What women think men want….

For twelve-plus years, I’ve been married to my best friend, my soul mate and my confidant. However, “Biceps” is still an enigma. He leaves me guessing. He surprises me. He zigs where I most definitely thought he would zag. And, I still don’t quite “get” him.

I could be dressed up like a robot, adorned with crazy make-up, covered in silver paint and topped with a strainer for a hat-and yet-for some reason, Biceps finds me utterly irresistible.I had to get to the bottom of my puzzling man.

I don’t quite fit the mold when it comes to being a supermodel. What made me irresistible to the most attractive man that I know?

My ponderings begged the question-“What exactly do men want from their women?”.

This is what I’m told I should look like. Well, this with a tiny dog, a fancy car, a ridiculously overpriced purse and an attitude.

However, this is me-in a banana costume, at a party with people I don’t know, toilet papering my husband.

Totally normal. Not exactly glamorous, fabulous or with any spared room for an overpriced purse.
And still, Biceps found me irresistible. So, either the magazines are wrong or my husband is crazy. I had to test my theory.

After careful research, a lengthy and dedicated “home-study”, a litmus test with an uncompromised subject group-the results were in.

(Most) Men don’t care if our shoes match our purses. Heck, they don’t even care if our shoes match our outfits. Wear flip-flops with an evening gown. 9 out of 10 men won’t notice.

(Most) Men don’t worry about our style, or if we’re “in it”. They worry about the fact that we still adore them, can’t live without them, and think they are the cat’s meow. They want to be our heroes-nay our superheroes-if we’ll let them. (Most) men hope to be our knight in shining armor, even if we’ve been married 12 plus years. If we are in sweatpants, an oversized Mustang t-shirt and with our hair up in a bun…it doesn’t matter, as long as we look at them with adoration and tell them how we feel about their strong muscles.

So, keep your liposuction, your lip implants, your “I don’t care, but I do” dress. I’ll stick with kissing my husband passionately each day and doing it with my hair in a bun. It’s so much easier, so much cheaper and so much more enjoyable. Just ask Biceps.

Tornadoes ruin Date Nights

Last night, Biceps and I finished our puppet box project for a church here in town earlier than expected. (Unfamiliar with this side of my life? This is what I’m referring to):

Once aforementioned box was completed, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We actually had a few hours of free time.

So, we came up with a brilliant plan-date night!

However, this started rolling in-along with thunder, rain and lightening. However, we forged ahead with our plans. I got the hairdryer out, the make-up bag and the hairspray. I wanted to look good for my man. I even remembered deodorant.

Then, we started noticing all of the outdoor events we were to partake of were being cancelled. People were talking of getting into their storm shelters. Sissies, I thought. I’ve seen worse.

The weatherman put a big red blob across my state and plastered it with, “Tornado Warning.” I sighed and washed the make-up off my face.

Tornadoes are stupid. Instead of being able to cuddle up and relax like you would with a snowstorm, you spend two hours watching the news and prepping for the inevitable. The storm chasers describe the scene with glee, the same video of touch-downs keeps rolling and you finally give up and go to bed.

Tornadoes ruin date nights. The weather owes me one.

The Sunflower State is Friggin’ Awesome

Dear Readers:

Did you know that I’m from Kansas? I mean, technically I’m from Landstuhl, Germany. But, do the first three years of your life really count?
And did you know that I’m in Kansas right now? Be still my beating heart.

Kansas is where I claim to have grown up. My childhood consisted of sunflower fields, cows, tornadoes, coyotes (pronounced ki-yoat) and snakes. And all that was found just in my backyard.

Due to my extreme nostalgia, it’s no small wonder that sunflowers are my favorite flowers-second only to daffodils. I would drag these ginormous yellow and brown beauties into the house, sending my extremely allergic brother to the brink of insanity. Sorry, Pat. I thought you were just being a wuss and trying to get out of work. We didn’t know about allergies back then.

Heck, I didn’t even know about salad dressing back then.

The only thing better than being in Kansas, is being in my hometown of Manhattan, Kansas at Vista. And eating french fries with my parents while the Beatles play on the jukebox. (But, that’s a whole other side story.)

However, I’m not in Manhattan-I’m in Kansas City, which is the fancy part of Kansas. Unlike Manhattan, Kansas City has museums, real shopping, “districts”, and a major league baseball team. As a little kid, I was always intimidated by Kansas City and thought the kids here were cooler than I was.

I bet they even knew about salad dressing.

I joined Biceps on a overnight work gig, so while he is hard at work, I’m going to go see things like this at the Nelson-Atkins Museum.

And things like this. All. By. Myself. I won’t have to hurry up when I want to stay, or linger when I want to move on.

Let’s review the facts about today:
I’m in Kansas
I’m going to a museum-alone!
Biceps is simultaneously making us money
My meals are paid for

The verdict is: Kansas is friggin’ awesome.

Slap the stupid out of me.

Dear Readers:
I’m mad. I mean, REALLY MAD. In fact-I’m going to use a phrase I never use. I’m spit-fire MAD. And here’s why:

We, as crazy, wordy humans, say a lot of things. Extreme things: never, always, I’ll just die.

Ambiguous things: I dunno, maybe, kinda, yep.

Things to each other that we don’t honor: I will love you forever, I could never be mad at you.

And we text and email and IM all these words back and forth to each other. And before you know it, we mix the most sacred of words with the most mundane of all conversations.

I love you.
I love those shoes.

Forever, I’m yours.
I haven’t seen you, in like, forever.

I will marry you.
This sandwich married together perfectly the spicy mustard with the pastrami. 

Which leads us into devaluing what we say and what we’ve commit to.

Be mine, for all time.
He used to be mine. 

Till death do us part.
I was going to kill him if we had to stay together.

He makes me so happy.
We weren’t happy anymore.  

I’m an observer. I enjoy watching as marriages, relationships and friendships begin.
The first time a conversation is sparked leaves each party feeling elated and renewed. Weeks later, there is still so much to learn about that person and neither one could imagine life without the other. Your old friends think that you’re ignoring them, and to be perfectly honest-you don’t care.
Months roll on by and that person is maybe less of a priority, but still high on the list. You quit planning your entire day around them and start to schedule them in.
Years roll by and you find yourself either without the relationship intact any longer, or it’s down on the totem pole of priority. After all, you’ve got to live your life.

Which leads me to asking, “What happened?” Why is the “spark” out? Why does that once intriguing friend now bore you? Why is the person you just couldn’t get enough of, now-get on your every last nerve?

We are a finicky race, us humans. We allow our minds, our thoughts, our eyes to wander when something prettier, newer, skinnier, less complicated comes along.
A decent car now looks like a jalopy when parked next to that brand new, never driven Mercedes.
A nice laptop suddenly pales in comparison to that fancy new one at the Apple Store.
When you visit your boss’ house, your house suddenly seems small, out of date and embarrassing.

And your husband becomes commonplace and unappealing as you read “50 Shades of Gray” (for the record, I have never read this book-but I’ve heard enough talk about it to know what is up, ladies).

The socks left by him at the foot of the bed-for days-start to get under your skin. I mean, can’t he put those in the basket?!
The little tiny hairs from him shaving and not properly rinsing out the sink grate on your nerves. I just cleaned that!
He chooses just the most inopportune time to become amorous. I just ate pasta. Really?!

And then, along comes this guy. And he’s perfect. And interesting. And funny.
And he smells great and opens the door for you and he knows just what questions to ask and when to ask them and he moves the hair off your face and tucks it behind your ear just right and he thinks you’re awesome and, and, and…
And his socks would never bother you and he never farts and you know he’s a clean freak, just like you, and, and, and…

So you entertain the thought of him. And you open up your facebook and you “friend” him. And you start to message him. And you keep it from your husband.

And suddenly, your “forever” is more like, “when it’s convenient and it still makes me happy.” Before long, your “forever” is over. And that is what is making me spit-fire MAD.

And you look back on it and wonder when it started to go all wrong. It went wrong way before dating and marriage and facebook. It went wrong the first time you compared what you had to what someone else had-and you were ungrateful.

I’ve done it. My scratched up, 280,00 mile van is embarrassing surrounded by brand new Lexus’, Mercedes and BMW’s in the parking lot of where I occasionally work. My clothes have holes in them. I dress vintage because it’s cute, but mainly due to lack of advertising funds. You better believe I’m comparing my TJ Maxx purse to that women’s $1,500 Prada bag. I’m finicky. I compare and judge and evaluate.

And, I’m ungrateful.

And that is what makes me MAD. So, when you see me do it-slap me. Slap the stupid right out of me. Remind me that I’m being ungrateful and its a slippery slope from cars to clothes to shoes to husbands.

I believe love is forever and it is most certainly worth fighting for. I believe the “till death do us part”. I believe in what I said at the altar, what God has said about marriage and I want to be grateful-every day-for that. So, dear readers: you have my permission to slap me and get all spit-fire MAD at me if I start to slip.

Hold me to it.