Category Archives: That’s How Life Works

Things Don’t “Just Happen”

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 25, 2013

Working in a salon and day spa is a very rewarding and interesting job. A few days ago, I had finished a facial for a new client, and when I finished, I was doing what we call, “turning the room over.” This is the process by which the room is cleaned and prepared for the next guest. Here is a sampling of what that entails: I filed her paperwork, stripped the sheets, took all the used sheets and steam towels to the laundry room, washed and sanitized all the bowls and brushes, grabbed clean sheets and towels, re-dressed the table with sheets and blankets and made the table look inviting, heated up the neck wrap, wiped down all the surfaces and bottles and jars, replaced all the caps and put all the products back in their proper place, laid our a spa wrap, prepped new steam towels (this is code for burning the bejesus out of my fingertips) prep new dry towels, take a deep breath, and compose myself (meaning make sure I am not sweating, and that I don’t look like I just did a fifty yard dash in a windstorm.)

If I am really speedy, and don’t goof off, I might have time to use the potty, or run into the break room and wolf down three bites of the salad I abandoned two hours ago. There’s a lot going on behind the scenes. And I realize this is true of all professions. Whatever you do is harder than it looks, if you’re doing it well.

The teacher who spends hours and hours working on great lesson plans that are over in the classroom in less than forty five minutes. No wonder they get a tad crabby when some kids talk too much or are disruptive to the kids who are trying to pay attention.

The chef who goes in at the crack of ridiculous to inspect the freshness of his ingredients, chop, slice and dice and begin the simmering of the soup, which we we will zip through and grab for lunch. Do we even pause five seconds to appreciate the fact that he drug his butt out of bed in the darkness so we could have a lovely corn chowder for lunch?

The veterinarian who spent almost as much time and money to learn his job as a medical doctor, but who is willing to express our dog’s anal glands and clip their ever growing talons so we don’t have to? And they work with that smell. God bless them, I hope they have grown immune to it the same way I can no longer smell shampoo.

The barista who got up at four a.m. to make her kids lunches, and get them hustled off to the babysitter so she could be there to fix your skinny, Venti, mocha latte with extra sprinkles. Tip that girl! She smiled at you and everything.

The farmer in central Tennessee who had to beat some sense into his tractor with his bare hands, to make sure the harvest got in before the rains came and ruined it all. Without him, your soy latte would be light on the soy.

All day, everyday, countless details are being tended to just to take great care of us, the customer. The people who work so hard, know quite well that we could take our business elsewhere if we decided to. They do amazing things to make the two or three minutes we see them seem “easy.”

Today, take a few minutes to appreciate the seamlessness of good service when you see it. Call a manager over and praise their team. Write a quick email or a note of appreciation on your lunch ticket. Tell a friend if you get great service somewhere. Heck, tell two friends.

One of the best things we could do for the economy is to talk up the businesses that are getting it right. Without them, we’d all be left with crappy service from people who don’t give a rip.

What behind the scenes efforts would people be surprised to learn about jobs you’ve had?

Asshat Thinking-How To Avoid It

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 24, 2013

There is something I like to think of as Asshat Thinking, which we all have to guard against. If we aren’t paying attention, and start participating in Asshat Thinking, we begin to lose our grip on our happy groove. Happy grooves are the sweet spot where we want to spend most of our time, and Asshat Thinking is what drags us away from our happy groove, making us want to either inflict bodily harm on the woman at the drycleaners, or buy a one way ticket to Aruba and leave no forwarding address. Which brings us to Magical Thinking, and I simply can’t go there right now, or I won’t finish this post.

Today, let’s talk about the choreographer of Asshat Thinking: Exaggeration. Out of exaggeration comes an entire flock of Asshat Ideas. Allow me to demonstrate.

Exaggeration is sneaky. It will often start when we are stressed, or tired, sick, and especially when we are running late. It weasels it’s way into our brain, and it usually starts with such innocent sounding banter such as, “Great! I was going to wear these pants today, I’m already late, and they’re covered in dog hair!” Naturally, this leads to, “Dogs have no respect…where is the friggin’ lint roller…somebody has hidden it from me…this day is PISSING ME OFF!” Asshat Thinking has a tiny flair for the dramatic. It needs some Elton John glasses and a feather boa. It tries madly to get and hold our attention.

It will leap from one, small, inconvenient fact (there is dog hair all over the pants I want to wear) and it will catapult it, like digusting, infected body parts, over the castle walls hoping to contaminate all of the castle occupants. I told you, it’s dramatic. As soon as I allow the hairy pants to translate into, “This day is pissing me off!” my bus is now careening over to Asshat Central.

Here’s our dilemma. You like to be right. I like to be right. Everyone likes to be right. Entire wars have been, and continue to be waged, over this one glaringly obvious fact. We all love being right. So what will our brains do for us once we focus on the day pissing us off? It begins scanning the rest of our day for facts to prove us right. The really scary part is, it will also filter out and prevent us from seeing evidence to the contrary.

Suddenly we have our Asshat Glasses on (these do not make us look fabulous, by the way) and all we can see with them are the things that prove our earlier declaration right: Traffic? Sucks! My muffin? Cold and hard. My coffee? Spilled! My job? Impossible! People? Idiots. My life? Stinks.

Did I just manage to create a shit storm of boo frickin’ hoo over pants with dog hair on them? Really? Asshat Thinking is so dramatic, it should have an entry at the Sundance Film Festival. Our brains love Asshat Thinking because it’s nearly effortless, and has a huge following.

It takes a little thoughtful effort to have a different conversation with ourselves in frustrating situations. Deep breath. “Yes, my pants look more like an Angora sweater, but at least they didn’t split at the seams while I was loading a thirty pound bag of dog food in my buggy at the Piggly Wiggly.” To make it up to ourselves, we can make a quick mental list of five things that don’t suck, or if we’re still cranky, just stop and get a frappucinno. Sweet, legally addictive stimulants have improved many a day. Yes, I know I’m not a dog, and shouldn’t reward myself with food, but let’s face facts, I do!

Use some creative distraction, re-focus on something, anything positive or funny. Look at the pants and tell them, “Let’s pretend this didn’t happen.” You give the orders to your brain, so tell it what to look for. Re-decide what you want on your radar, and tell your brain what you want it to keep an eye out for, and get ready, because it will show up.

Hello!? Pay Attention!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 23, 2013

Observation is the trick to writing. Noticing the obscure details, and then getting them written down, before they fly away like an eyelash in the wind.

Anne Lammott is one of my favorite authors. When I first read her book Bird by Bird, it changed my life. When she explained that I own what happens to me, a little tumbler on the lock of my writing clicked into place.

Events in my life are what I decide they are, and I’m the only one who can relate it in my perspective. Nobody besides me can see my life through my eyes. If I want you to see what I just saw, I need to write it down, to tell you the story. Paul Harvey used to conclude his radio broadcasts with, “And that’s the way it is.” Writing about our own lives could be footnoted with, “And that’s the way I saw it.”

When a writer writes a story, or shares an insight, all they can give us is their perspective, based on the view they had of the situation. As I’m sure you’re aware, there’s always another side to every story. Just ask a cop who has to write a report on a fender bender. Nobody sees it the same way, from the same angle.

At any given moment, we’re tuned into various parts of our environment. We would never be able to handle the sheer volume of information, if we were taking in all in.

Billions and billions of bits of information surround you right now. You have to choose to stay focused on these words. “Hey! I’m talking here! Pay attention!”

Your brain has to ignore far more details than it pulls into focus, in order for you to to get anything accomplished. There’s no way I could write this sentence while simultaneously focusing on every bit of other information coming at me through my five senses!

Have you ever been laying in bed and suddenly become very aware of your heartbeat? Thumpity thump, thumpity thump. “There it goes again. Again….” Suddenly, you’re counting along, and then wondering, “Is that NORMAL?!”

If you were that aware of your heartbeat, and every blink of your eyes, and every smell in the room, and every place the sheets were touching you, we’d probably have to come after you with a butterfly net. We are blessedly able to tune out a laundry list of input, to enable us to get some other stuff done.

I’m not very useful to myself, or anyone else, if I’m sitting around wondering if my heartbeat is normal or not. I’m not much fun if I’m hissing, “Shhhhh! I’m counting!”

Be glad you have the option to tune into the things you want to. Be okay with the stuff you miss, or sometimes can’t see. We all have our strengths. Most importantly, choose more of the good stuff to pay attention to, because life is short. I’d rather spend it looking at the flowers, than the dog poop.

One Asprin, or Two?

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 22, 2013

Did you know that women are more prone to lie about their height than their weight? I’m not sure it’s intentional, I think it may be due to shrinkage. Maybe we have our height measured at age 21, get our top score, and then gravity slowly begins to screw us over. I mean, really, once they measure you at your high score, you never really think about it again because you don’t expect it to change. It’s like arms. You have two, and you don’t concern yourself with counting them every day to see if you have new ones sprouting. Our height seems to be static, but it’s all a lie!

Unlike our weight, which I am sorry to say has nearly unlimited potential, our height peaks and then begins to decline. For most of my life I have believed I was 5’10”. I’m tall. I’ve always been tall. I am the person who other people expect to change lightbulbs and hand them things off of high shelves. I’m not Women’s NBA tall, but among the women I know, there are very few who make me feel short.

Recently I went in for an annual checkup, which is more like my five year checkup, since I’m a procrastinator. I’ve been on Weight Watchers a little over a year and hovering within five pounds of my goal weight, so for the first time in a long while, the nurse asking me to step on the scale didn’t feel like a mini-execution.

She weighed me and I smiled in quiet smugness. Then she measured my height and said, “Five foot seven and a half.” I thought to myself, “Oh, you are? I’m five-foot-ten.” But then I realized she was writing it in my permanent record! Wait! I‘m not five-foot-seven-and-a-half!

If I am five-foot-seven-and-a-half, that is very bad news for my mom, who peaked at 5’2” sometime in the 1960’s. If gravity is having it’s evil way with her, as it is with me, she’s currently bordering somewhere between pixie and gnome territory.

I have been thinking she looks small to me. Or small-er. She has the metabolism of a hummingbird. When I get a headache, if I ask her for some aspirin, she always asks me, “Do you want one or two?” This prompts me to roll my eyes as I patiently reply, “Two.”

Never has any headache of mine been anything other than amused by one aspirin. I might as well swallow a button for all the relief I’d get from one aspirin.

Newsflash! People who are barely big enough to be allowed in the front seat of a vehicle can take one aspirin, and get relief! It does make sense. I’m sure linebackers for the Green Bay Packers need more than two to get the job done.

Excuse me, I need to get on www.Zappos.com now and buy some heels.

Stupid Brain Tricks

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 21, 2013

My brain seems to be having a few issues. Perhaps it feels a little bit like my outdated laptop when I ask it to do way too many things at one time. It just sort of hiccups and misfires and needs a reboot. (Not Responding)

Last week I noticed it several times while I was showering. I wanted to cool the water off because it was too hot, so I immediately felt compelled to turn the cold water down, thereby scalding myself. Bad hand! I meant colder, not hotter. Do what I mean, not what I say.

A couple nights ago I was trying to communicate with the fan in our bedroom. The spring weather in L.A. (Lower Alabama) means that one day you’re running the heat, and the next day you’re sweltering without the a/c on. I wasn’t about to go to bed without my trusty fan working it’s magic on a warm spring evening.

First, let me tell you, my fan has too many buttons. One turns it on and off, one adjusts the speed from Gnat’s Breath all the way to Hurricane Force, another tells it to oscillate or stand it’s ground, and yet another is a timer. I’ve never used the timer. That button is is dead to me. All I wanted to do was tell the fan to come on, and blow steadily on my glistening self, at a medium speed. I feel that is a reasonable request.

Except my brain kept telling my fingers, “On and oscillate. Nooooo. Wait. Don’t oscillate! Crap. Off. No! I mean ON. Oscillate. Are you kidding me?! You know I meant steady. Wait! What the hell am I doing?! ON. STEADY! STAY RIGHT THERE! Jeeze Louise, it’s hot in here!”

They need therapy for women who talk to electrical components. I can be their leader.

I also like to leave myself cryptic notes, both on scraps of paper, and on my phone calendar. “Get the drfl from C.” I look at it and think…”Drfl, drfl. Dog’s right front leg? Disgusting rat fink letters? Is C for Chelsey or Cyndi at work? Dare I call them and ask them if they know what a drfl is? No. It’s too risky. WHATEVER. If it’s important, someone will yell at me, and I will find a way to survive. Damned drfls.

I have been a little frustrated through the winter, over the disruption to my walking schedule, which I am slowly getting back to. However, I have soothed my guilty conscience with the fact that I walk several miles every day, going into rooms, only to realize I have no idea what I am doing in there. I get a workout huffing it back to wherever I started, hoping I have left myself some hieroglyphics about where I was headed before twelve things happened to interrupt my train of thought.

Check BB. Hey, I know that one. Bank balance. Yesssssss! Fist pump. Now if I can just remember to log on and pay that bill before a squirrel runs by and screws me over completely. Hey….where’s my pen?

Happy Spaces, Happy Faces

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 20, 2013

Fun Fact # 71843

It’s nearly impossible to watch a dog throw up without making your, “that’s-disgusting-face”

Captain Obvious says, “You’re welcome.”

We are hardwired for certain responses. Have you ever seen an entire theater of people jump simultaneously in a startling scene, or drop their jaws in shock? We respond to our environment. Thankfully, there are some pro-active things we can do to improve our environment, to create an atmosphere for feeling good, and staying positive.

Color: Adding some of the colors we love to a space where we spend lots of time can be an immediate mood enhancer. I love blues, and especially periwinkle. I’ve used periwinkle in several of our homes, and it never fails to make me feel good. Let’s face it, the word periwinkle is happy! Interior designer, and lifestyle author, Alexandra Stoddard, shared in several of her books, including Living a Beautiful Life, how, even if we can’t paint an entire room in a favorite color, we can add it to our daily life in creative ways. She’s painted the inside of drawers and cabinets a favorite citron green, so that opening them causes a little gasp of delight. Where could you add a surprising splash of color to give you a boost each day?

Favorite Things: One thing you might as well know about me is that I am not a minimalist. I enjoy my stuff. But I can’t display all of it all of the time, or I’d have the film crew for Hoarder’s knocking on my door.I like to keep a few of my favorite things out in the spaces where I spend lots of time: by my favorite chair, in the kitchen, on my desk, and even pictures of my favorite things and people on my computer desktop and on the lock screen of my phone. These little reminders of who and what I love put a smile on my face, and help to take the sting out of sitting on hold with tech support for twenty-nine minutes, only to get disconnected. Asshats!

Humor: I can’t live without it. I have had a few favorite funnies close at hand for years. I have a tiny framed quote in the kitchen window that says, “No woman ever shot a man while he was doing the dishes.” It makes me smile, and it keeps John on his toes! I recently bought the print I added to this post, from Daddy Sang Bass.This print is now in my kitchen, and each morning it reminds me that I may not have it all figured out, but I can have a cup of Joe, and try to keep a handle on my sense of humor.

Whimsey: Even in a very expensive, professionally decorated home or office, I crave a bit of whimsey. I want to see that the occupants don’t take themselves too seriously. In a room of monochrome decor, that print of the smiling sun gives me a spark of joy.

I once went to a doctor’s office, and above the scale was a poster of Garfield, strangling a scale, screaming, “LIAR!” I dig that.

Anything a little silly or unexpected in an otherwise serious or serene setting catches my eye, and makes me curious and want to know more. I start to wonder, “Who put that here?” Anyone can be boring. It takes a little effort to set the stage for happiness.

Neuroscience is now reporting how the mirror neurons in our brains will automatically prompt us to smile back when someone smiles at us. The longer we look at them smiling, the harder those neurons work. I believe that rooms that smile also have that happiness effect on us. Look around you, and tell me what you can see from where you sit that makes you smile? If you can’t see something, there’s your homework for the day.

Toilet Paper Overwhelms Me

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 19, 2013

I’m beginning to think that I should buy toilet paper in extreme bulk, someplace like Sam’s Club, where they only have five or six varieties. Anytime I have to pick up toilet paper, and have the bad luck to find myself in a grocery store, I immediately begin to lose all decision making skills. I become frantic trying to decide which criteria to use to make a wise choice.

Single roll? Double roll? Two-ply is not up for discussion. That one-ply fooled me once, but never again! Jumbo roll? Tyrannosaurus Rex roll? With aloe? Without? What is this, sushi? Brand name with cute bears, or generic store brand, that looks suspiciously identical? On sale? Buy three, get a free roll of paper towels? I just stand there, shifting my weight from foot to foot, like a kid trying to pick a cookie in a bakery.

And don’t even get me started on paper towels! I have a favorite.They’re nearly indestructible, and you could probably make clothes out of them. But they’re pricey, and the rolls are noticeably smaller than their miserly competition. I nearly always put them back and go cheap, only to regret it when my wimpy paper towels just smear stuff around the countertops.

When I do buy a roll of those 1000 thread count paper towels, I’m like a miser. I set them towards the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, hoping nobody but me can find them. Using them is almost a holy experience, they’re so absorbant, it’s like watching water turn into wine. A person really could spend a small fortune at the grocery store shopping just for paper and plastic products. Let’s see, I have trash bags, ziplocks, foil, and plastic wrap, and twenty-seven dollars later, I still don’t have eggs or coffee. What the hell?

John despises plastic wrap, regardless of the brand. He does not speak it’s language at all. Anytime he makes an attempt to use it, there will me the muttering of four letter words, guaranteed. I’ve tried, and failed, to demonstrate my fool-proof method for dispensing it. He’s not having any of it. When plastic wrap requires dispensing in our home, it will fall squarely on my shoulders. Since spider executions are his sworn duty, I will carry on with a smile, wrapping sandwiches and leftovers with a good attitude.

I read somewhere that one thing we can all be thankful for is that spiders can’t fly. If you have a hard time thinking of things to be thankful for, you could just start there! I’m sure there is a bug expert out there somewhere who can find us a flying spider, but I personally intend to remain ignorant of any facts proving it.

Ignorance of certain subjects is very important to my sanity and happiness, and one of my most valuable tips for staying positive! I also keep myself deliberately in the dark about dust mites, bedbugs, and the quickie-cleaning methods of hotel maids. Some things you are just better off not knowing. Anytime these subjects come up, some helpful soul usually tries to enlighten me. That’s when I stop them mid-sentence and say, “Oh, I don’t want to know,” which they usually interpret as, “Please, tell me more!” This is when I am forced to poke my fingers in my ears and begin humming God Bless America.

What do you enjoy knowing nothing about?

Play Ball!

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 18, 2013

The ability to tap into happiness and experience joy are not always whimsical accidents. It’s a practice we can all cultivate. The more people I talk to, the more I realize how misunderstood the concept of being happy is. Many people think it’s an inherent trait that a few lucky people are born with, like straight teeth or great hair.

But people are not born happy! They either receive the tools to be happy or they don’t. Some are born to parents who model happiness, but many are not. Some people find teachers later in life, or books, movies or through music, and learn to copy their behavior.

You may have been born into an extremely unhappy environment, but here is some good news. You can learn a happier way to live! I read a great article by Terri Cole on How Not To Be Your Own Buzzkill, that you may pick up some pointers from.

Imagine a little boy whose dad played baseball in college, who almost went to the big leagues. His mom and dad bring him home from the hospital, and what theme do we see in the nursery? Baseballs! Dad ends up modeling lots of baseball-y stuff for Junior from the get go. Maybe Junior is born with the physical traits that will make him a great athlete, and maybe he isn’t. But one thing we know, Junior is going to learn lots of cool baseball tricks from his Dad, which the little boys across the street likely won’t get from their stockbroker dad.

On the first day of T-ball, Junior may appear to be much more of a “natural” ball player than the stockbroker’s kids for one reason. He had a better teacher at an earlier age.

But guess what? This is T-Ball! This is where beginners begin! We don’t expect the midgets in jerseys to be ready to pitch for the Giants yet! It’s time to learn.

Some of you grew up without a soul to show you how to practice being happy. Some of you were shamed and criticized, or taught to feel superstitious about having good things happen. Hell-bent On Happy is here to be T-Ball for you!

I don’t care if you get distracted in the outfield and pick dandelions, or run the bases backwards, or sit down in the dirt and cry every once in a while, because it’s too hard. It’s T-Ball. We’re here to learn and have fun, to work together towards a common goal, being happy! (If we are really lucky we will get good snacks this week, like Rice-Krispie Treats, instead of those lame celery sticks!)

Don’t be discouraged if it’s harder for you than it seems for other people. Some of us grew up with really great, functional, supportive, healthy examples. Not everyone is that blessed. But here’s a little insight. Even with great examples, mentors and teachers, those “lucky ones” still have to practice the fundamentals, still strike out, still have no-hit streaks, and sore muscles, and occasionally get tossed out of the game for getting pissy with the umpire.

Relax. It’s a game.

We’re all here to help each other to make the game worthwhile. Keep showing up, invite your friends to the ball field, and let’s have some fun.

Play ball!

Know someone who needs to get out on the field? Click “Share,” below and invite them to the game!

The Magic of Soup

By Vicki Hughes Posted March 16, 2013

Soup is magical. It conjures up all that is good in the Universe. Love, hope, nourishment, comfort and sustenance. It tells us we will be okay and it’s fine to feel five years old once in a while.

Right after Christmas I had a cold. I went to work sick. I sneezed, and my nose ran through my cold meds. I had a very long day, especially since it was December 26^th, I was sick, we had a skeleton crew, the phones rang off the hook, and I was there till 7:30 pm. Did I mention I was also having some lovely cramps? It was a shitty day, not to put too fine a point on it.

When I got home, looking much like I felt, which was not good, all I could think was, “I hab a code.” But wonder of wonders, my Momma had made a pot of tomato-butternut squash soup. It was thick and savory and waiting to be eaten! This is a definite perk of having my Momma living here. She’s an awesome cook. She’d also cleaned up all the debris of Christmas and that too was a mood enhancer after the day I’d had.

I’d hoped to sleep it off and awaken the next day fresh as a daisy, but I was stuffy and puffy, leaking and hoarse and really not suitable for dealing with the public, let alone doing personal services like facials and leg waxes. I made the decision to keep myself home and attempt to be some help to my team via text, but I knew they were neck deep in the trenches and I felt bad for not being there on a very busy day. If I wasn’t worried that I might take them all down with Cholera, I’d have been there.

While I was frantically texting my Front Desk Coordinator, trying to help her with a software meltdown, my Mom asked me if I wanted her to make me some Turkey Vegetable Soup from our leftover Christmas turkey. Answer? “Yes. Yes I do.” Because I may not be able to fix lots of things, but I could accept this bit of solace and allow it to heal me and restore a modicum of peace in the chaos.

Soup makes life better, especially when your mom makes it for you while you’re sick and look like warmed over hell.

Soup is magical because it takes simple, humble ingredients and converts them into comfort and sustaining nourishment. Soup doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. It doesn’t puff itself up and try to compete with Chateau Briand or Crème Brule. It’s just soup, and that’s enough. Soup has healthy self esteem. It doesn’t try to impress you with a lot of fancy dance moves. You toss a few veggies and some liquid in a pot….add whatever you have on hand, and viola! Soup. And whatever was bugging you before bugs you just a tiny bit less. If you still need a little boost, toss in one grilled cheese sandwich, and call me in the morning.

I Married a Man

By Vicki Hughes March 15, 2013

I married a man. It’s true. When John and I married, twenty-seven years ago today, He was twenty-five, I was eighteen. To our families, I am sure we were still kids, (Momma still calls us The Kids,) but we were ready. We had a small wedding in Las Vegas, with immediate family, and my friend from first grade, Cheryl. We said our vows at The Little Chappell of the West, and spent our honeymoon in Carmel, CA. At the risk of sounding sappy and old, it seems like yesterday. It also seems like 100 years.

John had big shoes to fill, to step up to the example my Dad had set. I’m a Daddy’s girl, who spent her childhood chowing down on filets and crab legs, discussing the finer points of gorgonzola and a good smoked Swiss. I grasped the rhythm and the value of a seven course meal from a very young age. I was raised in the golden-age of dark-paneled steak houses, with flaming Cherries Jubilee for dessert. Can I get an Amen?

Daddy taught me countless ways to be cool, so I could just melt into adult settings, without making a fuss. My Dad’s general philosophy in life is, Roll With The Punches. It has served me well. It turns out to be one of the key lessons I was meant to share with John. He’s the intense one, I am the ice in his tea. (Except he’s really more of a wine guy.)

John was the oldest of four, in a house where his dad bought coffee-flavored ice cream to keep the “house apes,” as he referred to the kids, out of it. Gourmet meals were few and far between for him before he met me. I felt it was my duty and responsibility to convert him into a complete foodie, and I am happy to report, mission accomplished!

He turned out to be a fantastic father, the best handler I could have hoped for, for a very strong willed, red-headed baby, we call, The Girl. The Girl turns twenty-four on Monday. Were it not for his intervention on several occasions, I might have fed her to the alligators. I’m glad he stopped me. It turns out, sixteen was not permanent.

We have spent these twenty-seven years working it out, grinning and bearing it, overcoming misunderstandings and hurt feelings. We’ve persevered through over-extended schedules, budgets and patience. We have chosen to huddle together, and take turns telling each other, today is not the day to throw in the towel. Maybe tomorrow, but we can get through today, especially considering what we have on the grill for dinner. If we are going to chuck it all, it won’t be on a night when we are having a great steak, spinach salad and oven roasted veggies with a decent bottle of wine. Hamburger Helper might have been our undoing, but we just never went there. As John says, “We always eat good.”

He has put up with my 1001 projects, and countless new ideas. He took the lead on all bug squashing, and took the reins a few times while I had a meltdown. He took his turn doing the dishes, makes the most awesome BBQ chicken and potato salad you ever wrapped your lips around, and he has provided a great lifestyle for us, even when it meant sweating his ass off, covered in sawdust to do it.

So, I raise a toast to the man in my life, who is certainly not perfect, but is perfect for me. I love you, Babe. Here’s to the next twenty-seven.

Hellbent On Happy

Staying Positive and grateful in an imperfect world laced with random asshats