Tag Archives: marriage

The Spotlight’s On You! Vol 1:7

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As part of “2013 Means Bigger Better Things”, I promised to showcase a blog posting from one reader every week.  (And I broke that promise because I’m working on my book which will be released soon.  But let’s get back on track.)

Here’s how YOU can be featured:

  • Subscribe to my blog
  • Follow @MamaBreadBaker on Twitter
  • Like Mama Bread Baker on Facebook
  • Leave a comment on any of my blog postings

Spotlight

The blog I chose for this week was posted by Opinionated Man over at Harsh Reality where the tag line reads “My goal with this blog is to offend everyone in the world at least once with my words…so no one has a reason to have a heightened sense of themselves.  We are all ignorant, we are all found wanting, we are all bad people sometimes.”

The blog I chose is titled “Women are Crazy.”  I was drawn to the title because, well let’s just be honest here, if you’ve read my blog you know I chose this title because I AM crazy.  Enjoy the read!  

Women are Crazy (The way to lose your female readers)

This is not a relationship blog, but occasionally I will write about and share some revolutionary facts that I discover in my life. Here is one fact that I would love to write about (but not discuss) women are crazy. I would go so far as to say “most” women are crazy and the funny part is they make sense to each other. That really is the kicker, because women can understand the craziness in one another, they then do not consider themselves crazy. Impeccable logic to be sure, it is hard to debate evidence so sound.

Women pick arguments on purpose. The only time men pick arguments on purpose is if we do not like someone, we are drunk, there is a Raider’s fan in the room, or we decide to act macho in front of our woman. Men do not often argue just to argue, do you know why ladies? We are lazy and it is hard to watch Sportscenter AND drink a beer while you argue.  Click here to continue reading…

Adam & Eve – The First Argument

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I don’t know why I’m a perfectionist.  Possibly because I’m the first-born? Maybe because I’m a woman? It could even be a DNA type thing—that obviously didn’t mutate to my teenage crumbsnatchers.  Whatever the reason, somewhere inside lives an evil voice that is never happy with anything I do.

I sometimes wonder if Eve was a perfectionist.  Do you think conversations like this could be overheard in the Garden of Eden?

Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden

Chatting with God after dinner. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Adam (In from a hard day’s work):  Hey honey, I’m home!

Eve:  Don’t track your feet through the beach sand!  I spent all day combing it with palm leaves!

Adam (Scratching his head as he sets his briefcase down):  Are we having company?

Eve:  Adam!  I reminded you this morning before we rolled out of the lush green meadow that God was coming over for dinner tonight!

Adam:  Oh yeah.  I forgot.  That explains why you’re all stressed out.

Eve:  <through gritted teeth>  What did you say?  I’m—not—stressed.  I just want everything to be perfect when He gets here.

Adam:  We live in the Garden of Eden, honey.  I think that is the definition of perfection.  Well, except for that one apple that we can’t have.

Eve:  That’s right, Adam.  We do live in the Garden of Eden and who put us here?  Huh, huh?  Who gave us this?  Huh?

Adam:  There you go throwing that up in my face again.  You don’t think I work hard all day having dominion over all this stuff?  You don’t think that’s some pressure?  Just once I’d like to come home to a peaceful house.

Eve (crying):  sniff…sniff…It’s never enough for you.  I keep myself fit running with the cheetahs every day.  I take care of the meadow, sometimes hand-separating each flowing blade of grass.  I make sure you have fresh coconut milk waiting for you after work, and not once…well there was that time when I had a headache…do I deny you the pleasures of my body.

Adam:  Please don’t cry…you’re right honey.  I know, I know.  You are a perfect woman.  I mean, let’s be honest here.  God made me first.  I was just a test model and when He got the kinks all out, He made the beautiful, perfect woman who you are.

Eve:  Thank you for acknowledging that fact.  (Hugging Adam) And I guess it could be worse.  I could have to deal with a mother-in-law!

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I’m sure that dinner party went well after Adam & Eve made up.  Until the next week when Eve made Apple Cobbler for desert.

I am Eve! (Not really, I’m Cheri.) I am Woman! (That parts true.)  And I make my own Garden of Eden where everything is perfectly imperfect.

© 2013 CThacker

Married With the Option of Widowhood

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When Chief Money Maker asked me to wed, I warned him widowhood was the only way out.  My stance on “til death do us part” remains firm after hearing these two dating stories from single friends.

A couple of 14-carat gold wedding rings. Pictu...

With this ring, I thee wed. I won’t divorce you, but I can kill you dead. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Let’s call the first one Natasha because it’s the closest I’ll even come to writing Russian literature, and because my friend said she’d kill me if I used her real name.  Natasha’s story could be titled, “How to Break-Up Like an Adult.” Then halfway through the story you’d have to add, “And Not Wake Up With Rug Burns.”

Natasha had been dating Vitaly—I like the Russian theme—for about ten months when the Love Goggles defogged.  She knew “The Talk” would happen soon.  She arrived at his house for a date.  Looking for a little love before they met friends, she made a move.  Vitaly slammed on the brakes and suddenly it was time for “The Talk” and a few adult beverages.

Then Natasha went from sober to Otis—that lovable drunk from the Andy Griffith show—in no time flat.  One minute they were promising to remain friends and the next she was face-down on Vitaly’s bathroom floor swearing that she was in his kitchen.  He finally conceded that all Russian kitchens have toilets.

Vitaly checked in on Natasha between the movie he watched, the cigar he smoked, and the baklava he made in the real kitchen.  Eventually, Natasha crawled from the bathroom then face-planted on a tempurpedic mattress—also called “hallway carpet” by sober people.

The next morning, Natasha and Vitaly said good-bye.  She arrived home and looked in the mirror at a mascara-smeared face and a rug-burned upper lip.  That was the last image Vitaly had of Natasha.

Meanwhile, my other friend Christie—I can use her real name because she wants the police to have a trail if she’s murdered—tells me how she broke off her three-week relationship with Dude.

She went to Dude’s house where the plan was to watch a movie.  She’d brought along some home-cooked dinner.  Dude mentioned that he didn’t normally eat food prepared by women because it could contain arsenic. At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of working men isn’t very large where she lives.

Then Dude told her he’d lost his job that day.  Dude’s plan was to draw unemployment and disappear in the woods.  She’d see him when she’d see him.  At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of non-working men with all their teeth isn’t very large where she lives.

The following morning, Dude took care of smelly biological functions…twice…with the bathroom door open while Christie lay in bed.  At this point, the only reason Christie stayed is because the pool of non-working men with all their teeth that promised to disappear isn’t very large where she lives.

But when Dude accused her of lacing his food with arsenic, she had to draw the line. Nobody disses her dishes.  She wondered how large the pool of working women with all their teeth that would appreciate a home-cooked meal was where she lives.

I’m reminded once again how good it is to be married with the option of widowhood.

© 2012 CThacker

My Husband Lost The Little Piggy That Had Roast Beef & Pointer the Index Finger

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“Hey B-Bop…count Chief Money Maker’s toes.”  The four-year old child of friend jumped on the task and began counting down Chief’s toes as they peeked out of his sandals.

“…seven………….eight……………..nine???”  Then he stood there staring down at Chief’s feet, I assume wondering if he had somehow miscounted.  “How many is he supposed to have?” I asked.

“TEN!”

I love messing with kids’ minds.

Chief lost a middle toe due to a construction accident back in his college days.  The next time B-Bop comes over he can count Chief’s fingers.  He lost one this morning due to an error in judgment.

He drew this with his index finger on our dining room table.

© 2012 CThacker

Cousin Troublemaker Gets Assignment From Grand Potn’tate

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I recently attended the Killer Nashville Conference.

Before you get your Stay-Fresh-Zipper-Lock all off track, it wasn’t a conference on killing people.  Not technically.  It’s a mystery writers conference and every time I leave town I have my own mysteries to solve.

This time it was a missing Crockpot.  Chief started by texting me:

                “I can’t find the Crockpot.”

                “Have you looked in the medicine cabinet?”

                “Let me check…..Not there.”

                “Try under our bed.”

                “Ok…..Not there either.”

                “Hmmmmm, how about that wicker basket that holds your Home Decorating magazines?”

                “I ordered those for YOU.  And it’s not there either.”

                “Well, try the kitchen, bottom cabinet to the left of the stove, top shelf.”

                “Oh, there it is!”

                “Really?  I was just tossin’ a penny in the fountain with that guess!”

Learning to solve missing kitchen appliance mysteries wasn’t the only thing I got from the conference. They also threw in my writer crush—Graham Brown.

Ain’t he purty?!

Chief wasn’t thrilled so he sent this email to Cousin Troublemaker who lives in the Nashville area.

Hey Cuz, 

I should let ya know that you were a topic of a discussion today, just in case the authorities come visitin’.   

You see, it all started when my wife became this high–pollutin’–artsy–fartsy–writer–type.  

  • She first started as a “Free”lance writer for newspapers (I emphasize the free ‘cause these papers don’t pay her near enough to buy my beer.) 
  • She then got her blog article cherry-picked for Freshly Pressed. I went to the dry cleaner, but didn’t see her blog anywhere so I’m not sure what got pressed!
  • Then she got news that her short story will be published in the world’s largest woman’s magazine next month.  I guarontee that I will be buying a lot of those National Enquirer’s so she has plenty of copies to send her friends. 

Now she’s at some sort of writer’s convention.  Sounds scandalous to me, but she says it’s “enhancin’ her career”, and that it ain’t no communist get-together or Democratic political convention.  But she’s all amiss over some Teddy Graham Cracker fella who is lecturin’.  I think she got the vapors just thinking about being in the same room with him!  

So, like a good husband, I checked in on her. She told me this Teddy Graham Cracker fella was: 

“sittin two rows behind me right now.  I think he’s following me after I went to his session”

So I sent her my plan of action:

‘Zzchk….Come in Cuz Trublmaker, this here is the Grand Potn’tate…’ 

‘Zzchk…go ahead Potn’tate… ‘ 

‘Zzchk…yer target is two rows behind mah wife.  You got a green light for dah killin of that thar womanizer…over. . . ‘ 

KABOOOM! 

‘Zzchk…MISSION ACCOMPLISHED…headed home 4 a beer…CUZ TRUBLMAKER OVER N OUT…. ‘

Then I told her:

                “There, there honey.  He won’t be afollowin’ you no more.”

Grand Potn’tate

Oddly, I never saw Graham again.  Maybe I should check with his agent and while I’m at it, pitch my idea for a new mystery series:

“Redneck Ray”

One coon dog’s mission to hunt down Tennessee’s toothless killers

Beautiful Bassett Hound

I smell Poli-Grip!

© 2012 CThacker

How We Make Our Marriage Last Longer Than Kim Kardashian’s

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Like peace in the Middle East, I wasn’t sure making it to our one year wedding anniversary was possible.  But Chief Money Maker and I did it against all possible odds—and I’m richer today for it.  No really, I am.  I just cashed in my bet with the Tunica bookies.  I always bet the long shot.  Let’s get real.  Who would have thought that two Leos, both previously married, living in a house with five crumb snatchers and three dogs would have a marriage that lasted longer than Kim Kardashian’s? 

Kim Kardashian Fragrance Launch, Glendale, CA ...

I vow to love, honor, and make lots of money off our wedding.

A few of you reading this might have laid down some bets on our marriage too.  Don’t pretend like it doesn’t happen.  We’ve all been there.  The violinist is softly playing, the usher lights the candles, the groom walks in looking like a man taking a death row walk, and the bridal march begins to play.  As she reaches the alter, the bride and groom gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes and you lean over to the person next to you and say, “I give it six months.”

You might ask what is the key to our long-lasting marital bliss?  Well, it’s a combination of things: good communication, unconditional love, and the threat of making good on the life insurance policy.  When Chief Money Maker asked for my hand in marriage, I said yes (obviously) but I gave him this full disclosure.  With love brimming over from the depths of my soul, I looked deep into his eyes and said, “I will marry you, but remember this.  I won’t be divorced again.  I don’t mind being a widow, but I won’t be divorced.”  He’s either the bravest man on this planet, or his driveway doesn’t go all the way to the street, if ya know what I mean.

Our anniversary was ushered in without much fanfare, and we closed the night while sipping champagne on our patio.  We reflected on the events of the last year.  Another key to a successful marriage is to always examine where you’ve been and where you would like to go.  He talked about his career success over the past year, how he’d learned what it means to have a daughter, and how he felt he could improve as a husband.  I told him I wanted to go to Hawaii.  I love champagne. 

A picture taken, of Champagne.

The bubbles make me giggly!

I also love my anniversary gift.  The anniversary gift tradition goes back hundreds, maybe even millions of years.  Once upon a time, some poor cavehusband screwed up big time.  He stormed out of the cave and sat at the tavern drinking all night with his cavebuddies.  After listening to them complain about how their cavewives never swept the dirt floors, never picked the nits out of the cavekids hair, and couldn’t fry a dinosaur egg on a rock, he decided he didn’t have it so bad.  He went out and found a shiny gold rock in the creek bed and brought it home for his wife as an apology.  It just happened to coincide with their wedding date, so the wedding anniversary gift tradition was born.  I don’t really know if that’s true, but it certainly sounds plausible.

Caveman stick figure.

I've asked you three times to take out the rotting sabertooth tiger carcass!

Anyway, the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.  Because Chief Money Maker loves me—and because he fears gettin’ dead—he gave me a signed contract for a swimming pool in our backyard.  My paper gift to him?  A signed check for the deposit—from his account, of course.  Ahhh, love is bliss. 

I will leave you today with one of Chief Money Maker’s favorite toasts—which Wolfy delivered perfectly at our wedding.  “May the best memories of the past be the worst memories of your future.” 

And with mine.  “May we be friends until we are old and senile—then we’ll be new friends.”

© 2012 CThacker