D 1, Y 0

They say the first year of marriage is the hardest. I don’t know why this is true for other people, but for us, it’s because of all the very important fights we have.

The other night we were watching Olympic short track skating and we were at each other’s throats by the end of this conversation.

Me: Speed skaters have huge thighs.
Y: This isn’t speed skating.
Me: What is this?
Y: Short track skating.
Me: Are they not skating fast? It’s speed skating!
Y: No. It’s short track.
Me: Fine. Is this slow skating? Medium skating?
Y: It’s just called short track! Speed skating is entirely different.
Announcer: Welcome back to Olympic Short track speed skating!
Y: FINE.

Or take this past weekend’s blowout, when Y told me that the song I made up about Ike while we were washing dishes didn’t make sense.

It takes two to make an Ike go right…

What about that doesn’t make sense?! This led to a heated discussion about whether or not the original song even made sense. It was intense. And yes, we (okay, I) sing songs about our dog while we do chores. Deal with it. And just try not to get Puppyrazzi stuck in your head. Just try.

I could go on for days. There was the time Y laughed in my face when I told him I was trying out for American Idol the next time they came to Shreveport. Or the time I woke him up in the middle of the night because I was having an especially vivid dream that the fan above us was about to crash into my head and he whined for months about the 30 seconds of beauty sleep I had cost him.

Or what about the fact that Y constantly speaks ill of my childhood dog because he peed on Y ONCE.

Cinnamon was a saint, Y. A saint.


It’s gotten so bad that I couldn’t write this post without getting into a fight with Y. For some reason, he was trying to explain the “Christmas tree” method of filling out a scantron to a friend, and made this image:

I glanced over and, out of the kindness of my heart, commented {rightly so, don’t you think?} that his picture looked nothing like a Christmas tree. We are no longer speaking.


whale + weapon



I just finished reading this book:



Apparently this makes me qualified to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing: creating a logo for Y’s ebay username: Beluga Torpedo, selected by the random word generator. His vision: a combination beluga and torpedo. (Oh come on, can you come up with something better?)

I’m pretty much a professional now, so I’ll henceforth refer to Mr. Beluga Torpedo as The Client. The Client was pleased with the final product, and because he is actually married to me {the extensively trained designer} he offered no payment. Instead, he had a decal made of the design and stuck it to his laptop for all to see — the ultimate honor.

So the next time you’re in the final stretch, mere moments away from winning your auction only to have it snatched from your very grasp at the last possible second, look around. Beluga Torpedo is always watching.




the odd couple


Some girls say it’s hard for them to deal with their new husbands’ sloppiness. I have to say, I didn’t have that problem.


Before you ask, I have no clue why I have a picture of my messy
room circa 2005. I guess I knew I would need it for my future blog?

I think I’ve done a pretty good job reforming myself since then, and Y and I are the perfect cleaning team. When he cleans, he goes for the germs. When I clean, I make sure everything looks pretty. (See previous entry about the branch in the bathroom. Y probably scrubbed that branch with disinfectant and then put it back on the floor, whereas I might have put the branch in the trash, fluffed the towels and left the residue from a used q-tip on the sink.)


I prefer my motto: What? Salmonella? But look how nicely those jars are lined up!



far more than Y’s motto: Yay! A germ free bathroom floor!





that would be his underwear… 5 minutes before we had people over.


when boredom strikes, bake.

I had a problem yesterday — there was nothing to do. I get twitchy when there’s nothing to do; I need some sort of project.

So like any normal person with an entire day to herself and a hint of southern Louisiana homesickness, I decided to make a king cake.

I was promised by the commenters on allrecipes.com (who all swear they are THE most qualified to determine king cake authenticity based on number of years living in New Orleans) that this recipe was the real deal, and I pretty much agree. It definitely tasted more like a king cake than North Louisiana’s version (which, while delicious, is NOT a king cake. I know. I lived within 70 miles of New Orleans for over 10 years).


On the off chance you’re like me and find yourself thinking, “Why sit in front of the tv all day when I can spend hours making something I can easily find at any local bakery?”, then this 20 year old Southern Living recipe is most definitely for you, provided you live in Louisiana and it’s ~40 days before Easter.

I’ll leave you with this vintage Mardi Gras picture, because I love embarrassing people… especially myself (I’m on the left). I distinctly remember showing our hairdresser a picture of Jessica Simpson and believing she could make me look just like her with a bunch of hairspray and a $1 gold headband. I think it worked!




…That was sarcasm. I need some really ugly high waisted jeans to make that happen.

Happy Mardi Gras!