At the Academy Awards on Sunday night, Ben Affleck was accepting the Best Picture Oscar for Argo when he looked over to his wife, Jennifer Garner, and said, “I want to thank my wife…I want to thank you for working on marriage for ten Christmases. It’s good, it is work, but it’s the best kind of work, and there’s no one I’d rather work with.”

Ben got a lot of grief for making this statement. I saw it for myself all over the Internet. It was awkward. It wasn’t the right place or time. Their marriage is in trouble! They are getting a divorce!

I, on the other hand, thought it was awesome and want to be among the first to thank him for his remark.

In my opinion it was the perfect venue for him to say such a thing. Hollywood is one big fairy-tale, complete with beautiful people and princess dresses, and millions of people were watching. I commend Ben for taking the opportunity to say that even with loads of money, good looks and an Oscar in his hand, that marriage is work. If it’s a struggle for them, what about those of us with financial problems, average appearance and no awards of which to speak?

If men and women didn’t enter into marriage with a white-picket fantasy and instead looked at it like it’s a job, maybe family dynamics wouldn’t get thrown out of whack because of the way the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. Have you ever given a co-worker the silent treatment because they didn’t hang up their coat? No. So why would you act like that with your spouse?

Work can be fulfilling. There are a heck of a lot of people who LOVE their jobs, but they don’t just come in and sit at their desk and expect the work to be fulfilling. They put effort into it. They are passionate about it. They give and they get back.

I love my husband and I’m forever committed to our marriage, but it isn’t always easy. We both know it’s work and when everything falls into place as it can with any good project, it’s the most amazing partnership I’ve ever had. I don’t dread this job; I live for it.

It’s good, it is work, but it’s the best kind of work, and there’s no one I’d rather work with.

Thank you, Ben, for keeping it real.

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Last month my husband and I started an intense fitness regimen with a personal trainer that includes strength training, interval cardio training, and one heck of lot of lunges. I’ve lost five whole pounds.

But, weight schmeight, what matters most is that I’M DOING IT and I feel good doing it. My pants are looser, my energy levels are higher, and for the first time in my life I can do a push-up. One. Push-up. Progress, people.

I’m no dummy, though. I know that if progress is slow I might get discouraged so I decided that I needed a goal to push me forward and, as always, I like my goals to be something fun. Really, I like everything to be fun. What? There will be lots of laughs? What time should I be there? I’ll bring the beer.

That’s why my next fitness goal involves laughs, beer, and a lot of mud.

I’m joining Team Pretty Muddy, a women’s-only, obstacle-course mud run, that will be stirring up a big mess in Columbus on September 14th!

With architectural obstacles, lots of mud and, what they describe as, an “Epic Finish Line Party” (Entertainment, music, drinks & celebration galore), this is just the way I’d like to show how fit I’ve become. Plus, I still have six months to work on my upper-arm strength. I’ll bet I can do seven push-ups by then!

Won’t you join me? Let’s get dirty! Register now to get $10 off!

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Yesterday afternoon, my 10 year old son had six teeth pulled. Because my kid is special, this had to be done by the Chief of Dentistry at our local pediatric hospital. When I say, “special” I mean that my son has bigger medical bills than your son.

Thanks to anxiety, gagging, reflux and a heart condition, this meant general anesthesia for the eighth time. I have always said that watching him get wheeled away to surgery is the hardest part. I was wrong.

Yesterday, the hospital staff gave me the option of joining my son in the operating room until he was asleep. I had never done it before and I was one part happy to be there to comfort him and one part curious about what he has experienced many times while his dad and I have been down the hall drinking waiting room coffee.

I donned something akin to the bunny suit from A Christmas Story, only it was blue and didn’t have ears, and followed the gurney through the heavy OR doors. What happened next is something I will never forget. Hint: It wasn’t a Red Ryder BB Gun.

Once transferred to the operating table, my son began to shake and cry and FLAT OUT refused to breathe the laughing gas coming through his strawberry scented mask. I knew this wasn’t going to go down as planned and when the nurse told me to show him how easy it was, and whispered for me to pretend to breathe into the tube, I would be lying if I didn’t think about taking a gigantic whiff.

Instead I tried to calm my son as four people held him to the table and forced the mask to his face. I placed my head directly in front of his and held his hands tight as I kept repeating, “You’re okay. You’re doing a great job. Good boy.” Over and over and over, for the eternity it took to get him to sleep.

His eyes had fear in them that I hope no parent ever has to see in the eyes of their child and as he tried to yell, “Mommy!” from under the mask, my heart broke into a million pieces. I calmly continued, “It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re doing a great job.” It was like watching a death scene in a movie, only it was real life and I was letting these people suffocate my son.

In less than 30 seconds, his grip on my fingers loosened and they laid him back gently. I picked up the Matchbox car he had thrown across the room and found his glasses that I was sure would be crumpled and smashed, but were actually intact. Then I went to the other side of the OR doors and took off my bunny suit and promptly began crying. I didn’t stop until the doctor came to talk to us.

Today my boy is playing, eating Jell-o like it’s his business, and marveling that the Tooth Fairy left him $20 and let him keep his bag o’ teeth.

But mostly, he’s just getting annoyed at how often I keep grabbing him for extra tight hugs.

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So, you know how you go downstairs to do laundry because you’re out of underwear, and realize that the trash can full of dryer lint has been knocked down every time you’ve gone to the basement for the last two weeks, and you know the only logical explanation is that there is a critter causing the trouble, or a ghost, and you’re hoping it’s a ghost, and then your husband goes outside and finds a flat tire, and while he’s changing the spare tire, he spills all of his coffee, so he makes more coffee, then he spills that too, so you don’t get any coffee and neither does he, and then you look in the mirror to see the painful spot on your ear where you thought your glasses were rubbing you is actually a big zit, then you get a phone call from your son’s school telling you that he can’t participate in any of the Mardi Gras celebrations because he’s not being responsible, and you’re all, “I KNOW! I don’t know what to do with him! I even write ‘BE RESPONSIBLE’ on his napkin every day!” and you want to cry because you really don’t know what to do with him, and you secretly wish it was wine o’clock, and then your daughter comes home from school with a migraine?

Yeah, me too.

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