We have a weird dynamic in the house. MRS handles pretty much everything: pays the bills, buys the girls’ clothes (well, organizes everything relative to the girls), does the laundry, cooks, travels a ton for work, puts up with my crap, and (aside from that special week that rolls around every month) is a damn fine wife.

So here’s the rub, her ultimate contradiction; she either can’t, or refuses to, put anything back in the same place twice.

If I had a nickel for every time she said, “Where are my sunglasses?” when we’ve gotten in the car, well…I’d have a bunch of nickels.

I’ve had to learn to channel surf telepathically because that stupid clicker has never sat in any one location a second time. (((Side note: someone please come out with a 4 or 5 tuner DVR in a hurry. MRS has so many shows set for series recordings ((hardly any of which she will ever watch (including eleven different versions of Law & Order that air in perpetuity on seven different networks)) that any time I attempt to change the channel, the DVR just prompts me, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.))) Read on …

My husband Jamie and I are generally not extravagant gift givers. Well, with the exception of the time he bought me a Honda Pilot for my birthday (though I think it should not have counted because we were already in the market for a car). Have you ever topped a gift like that? Yeah, me neither.

This year, I was at a loss regarding what to buy Jamie for Father’s Day. The man pulled all the stops for Mother’s Day: he took me to Jill’s restaurant in Boulder and surprised me at dinner by slipping me a room key for the gorgeous St. Julien Hotel and Spa. Oh, and did I mention our little getaway was without kids?

Because isn’t that what Mother’s Day is all about: getting a break from those who made you a mother?

And so my quest began to give Jamie a comparable celebration. I queried my friends who gave me some great suggestions but nothing resonated with me. As I pondered his latest passions and interests, it came down to only one thing: pumpkins. The man is obsessed with growing big pumpkins (if you missed that big reveal, make sure to checkout Sordid Secrets and the Husbands Who Keep Them).

And then an idea came to mind–a big idea. But could we afford it? I casually mentioned to Jamie that I wanted to surprise him with a bit of an extravagance for Father’s Day and needed to know how much I could spend. Within moments–moments, people–he was crunching numbers at the computer. An hour later, he came forth with an extravagant number.

I’m just trying to figure out why that money didn’t surface for the spa weekend I wanted to take.

And his big surprise? I am Read on …

There are three words whose perfection and beauty are unsurpassed in the English language:

NO ASSEMBLY REQUIRED.

(What? Did you think I was going to be a sentimental fool and profess something sappy like “I love you?”)

I have been mechanically-challenged my entire life. I will admit it is part laziness, part impatience, part knowing there is a man somewhere to help me and part incompetence. The most part.

I destroyed our refrigerator’s ice machine last winter. If you missed that doozy of a confession, just know it involved black nail polish and a grinder. And an inordinate amount of dark, goopy ugliness.

I am an ice addict and a day without cubes is like a day without a hit for a junkie. So, I immediately tackled the ice machine with soap, water and even nail polish remover. But most of the unit was unsalvageable. My husband Jamie reluctantly ordered a $50 hunk of plastic to replace it and I waited with great anticipation for the part to arrive. Frustrated, he banned me from buying ice cube trays or bags of ice–assuredly a new form of spousal abuse.

I was thrilled when I finally received the part until I noticed the two most dreaded words in the English language: Assembly Required. Read on …

My husband Jamie has been sneaking around lately. I figured his covert actions were regarding the gargantuan Mother’s Day surprise party he was likely throwing me.

It didn’t happen.

Or the second honeymoon he was planning.

We already took one.

So when I spotted him slip into the den and close the door, I knew he was up to no good. I waited a few minutes until I heard him tapping away on the computer’s keyboard. And then I went in for the kill.

And nothing could have prepared me for what I found. It was not a lurid chat room, nor was it nekkid women but it was Read on …

As much as I love to travel, I’m not very good at it. Motion sickness, homesickness, and a weak stomach make me a far from ideal travel companion. Despite that, over the years my husband, Secret Agent Man, has taken me along for some of his missions.

My first foreign travel experience was an extended trip to Venezuela. It took me a month to acclimate to the food. After any meal I felt was not going to sit right, I would drink straight from the bottle of Pepto I carried with me, in order to stave off any untimely intestinal difficulties. I was expecting Mexican-style food in this Latin country, but what I got was carajotas and arepitas. Don’t know what those are? Just let your imagination run wild. I have to admit though, that after a while I came to enjoy hallacas and years later, I would do anything for a plate of pabellón criollo.

One place I didn’t need time to get used to the food was on a cruise ship. It’s amazing to have 24/7 access to unlimited pizza and ice cream, not to mention expertly prepared gourmet meals.

My first cruise to the Caribbean was cut short. I was in my first trimester of pregnancy, which kept me from taking any anti-motion sickness medication. I ended up flying home Read on …

It is currently my husband Jamie’s basketball season and every year, I dread it. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those overbearing women who doesn’t let her husband do anything fun. It’s just there’s something else factored in there: near-death experiences. You see, when Jamie played in the past, he was almost always rushed to the ER with a heart arrhythmia.

He has had a long history with his heart. Shortly after we got married, Jamie’s dad found an old video tape of Jamie playing basketball in high school. He eagerly watched the footage and proudly announced: “Do you see me out there?” Thinking he was trying to show off to his new bride, I scanned the floor, looking for his sexy high-school chicken legs but couldn’t find him. Finally, he let me in on the suspense, pointing to a guy passed out in front of the bench: “There - that’s me having an arrhythmia after playing!” Gee. I couldn’t have been more proud.

During the first few years of our marriage, his heart seemed to get increasingly worse. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, he nearly passed out after a game and we had to call an ambulance for him. His resting heart-rate? A whopping 210. He had a repeat performance the following year, only this time Haddie was able to accompany us to the ER. She had just learned to wave and spent the duration spreading good cheer to all the ER patients. I’m sure she thought it was “Wude” that none of them waved back. Go figure.

After that last episode, he finally caved and went to see a heart specialist - one who wasn’t part of the “Just let your husband play basketball and quit nagging him club,” like the first doctor he saw. Read on …

I’m sitting here with my brother and Amber emails me to write a post for MHM. I ask my brother—single, by the way—what I should write about for the Mamas. He says, and I quote, “tell them to get on um more.”

I chuckle. I say, “why not?”

But considering the MHM audience is primarily female, I think it best to approach this subject from a slightly less predictable direction. I don’t think anyone wants to read about, nor cares about, some random married dude complaining about not getting enough action in the boudoir.

I think I’m going to tackle this issue from a place that might surprise you. Since I don’t expect much if any of my male readership to be venturing over here—though I will be promoting the post on my blog so I might be wrong—I’m going to get a wee bit in touch with my feminine side. Read on …