mean, lots of couples end up being married a long time, but nobody’s searching Amazon for Archie Bunker’s Relationship Guide. Let me just say that we have had our ups and downs, we have weathered near-bankruptcy, the birth of a special needs child, and the shoulder-to-shoulder building of a house, and we are more madly in love today than ever. I’m talkin’ toe-curling, make-me-blush, knock-the-world-off-its-axis love.

For the most part, I think having that kind of relationship is a choice. Sure, there are lots of people whose Prince (or Princess) Charming turned out to be a bona fide toad. Not a cute little croaking frog, but a nasty, poison-oozing, get-that-thing-off-my-back-porch toad. But most of the time, I think it’s a matter of perspective, of seeing the frog in ourselves and realizing that if this person really was perfect, they’d no doubt be smart enough to realize they were too good for us (I pray The Hubby never figures this out).

So here, in no particular order (because I’m only halfway through my cuppa tea, and since I’m still out of English Breakfast tea I’m drinking white tea, which tastes kinda like wet dog smell mixed with chewing tobacco, and it’s not even hot anymore, more like lukewarm. So there’s no way I’m going to be able to intentionally come up with anything resembling “order.”), are a few of my secrets to a happy marriage.

1. Take it when you can get it. There is nothing sexier to a husband than the sight of his wife washing dishes. Or vacuuming. Or folding laundry. The same man who–when sitting down to the lovingly prepared meal of all his favorite foods that you slaved over half the day–can lick his plate clean, belch, and never register any emotion whatsoever will see you standing over a sink full of dishes, unshowered, hair pulled up in a My Little Pony headband you found under the couch when you were looking for the Baby Einstein DVD that the 3-yr-old was having an absolute meltdown over, up to your elbows in soap suds, and think “I’ve gotta have that woman now.”

If you’re married, you’ve been there. And you’ve probably said the same thing I said for the first 10 years or so of my marriage, some hostile version of “Are you crazy?”

I think it must be tied to the whole predator/prey thing. You know–the predator spies the prey in a vulnerable situation and then pounces, knowing the prey won’t flee and risk dripping dirty dishwater all over the floor.

Here’s my advice: let the predator win. After all, what’s more fun: scraping dried yogurt out of cereal bowls or having someone nibble your neck? And don’t just stiffen up and endure it. Stop the scraping. Relax. And yes, a man’s idea of affection is basically a good grope. If your hubby is attracted enough to you to want to grope you–congratulations! Don’t do anything to make him change his mind. Let him play the victorious tiger rejoicing over the spoils of his hunt for a minute, and then you can say something like “Okay Tiger, the sooner I get these dishes washed, the sooner we can get the kids in bed.”

B. Flirt shamelessly. No, not with the cute barista at Starbucks. He’s half your age, for cryin’ in a bucket! I mean with your hubby. Think back to when you first met, when you were trying to get his attention. Bat your eyelashes, smile winsomely. Let him catch you checkin’ out his butt, and then look away bashfully when he catches you. Or don’t look away–wink at him.

Studies show (don’t ask me which studies. I have 831 messages in my inbox. You honestly think I’m the kind of person who can keep up with where I read something?) that touching a man on the right side of his body crosses the physical/emotional attachment..thing. Basically, when you touch them on the right side, it does more than elicit a physical reaction, it also makes them more caring, loving, etc. Use that to your advantage. Trace your fingertip along the edge of his ear. Play with his hair. Drag your fingernails down his bicep. Oh–and when you do, bite your lip and act all hot. Guys love that stuff.

III. LAUGH. See, I put that in all caps. Must be important. One of the biggest mistakes I made for the first decade or so of our marriage was taking everything–including myself–too seriously. I was obsessed with the notion of acting like a “grown-up,” which evidently meant we weren’t supposed to be having any fun. Or rather, that there was a time for fun and a time for business, and never the twain should meet.

How many times have you read or heard that laughter releases endorphins? It’s true. And laughter is a heck of an aphrodisiac. It’s really good at curing self-consciousness, too. Just make sure you laugh with your spouse and at yourself, not the other way around. And take this attitude with you into the boudoir. I’m not talking about wearing a clown wig and cracking jokes (unless your hubby likes that sorta thing…), but lighten up. Intimacy doesn’t have to be some formal, solemn act. It’s supposed to be fun.

Next post: How am I supposed to get anything done when any sentence starting with the words “Will you” qualifies as nagging? Ah–I have the secret! My very favorite marriage tip ever.

In an interview about her long and happy marriage to legendary preacher Billy Graham, Ruth Graham was asked if Billy had ever made her mad enough to consider divorce. She replied, “Divorce? No. Murder….”

I figure The Hubby, being a huge fan of Rev. Graham, might get a kick out of that quote. I hope so, anyway, because I’m afraid I might have hurt his feelings in one of my blog posts (BTW–when I said that I kept the whole if-he’d-waited-five-minutes-for-the-traffic-to-clear-he-wouldn’ta-had-to-wake-me-up thing to myself…well, according to him, not-so-much).

Let me say, for the record, that The Hubby deserves a medal for putting up with me. He prefers anonymity, and I’m not always so invisible. He is perfectly happy to have nothing in particular going on, and when things start moving a little slow I somehow find ways to get into trouble. When one of my infamous “great ideas” sent us skidding to the brink of bankruptcy, The Hubby held me as I cried on his big, strong shoulder and told me “we’re in this together.”

Yes, if this man were any more perfect, he’d realize he was much too good for me. So when I point out the little foibles of daily husbandry (not to be confused with animal husbandry, which is a totally different thing), it isn’t to detract from his character. It’s more to illustrate that two people are going to clash: they are going to see things differently, trip over each other’s toes. They are going to do things that completely defy what the other perceives as logic and sense. And that’s okay. That’s what keeps it interesting. And I’m all about interesting.

So, when I closed my last post, I had just been informed that we would be going over to Tia Sandra’s house for another big family get-together the next day. Gus’ Tia Sandra (who happens to be my age) is one of my favorite people in the world. She’s one of those absolutely beautiful women who also happen to be gracious and sweet and genuinely nice. Despite the fact that she doesn’t speak English and I don’t understand Spanish (clarification: I speak decent Spanish. However, I cannot understand it. At all.) we’ve still managed to forge a friendship. And she has two wonderful boys (who do speak English), one of whom always brings his guitar and plays Beatles’ tunes for me, so it’s always a treat to get to see them.

But Mason-chasin’ at someone else’s house is exhausting. It will be every bit as physically draining as the reunion, but with the added mental toll of keeping him from unpotting houseplants and testing the bouncibility of various knick-knacks.

After several hours of saying “no-no-don’t,” The Hubby (who would willingly take over the Mason-chasin’, but he hasn’t seen most of these people in thirty years) finally comes to tell me that we can leave. I gather our stuff and make the rounds, hugging all the relatives goodbye with the squirming, wriggling 4 year-old on my hip. I’m pretty sure I’ve made the complete circuit when Gus makes his way to my side. I hand the baby to him, and he smiles. Not an I-love-you-thank-you-you’re-the-best-wife-in-the-world smile. More of a you-are-so-not-gonna-like-this smile.

And he’s not taking the baby.

“The guys need me to play quarterback.”

They need you? Really? The early Americans needed George Washington. Johnny Carson needed Ed McMahon. Timmy needed Lassie (or a decent contractor to come fill in those pesky wells). But I’ve known this man 23 years. I could make you a long list of his good points, his talents, all those attributes that make me the luckiest woman in the world.

Quarterback wouldn’t be on the list.

By this time Mason is beyond overstimulated and way past overtired. He’s only interested in moving and creating havoc. He is meeting my efforts to hold him with extreme resistance, in the form of thrashing and screaming, and I am sure the entire family thinks I am the worst mother in the world.

During a huddle, I make my way around to the side of the house, away from the crowd. There’s a wooden swing tucked away there, and isolated from the noise and motion Mason settles down and snuggles up close to me. We swing, and once in a while a breeze will come through, prompting the angel in my arms to say, “Mommy, wind….” I stroke his hair and kiss his head. I hum a lullaby, and he asks me to sing. This is bliss, the poetry of life.

And then BLAM! The world goes black for a moment, and when the lights come back up there are two men I recognize–a cousin and a cousin-in-law–asking if I’m all right. One of them picks up the football, which has come to a rest several feet away from the swing. I assure them that I’m okay–although I have a hard time hearing my own words over the racket of the birds circling my head. “It was your husband!” They tell me. “He threw it!” Mad quarterback skills, I’m telling ya’….

They go back around the house, and I finally let the tears spill over my bottom eyelid. Mason is rattled. My head really hurts, and I’m having a hard time holding him now that he’s getting squirmy again. If I can just keep it together until Gus comes to check on me. He’ll hold Mason just for a minute while I gather my–

“HUT! HUT!”

Hut? Unless two-below rules are vastly different from regular football, I don’t think “hut” indicates that there will be a time-out while the quarterback goes to check on his injured wife.

I have borne this man four beautiful children–that’s 36 months of pregnancy, 48 hours of hard, pitocin-induced labor, and a cumulative 46 months of breast-feeding (the babies). Not to mention the sleep deficit I’ve incurred as a result–and this is the thanks I get? He hits me in the head with a football and not so much as a “sorry”?

Thirty minutes later he looks over and shoots me a casual “You okay?”

I smile. Not an I-love-you-you’re-the-best-husband-in-the-world smile. More like a I-certainly-hope-you-have-big-plans-for-making-this-up-to-me smile.

“They said you were okay.”

Thumper’s whole “if you can’t say something nice…” line from Bambi never really took root in my etiquette arsenal. So when I don’t respond, The Hubby knows it’s not a good sign.

I don’t know how many options he kicks around before trying again, but he goes with: “It was an accident.”

For the guys reading this, you are about to get–for free–a very valuable piece of advice: “It was an accident” is not the right answer to anything. Ever. Ever infinity.

“You didn’t even come check on me.”

“We were in the middle of the game, and…..”

“I am fairly certain that hitting your wife in the back of the head with a football is grounds for calling a time out!”

More free advice: the right thing to say in this situation is “I’m so sorry, honey. You’re right, I should have checked on you right away. I’m really sorry.” Some women might also require jewelry, but if you’ve chosen your mate wisely a tender embrace will complete the apology sufficiently.

It’s at this point that The Hubby adds, “The game’s almost over–” Almost as in not yet. “–we’re winning.”

Oh, yes. Because I’m completely fine with being hit in the head with a football as long as I get to go home with the star quarterback.

Okay, so that’s sorta true. I mean, he’s really cute. And besides, I figure I can milk this concussion thing for a while. I’m all about the leverage….