Here’s the problem: we have a nearly full bottle of pomegranate juice in the fridge. It cost $10. It makes a good vodka-pomegranate cocktail. Thus our night begins.

5:45 p.m.: husband concocts said cocktail, thanks to Costco brand vodka: Svedka. Liberal on the Svedka.

6 p.m.: we have 1/3 of a loaf of 5-day old Italian bread sitting on the counter, begging to not be wasted. So I make homemade breadcrumbs. For chicken parmesan, which is husband’s favorite dinner.

6:45 p.m.: favorite dinner deserves candlelight and a cleared off dining room table, and of course wine. we just bought a 1/2 case of shiraz, which may or may not have a screw top. OK, it does. Stop judging us.

7 p.m.: we eat slightly burnt chicken parmesan, because undercooked chicken is both my fear and a health hazard. better safe than sorry. conversation calls for two glasses of shiraz, each.

7:45 p.m.: somehow conversation drifts to IP addresses. husband takes the liberty to delve into an explanation ranging from the DARPA initiative to the transatlantic cable to subnet 192 addresses to my personal Web site.

8:25 p.m.: I drift in and out of focusing on the conversation, trying to understand each layer of the interwebs and also bitter that my husband knows each layer and I don’t.

8:30 p.m.: I resolve to know each layer of something, anything that husband doesn’t. Shall I refresh my memory for diagramming sentences and become a true sentence architect? Shall I memorize a poem from Rumi and perform it for at least 20 minutes, before leading a riveting analysis for my husband?

I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it will be something. I will load him up on food and drink and then unleash my deep knowledge on something he doesn’t understand. Any suggestions?

“That is so gross,” I said last night with wide eyes, eyelids strained to hold back tears. We were having an argument, and my husband retreated, shocked both by my emotion and response to his statement. Of course, “gross” isn’t the most mature or expressive word to communicate my feelings when I strongly disagree, but it sure beats the stomping around I did when we were first married a year ago.
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I see it in his eyes. Past the piles of beer cans and cigarette butts. Regardless of his controlled saunter down the street to the convenience store at 7 a.m. Deeper than his scruffy beard, long hair and dirty wife beater. I see the alcoholism in his eyes.
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Excuse me, but my uterus is shuddering. The good people of People.com have let the cat out of the bag: The Duggars are pregnant with their 19th child.
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Shout out to Michael Bolton.

In light of the stormy weather, I’ll relay a quick snippet of conversation between my husband, who knows all things, and myself, who doesn’t. Apparently.

Thunder: “BOOOOOOMMMMM!”
Him: “Do you know what thunder is?”
Me: “Of course I do.”
Him: “Oh really? What?”
Me: “It’s the clouds crashing together.”
Him: “Hahaha! Are you serious? Oh, I’ve got to tweet that. Do you really think that’s what it is?”
Me: “Shut up. What is it then?”
Him: “Blah blah blah, electricity, blah blah, raising temperatures, blah blah, air.”

One of these days, I’ll casually ask him … the ingredients in meringue or what a shuffle-ball-change looks like. Then whose face will be red?

You better knock … on wood.

I haven’t been scroggling, that’s for sure. Here are the top 10 things that have bogged me down, blogged me not.
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Here’s the story of our engagement:

I went to Colorado for the Easter weekend and to interview for a few jobs in Denver on Good Friday. Nick dropped me off at the interviews and waited in the car for me (one of the interviews was almost two hours long!) because he’s just perfect like that.
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