You are the only exception.

So funny.  I sit down to write when I'm sure I have something to say that means something- and then my cursor flashes (hesitates, more like it) on the "Title" section and my mind farts.  Loudly and inappropriately.  It sharts.

But anyways, when I put some of my songs of the moment on, and sip my beverage of choice, serendipitously my thoughts come back home.  I can find them.

I've been noticing that this blog has replaced my singing.  For me this is a large, life-sized realization that can only be truly assessed through lots of convoluted, symbolic, self realization that I'm just not in the mood to deal with at the moment.  But there's some literal foreshadowing for you.  So stay tuned, I suppose.

I sit here on this virtual podium to proclaim that my beloved husband and I had an argument tonight and I stormed out of the hearth and home with only my keys, my Kate Spade wallet and my iPhone.  And my indignant refutations of his seemingly out of nowhere, insensitive proclamations from this evening.  I'm mad.  I'm hurt.  I feel like crap.  And all I want is a scene that is not the one I just left.  I was just about to break something I liked.  Really, I like all the stuff in our house.

Here is where my soul fibers kick in with my fine print and the magnifying glass.  We must read these things:  I adore and love my husband.  I think he's really handsome.  When he walks in the door, I instinctually, gut reactionally think, wow- he's sooo pretty in a manly-I'd-hang-his-poster-over-my-bed-when-I-was-a-teenager-and-cry-at-his-concert sort of way.  But, I also simultaneously think, phew-another-set-of-hands-is-really-desirable-in-so-many-other-ways type of way.  We must read that as much as I made the effort with other past "relationships" (which is in quotations for very obvious reasons, cause they all shaped me and for that I'm thankful, but really in the end- sucked which is why they ended), my husband has always been and, I'm willing to bet my life, will always be my One.  And we must read that he can only make me crazy cause I love him.  Crazy in a safe way; crazy in an "I'll scratch my own eyeballs out and maybe even his out" if that helps sort of way when we disagree cause I really am not a fan of disagreeing with him cause I love him.  But MAN, he can make me CRAZY.  Sigh.  Stomp.

Stomp, stomp.         Stomp.         Sip of cosmo.

It's not even cute.  It's not even self fulfillingly validating to say that I'm old enough and at a place where I'm fed up with my Mister because he doesn't appreciate what he has.  Which is me.  Which he should appreciate.  And which he does 99% of the time.  Read that.  But there are times when, cause he's a guy, he so easily overlooks my daily labor to create an interesting, clean palette of a home that is so lovingly and meticulously comprised of color, love and decisive placement that he can leave me with my head spinning.

I'll do my best to make this short, because the point of this isn't the details of the argument.  The point is I work really hard to be a good wife and mom.  I make our home pretty.  I make it clean.  It smells of Lysol and Windex and furniture polish.  And sometimes candles.  And garlic, peppers and onions when making someone dinner.  After I have not only worked, ran errands, cared for, fed, loved on, changed and bathed someone's daughter.  We live in a home where we walk around in bare feet all day and nothing is there to make our feet dirty.  You barely feel anything on the floors besides wood and shellac.  Someone has it nice, pal.

He has the largest balls in the world I must say.  There it is.  I'd be proud if I wasn't so keen on making a sport out of them at this point.

After all that, my groom comes home- watches me reorganize our office space for FOUR mother-effing hours,  while he watches X-Men car-mother-effing-toons and tells me, "I'm hungry."

Oh, right, Thursday's fajita night.

I am a wife that literally blogs about being a hot mama partially to please my other half.  What, oh wait... do I try to be hot cause I love the mirror so much... it really does so much for me?  NO.  It's because I believe that me being happy in my skin makes him happy with me in my skin and therefore helps the foundation of our marriage stay strong.  I believed that tonight, while I was so thoughtlessly inconveniencing the world with my project of organizing mine and someone else's office, I was actually doing something for that guy.  For us.  But, silly Coley!  I forgot!  We live in the early nineteen hundreds.  I should be done with the housework before someone gets home so that when he does, dinner is cooked and I greet him in lingerie while the baby sleeps and so I can be captivated by the story of some random kid playing with a yo-yo at the summer camp. Yeah.  Makes sense.  I'm right there with you.

I'm in trouble because I didn't pay enough attention to the yo-yo story (I'm not kidding) while I was doing the dishes after I cooked, after I cleaned our house, took care of our baby and worked.  All I heard was "I can't believe you tell people you're good at multi-tasking, when you're clearly not because you can't clean the counters at 9 o'clock at night while looking me straight in the eye about some kid's yo-yo act at camp."  Which I'm sure was mind blowing.  And seeing as how it was about to knock the Earth off it's axis, it couldn't have waited five minutes for me to be able to actually be done and listen.

If I didn't leave the house right then and there, I would have thrown something.  It would have broken two things I liked and thoughtfully picked out; itself and someone's handsome face.

So I grabbed my keys, my wallet and my phone.  And I did something for the first time since before the baby's been born.  I drove at night with the windows open, with my music on, by myself.  I cried out of frustration.  I tried to be mad.  I tried to sing.  I then stopped crying, because why was I crying?  I'm not going to feel bad.  I love my husband and he's a good man.  But I'm not going to cry over this.  

I went to our friends house.  I vented fairly and objectively.  They adore him and are objective, so it's cool.  And I get it.  My ears and attention matter (thanks, baby).  They matter cause I'm half of this marriage.  I get it that I should actively listen to the yo-yo story.  But, can I get a little slack over here?  I can't be perfect.  I will never be and never have been.  I can only go so far, do so many things and be so unaffected at the end of the day that falls at the end of the week.  The only time I have to do these projects are when someone else is home so the baby has love and I can take care of this house.  And, I was listening.  I heard the story, so I just don't get why He Who Shall Not Be Named got so mad at me.  I was asked to finish cleaning quickly (due to large, elephantitis of...an...ego) and then got in trouble for focusing hard on what I was doing to finish quickly...So frustrating.

Maybe I'm missing some part of this story that will make it all make sense.  When I join my husband in bed tonight I will have these things:  I only do what I do because you, my friend, are the only exception to all of my rules.  You are the only one I'll go back to, unequivocally.  You love me through and through, which is why, for some reason I made you feel bad for not listening (but I was).  I'll join you in bed because it will always be OK because we will always make the other half feel full.  Because my ankle will always search for yours under the covers.

But, for tonight, I will wonder how you sleep on your stomach will balls that fricken big.