I could read volumes of poetry, research the words of the greatest lovers, and search the Hallmark greeting card aisle for days but George Harrison put it best back in 1969 (my birth year by the way) . . .
"Something in the Way She Moves, Attracts me like no other lover"
Right now, I am sitting comfortably in my living room watching my beautiful wife beat on her Rock Band drums accompanied by her constant companion and faithful lead guitarist (our 7 year old, Houston). Being the dutiful wife that I am, there is a casserole on the stove (one of her favorites) and it is slowly getting cold because I can't stop watching her. It is like this always. I find myself unable to keep my eyes off of her, unable to stay out of touching distance from her, unable to draw a breath without her scent, to think a tought that does not include her.
As I type this, she is wearing the ugliest navy Puma tennis shoes in the world, long socks from having earlier had on her boots, the black wife beater and white bra that she wore under her western shirt to work today, and a pair of wrinkled royal blue plaid man-shorts that she had to pilfer from the garage because this is our first warm day in Reno. Surely, I do not love her so because of her fashion sense. She just now turned to me and said "I'm sweating between my fat rolls. Want to feel?" . . . clearly, I do not love her so because of such sweet words. She is moody, stubborn, has the worst tattoo I've ever seen, and pouts like a 3 year old, but . . .
"Somewhere in her smile she knows, That I don't need no other lover"
She is the man of my dreams. Not just because she never makes me take out the trash. Not just because she buys me fresh flowers for no reason at all. Not just because she never lets me get dirty, lift anything heavy, or carry the groceries in from the car. Not just because she works tirelessly to make sure our needs our met. Not because she thanks me for every meal I put on the table even when it's just a sandwich. Not even because she is the best parent that I could possibly have ever asked to share in the raising of my children. She is the very definition of the true Southern Gentleman that existed in the years before I was ever born. I love her for all of these things but more than that, I just love who she is . . . the person at her very core that adores me and all my many flaws, the person who rolls over in my bed every time I do, the person who always sleeps closest to the door and walks closest to the street to protect me from whatever evil lurks around the next corner. I love her smile, the way she looks at me, the way she smells, and, yes . . . the way she moves.
I implore you , dear readers, to step forth and sympathize with me because I surely cannot be the only one, besides George Harrison, who finds another so completely intoxicating as I do my love. She makes me so proud to be . . .
Girl Dad's Wife
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Practicing Random Acts of "Strange" Kindness
So, my 16 year old daughter, Avery, gets a $30 gift card to Texas Roadhouse from her work as their way of apologizing for trying to set her on fire (that's a whole other blog) . . . ANYWAY . . .she invites her Momma to go with her to dinner tonight.
While we're there, I notice 2 ginormous tables of old people just enjoying the hell out of their dinner and taking pictures. Seriously, these folks are late 60's or 70. One tall dude is up and down snapping pics like crazy and . . . you know me . . . I just got to know what the ocassion is. So, as they start to depart the restaurant, I stop the cutest little old lady ever and I say (in my best Southern drawl) . . .
" I noticed that ya'll seem to be having a fine 'ole time takin' pictures and all. What's the ocassion?" Well, she proceeds to explain to me that they were all "Army brats (her words)" and that they graduated High School together in Puerto Rico FIFTY years ago. This excited me to no end so I asked, in these words, "If I line up at that there cash register, can I hug all ya'll as you leave?" Well, most of them lined up in an orderly fashion and let me hug them and I told each of them "Happy Fiftieth Anniversary" and we just laughed and had a big 'ole time until some of the older gentlemen requested pictures. Now, this might be an appropriate time to interject that I was wearing a fairly low cut dress and the DDD's might have been peeking out just a bit and I might have had on a pair of 6" platforms causing me to stand around 6'5" tall (I've shrunk as I got old). Now, the first couple of guys just got the standard kiss of the cheek picture then they talked a little short fellow into taking off his paper boy cap so that I could kiss him on the top of the head. Of course, I gladly obliged them and somewhere, there is photographic evidence. Why Pookie didn't snap some pics on my camera phone is beyond me.
Long story short, we got to the last of the older gentlemen (a kindly man in a blue sweater) who had been hesitant to step forward . . . I asked which of the lovely ladies was his beautiful bride so that I could get a picture with her too. A not so kindly woman with a not so kindly expression on her face steps foward and refuses her hug then proceeds to rapidly exit my hug line followed by her gaggle of 2 other not so kindly looking ladies.
And the moral of the story is this. Jealous b*tches in high school grow up to be jealous old ladies. Now, seriously, was it necessary for her to behave like that? Was there any real fear of some giant stranger in a crowded Texas Roadhouse sinking her devil claws into the poor woman's 70 year old sweater clad husband? I ask you, my blog reading friends, was there any real harm in my wanting to congratulate 16 or 20 random strangers for having the good fortune to be able to celebrate their 50th Class Reunion?
And finally . . . Pookie call my random acts of kindness "strange". Perhaps strange for some but just part of the every day life that makes me happy to be . . .
Girl Dad's Wife
While we're there, I notice 2 ginormous tables of old people just enjoying the hell out of their dinner and taking pictures. Seriously, these folks are late 60's or 70. One tall dude is up and down snapping pics like crazy and . . . you know me . . . I just got to know what the ocassion is. So, as they start to depart the restaurant, I stop the cutest little old lady ever and I say (in my best Southern drawl) . . .
" I noticed that ya'll seem to be having a fine 'ole time takin' pictures and all. What's the ocassion?" Well, she proceeds to explain to me that they were all "Army brats (her words)" and that they graduated High School together in Puerto Rico FIFTY years ago. This excited me to no end so I asked, in these words, "If I line up at that there cash register, can I hug all ya'll as you leave?" Well, most of them lined up in an orderly fashion and let me hug them and I told each of them "Happy Fiftieth Anniversary" and we just laughed and had a big 'ole time until some of the older gentlemen requested pictures. Now, this might be an appropriate time to interject that I was wearing a fairly low cut dress and the DDD's might have been peeking out just a bit and I might have had on a pair of 6" platforms causing me to stand around 6'5" tall (I've shrunk as I got old). Now, the first couple of guys just got the standard kiss of the cheek picture then they talked a little short fellow into taking off his paper boy cap so that I could kiss him on the top of the head. Of course, I gladly obliged them and somewhere, there is photographic evidence. Why Pookie didn't snap some pics on my camera phone is beyond me.
Long story short, we got to the last of the older gentlemen (a kindly man in a blue sweater) who had been hesitant to step forward . . . I asked which of the lovely ladies was his beautiful bride so that I could get a picture with her too. A not so kindly woman with a not so kindly expression on her face steps foward and refuses her hug then proceeds to rapidly exit my hug line followed by her gaggle of 2 other not so kindly looking ladies.
And the moral of the story is this. Jealous b*tches in high school grow up to be jealous old ladies. Now, seriously, was it necessary for her to behave like that? Was there any real fear of some giant stranger in a crowded Texas Roadhouse sinking her devil claws into the poor woman's 70 year old sweater clad husband? I ask you, my blog reading friends, was there any real harm in my wanting to congratulate 16 or 20 random strangers for having the good fortune to be able to celebrate their 50th Class Reunion?
And finally . . . Pookie call my random acts of kindness "strange". Perhaps strange for some but just part of the every day life that makes me happy to be . . .
Girl Dad's Wife
Monday, June 6, 2011
Getting HER last name
In December, I filed for a domestic partnership with my beloved. It took a matter of minutes + a nominal filing fee. Much like a marriage certificate, it was a quick and painless process that bound us together until death do us part. Changing my name, however has been quite a different matter.
For all you girls out there who ever walked down the aisle, it was a total pain in the ass to change your name, right? It starts with a trip to the social security office with a certified marriage certificate . . . seemingly endless lines, beaurecratic red tape, a complete violation of your lunch breaks and DTO, right? Well, here's a tip for you girls that might make it slightly less painful . . . IT WAS FREE.
Here's what I had to do just to get that ball rolling. First, I had to investigate countless government websites until I found out if I could even legally share the same name as my bethrothed. After finally stumbling across the appropriate forms with their 37 pages of instructions (all to be printed in Black ink with NO use of correction fluid), I found that I would have to stand in line at the County Clerk's office with a giant check for almost $300. Of course, need I say that I was required to take to said clerk's office triplicate copies of forms with staples . . . no paperclips? I was informed that their job was NOT to staple my paperwork. I was then required to proceed to the nearest local newspaper office (located in the middle of nowhere on a one-way street in the hood, if such a place exists in Reno, NV) with a grand total of $166 where an ad would run for three consecutive weeks asking for the general public's permission to change my name. Now, I understand completely that this is done for the safety of John Q Public as I could have potentially been a registered sex offender trying to escape justice. However, for all of the other registerered sex offenders wishing to escape justice . . . here's a hint for you . . . marry a DUDE. They let you then change your name for free and without public notice!!
After 3-4 weeks of waiting, I finally received the certified notice from the newspaper stating that my ad had run and I then took that back to the County Clerk'sffice and stood in the same line (FYI . . . parking is at the meter, the coffee shop next door does NOT make change AND there is a security checkpoint into the building that rivals TSA any day of the week). This part of my journey should have been free but the 50 cents in my pocket only bought 30 minutes of parking and hence, the resulting 31 minute parking ticket cost me $20.
Long story short . . I hope I remain a Lawson for all the rest of my days. The total cost for changing what comes free to every man and wife was around $600. At the end of the day, however, there is a certain sense of peace that comes with having a singular name on the checkbook, the power bills, and the student registration forms. I am no less proud to sign my new that any blushing bride.
Girl Dad's Wife
For all you girls out there who ever walked down the aisle, it was a total pain in the ass to change your name, right? It starts with a trip to the social security office with a certified marriage certificate . . . seemingly endless lines, beaurecratic red tape, a complete violation of your lunch breaks and DTO, right? Well, here's a tip for you girls that might make it slightly less painful . . . IT WAS FREE.
Here's what I had to do just to get that ball rolling. First, I had to investigate countless government websites until I found out if I could even legally share the same name as my bethrothed. After finally stumbling across the appropriate forms with their 37 pages of instructions (all to be printed in Black ink with NO use of correction fluid), I found that I would have to stand in line at the County Clerk's office with a giant check for almost $300. Of course, need I say that I was required to take to said clerk's office triplicate copies of forms with staples . . . no paperclips? I was informed that their job was NOT to staple my paperwork. I was then required to proceed to the nearest local newspaper office (located in the middle of nowhere on a one-way street in the hood, if such a place exists in Reno, NV) with a grand total of $166 where an ad would run for three consecutive weeks asking for the general public's permission to change my name. Now, I understand completely that this is done for the safety of John Q Public as I could have potentially been a registered sex offender trying to escape justice. However, for all of the other registerered sex offenders wishing to escape justice . . . here's a hint for you . . . marry a DUDE. They let you then change your name for free and without public notice!!
After 3-4 weeks of waiting, I finally received the certified notice from the newspaper stating that my ad had run and I then took that back to the County Clerk'sffice and stood in the same line (FYI . . . parking is at the meter, the coffee shop next door does NOT make change AND there is a security checkpoint into the building that rivals TSA any day of the week). This part of my journey should have been free but the 50 cents in my pocket only bought 30 minutes of parking and hence, the resulting 31 minute parking ticket cost me $20.
Long story short . . I hope I remain a Lawson for all the rest of my days. The total cost for changing what comes free to every man and wife was around $600. At the end of the day, however, there is a certain sense of peace that comes with having a singular name on the checkbook, the power bills, and the student registration forms. I am no less proud to sign my new that any blushing bride.
Girl Dad's Wife
Girl Dad Part 1
Having been in a "traditional" relationship for 20 years and having bore many children with my husbands, I have been well accustomed to the very tradition moniker of "Dad". Now, being from the South (Alabama) to be specific), I had a "Daddy" . . . still do after 41 years. It's kind of the equivalent of Blanch Devereaux's "Big Daddy" from The Golden Girls. So, when I entered into this same sex world with my best friend and the "man" of my dreams, you'd expect there might be an issue as to what she should be called. I visited countless websites and ventured into the world of Baba's and Mom and Mommy and Momma and here is what I know to be certain . . .
MY CHILDREN HAVE ONE MOTHER. I am it. I bandage knees, comfort the heartbroken, and cook the most famous southern fried dinners imaginable. I bake the birthday cakes, wrap the gifts, decorate the house, and make sure that the Christmas cards are sent. I have no first name . . . not to my children, not to the neighbor's children, not to my children's friends. I am referred to simply as "Momma" . . . that is all . . . one word. Better than Madonna or Kei$ha. I am the Momma of all who enter my life or our home. So, where did that leave my beautiful, lawn mowing, waste managing, barbequing partner? Well, leave it to a 4 year old to answer that.
When our daughter, Kirby, was barely 4 years old, she stated matter-of-factly that Christina was GIRL DAD. Simply put in the words of our youngest, she was the Dad, but a girl. Somewhere along the last year, the concept has kind of caught on within the household. Our 16 year old often calls through the house after Christina by simply yelling "Dad, Dad, Dad!" as would any teenager searching out their male parent for gas money or permission to have friends over or help with their car. When we camped last summer with a myriad of our 16 year old's friends, we found that her male friends in particular were fond of using the term "Dad' in reference to my beloved. She is there for them when they are tinkering with their sub-woofers, changing their spark plugs, or asking for girl advice. I just cook the dinners and hug them when they need it (daily).
What I ask of you, dear readers, is this . . . Is there some unwritten rule of the universe somewhere that demands that "Dad" be male? If, years down the line, we should find ourselves at Disney World with an ice cone covered child running toward her screaming "Dad, Dad, Dad", what is the worst that can come of that? Will some religious zealot thump my child in the head with their bible? Will be simply be a sideways glance? Or, is the world ready for GIRL DAD?'
Girl Dad's Wife
MY CHILDREN HAVE ONE MOTHER. I am it. I bandage knees, comfort the heartbroken, and cook the most famous southern fried dinners imaginable. I bake the birthday cakes, wrap the gifts, decorate the house, and make sure that the Christmas cards are sent. I have no first name . . . not to my children, not to the neighbor's children, not to my children's friends. I am referred to simply as "Momma" . . . that is all . . . one word. Better than Madonna or Kei$ha. I am the Momma of all who enter my life or our home. So, where did that leave my beautiful, lawn mowing, waste managing, barbequing partner? Well, leave it to a 4 year old to answer that.
When our daughter, Kirby, was barely 4 years old, she stated matter-of-factly that Christina was GIRL DAD. Simply put in the words of our youngest, she was the Dad, but a girl. Somewhere along the last year, the concept has kind of caught on within the household. Our 16 year old often calls through the house after Christina by simply yelling "Dad, Dad, Dad!" as would any teenager searching out their male parent for gas money or permission to have friends over or help with their car. When we camped last summer with a myriad of our 16 year old's friends, we found that her male friends in particular were fond of using the term "Dad' in reference to my beloved. She is there for them when they are tinkering with their sub-woofers, changing their spark plugs, or asking for girl advice. I just cook the dinners and hug them when they need it (daily).
What I ask of you, dear readers, is this . . . Is there some unwritten rule of the universe somewhere that demands that "Dad" be male? If, years down the line, we should find ourselves at Disney World with an ice cone covered child running toward her screaming "Dad, Dad, Dad", what is the worst that can come of that? Will some religious zealot thump my child in the head with their bible? Will be simply be a sideways glance? Or, is the world ready for GIRL DAD?'
Girl Dad's Wife
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