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?

Well, the weather outside is … freaking freezing. There was a solid layer of ice on all surfaces. Even though the roads are plowed, I don’t trust the streets. Yesterday there were two cars who had spun out and were facing the wrong way on the highway.
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Ah, autumn. The shifting seasons, cool breezes, warm colors, pumpkin spice lattes, changing leaves. And this year, more than the leaves have changed colors.

My hair follicles have joined the ranks.
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“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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We went hiking this summer in Yosemite National Park. My husband and I flew to California to hang out with his best friend and wife, and we joined their small group in a cabin on a lake. They’re the friends that you can pick right back up with each time you see them — even though you live states away or became friends at first only through husbands and isolated trips to see each other.
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Men like my hubs are in high demand. Wives like me need them for fixing the gutter, picking up doggy messes, doing the dishes and configuring the TV web of wires so that we only have to learn one remote control. Coworkers need them for fixing any and all computer/programming related problems. Dogs need them for playing and running off energy.

That being said, men like my hubs are weird.
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For a guy who has camping down to a fine art, my husband still manages to scribble outside the lines. And I’m calling him on it.

He’s an expert camper; he becomes one with nature. His camping pillow, before my arrival to his life, was caked with dirt, sweat and body oils. Doesn’t get much more natural than that. He spends hours splashing around in a river: building a dam, kayaking, swimming to islands to retrieve wood on “man expeditions” or floating with a cold beer in a koozie. He could entertain himself, let alone survive, in the wilderness for weeks at a time by himself. Admittedly, I could entertain myself and survive for a weekend, with a carload of food and shelter items, packed and set up by the husband.

We don’t always agree on camping best practices, but enjoying nature together is something we do do (Read: doodoo).
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Well, bootcamp is half over. I’d call it a success in progress. My body has adjusted to the torment, since day #3. I’m not too sore anymore, and today, I busted out 50 push-ups (still girly-style), 100 squats and 100 lunges per leg without breaking a sweat.

Yep, my sweat didn’t break — it was intact and running down my face, dripping off my nose.
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We camped for the Fourth of July. My husband loves camping, and I had never done more than sleep in a sleeping bag in the family room before I met him. This is my second season of camping, which was prompted last year when I moved to Colorado to get married. While my inaugural year brought discomfort and grimy fun, I’m really learning the nuances of wilderness slumber this year:
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