Karen from Simply A Musing Blog asks: Do you ever have to have the last word in an argument or do you let your husband have it? Also, if you let him have it, does that make you a more virtuous wife? Just kidding on the last one – but seriously…my husband will break down each statement I make in the heat of a disagreement and compare and contrast, then alliterate his points and subpoints when making his case. Does anyone else’s husband ever do this? or is this just a preacher thing?

Answer: My husband and I rarely have arguments. This is in large part because we’ve been married twenty years and rather than fuss at him, I have the whole argument in my head. I recite both parts, his and mine, and reach the conclusion of the argument without ever having to involve him at all. I am mostly kidding, but often, I let things slide because I really do hate to argue with him.

I tend to be the one who cannot let things go permanently, though. Weeks after a disagreement, I might bring it up, only to make a sarcastic or wry comment. So I suppose I tend to have the last word since I never forget about the dust-up that we’ve had.

My husband doesn’t break apart my statements, as your does, so I’m going to have to say that might be a personality thing and not a pastor thing. I am more apt to be the one analyzing and trapping him in his words . . . and knowing that I can be vicious with my words, I really do try to guard my words and just let things that don’t matter drop.

I am by no means virtuous, however. I just don’t like to fight with him.

Go ahead.  Ask me a nosy question.  Or ask me something that you have wondered.  Or ask me my favorite color.  (Purple.  Now you don’t need to ask.)
I’ll answer.  (Hey, I told the whole world my weight–170 at the moment–so I have nothing left to hide.)

The Nanny Diaries video

Clearly, a weekend away has left me without a single idea in my head, but remind me to tell you how beautiful the lake was up in Bellingham and about how much I adore the friends we visited there.

You all should know that I have been waking up every morning at 6:20 a.m. to walk for an hour with a friend. I hate this. And love this. I hate it in the two minutes between 6:17 a.m. and 6:20 a.m. when I am awake, still in bed and wondering if there’s any way I can stand up my friend without being rude and embarrassed.

I love it every minute of the day after 6:35 a.m., once I’m underway and after I’m done. Something about early-morning daily exercise makes me feel so virtuous. I am a night person, a middle of the day person, but not at all a morning person. But I like being a morning exerciser, so I make choices.

While the rest of you are melting like an ice cream cone held by a two-year old, I am wearing jeans and a sweatshirt while I sit at the pool and watch the kids swim. It’s been 70 degrees here and a little overcast. (A morning marine layer scoots in from the ocean and it takes until noon before the sun burns it off.) I love this kind of weather, although I’d really like to spend more of these cloudy afternoons swinging in a hammock, reading.

And no, I have no hammock, nor do I ever read in the afternoon unless I’m at the pool and then it’s like this: read one sentence, “Mom, look at this!”, look, smile, nod, reread the same sentence, “No, that wasn’t it! Look at this!”, look, smile, give thumbs-up signal, scan page to figure out where I was, read the same sentence again. This is a very slow way to get through a novel.

My daughter has packed up ten stuffed animals, her CD player, headphones, a Petco Pet Member Card, a rubber band, a dolly, and–who knows?–a partridge in a pear tree because we’re going to visit friends for the weekend. She is very excited about this impending adventure, but the 14-year olds are mad because I “ruined” their weekend. “Thanks a lot, Mom!” (They had planned a sleepover tonight and were going to a sort-of birthday party on Saturday. “Can I just stay home?” one of them asked. “No!” I said. “Why?!” he said. “Because,” I said, “You’re not old enough, you’re not responsible, and because I said so.”) I bring joy and despair wherever I go.

Look out.

I’m loving this show, Flipping Out, but I am concerned about Jeff Lewis’ lips. I think he and Melanie Griffith must go to the same plastic surgeon and I just want to say STOP.

I saw a few episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter tonight while I ironed my husband’s pants. I love that show, too, especially Dog’s hair. How can you not, really? And his wife, Beth, rocks.

I heard about the Beckham’s new fragrance, “Intimately Beckham,” and I have to say that I will never purchase said fragrance. I know nothing about David Beckham, but his wife, Victoria, scares me. Does she ever smile? Is she made of plastic? I am boycotting celebrity fragrances.

You’d think my brain would percolate with all kinds of interesting ideas and riveting thoughts, but no. Just . . . no. For some reason, my brain is as empty as the milk container in the fridge. I do hate it when I’m in the middle of a thought desert, nothing but sand as far as the eye can see.

However, I would very much like to be bogged down in a thought dessert, which I imagine would be a giant swimming pool filled with peanut butter chocolate cream pie. With whipped cream. And chocolate sprinkles.

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Book winner is Tammy from Garden Glimpses.   Tammy, email me your address and I’ll send the book off to you!  Congratulations!

. . . will be announced tomorrow. I’m exhausted from a full day of life. And it wasn’t even that exciting, unless you count washing sweaters you bought from Value Village exciting. (Especially when you can’t put them in the dryer.)

Oh, and glory be! My 9-year old burst into tears when my husband reacted to the 9-year old burning his arm on the oven while broiling cheese on bread. I said, “Let me see the burn!” and he said, “It doesn’t even hurt!” and I said, “Why are you crying then?” and he said, “Because I hate it when Dad overreacts like that!”

Ha. I am not alone in my overreactions! This makes me feel strangely happy.

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