Despite my fervent warnings, my 13 year old daughter is going to see her first scary movie today. I suppose I’ll need to make some room in my bed tonight.

It’s possible she will be like her father, who has no problem sitting in a dark house in the wee hours of the night while the TV flashes images unfit for my psyche. cough…Saw…cough. Popcorn and Paranormal Activity are not my idea of a good time.

My guess is that she’ll be more like me and won’t be able to wash the dishes without thinking someone is walking up behind her. Note: Always wash the steak knives last, so they’re within easy reach for a quick stabbing.

Maybe she will walk past a window and be startled by her own reflection, or feel the need to look in her closet and under her bed before she goes to sleep. Maybe she’ll be scared to go in the basement, or take a shower, or walk anywhere after dark. Where’s my Zoloft?

Though, I suppose it would be a good thing for this movie to scare her in the way Amityville Horror did me. I am cautious, aware, and I know how to wield a crucifix.

Not to mention that the last time my husband and I went to the shooting range, I was a way better shot.

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My husband has a cold. That noise you just heard was the collective groan of wives all over the world. That’s right, it’s the dreaded Man Cold.

In my husband’s defense, he rarely gets sick. He doesn’t have the combined history of asthma, pneumonia, meningitis and sinus infections like I do. And, people, I’m just scratching the surface of my ailments. Truly.

He isn’t used to the headache, cough and all-around nastiness he feels…and I’m not used to being around it. Especially the part about how he can’t breathe through his nose which means he snores like there are real-live lumberjacks sawing logs right next to me. And, my husband just grew a full beard, so if he puts on a plaid shirt I might just mistake him for one.

He has been kind enough to sleep on the couch for the last two nights, which leaves me free to take an Ambien and fold my adjustable bed into the shape of a taco and sleep like a baby. That part is kind of awesome. My husband doesn’t even like it when the bed has a slight roll (or, what he refers to as its golf-green shape). He likes the mattress to be flat. BOOOR-ING!

But, although I have plopped myself onto the middle of the mattress, kept the light on my side-table shining so that I can read magazines or paint my nails, listened to the TV without having to cup my hand behind my ear, and have sat in a half-taco while I type this blog post, I still hope he feels better soon.

Because that man-cold is a brutal beast. Just ask all of the wives who groaned.

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One of my favorite things about Christmas morning is opening the gifts that my kids, painstakingly, pick out at their school’s Santa Gift Land. I remember shopping for my own parents when I was a child, usually deciding on anything with a candy-cane stripe; pens, candles, shoestrings…you get the picture.

Though my daughter is about to turn 13 and is, therefore, too mature to shop at Santa Gift Land *place hand on hip* *insert eyeroll*, she does win a blue ribbon for the best item ever purchased off of a folding table in the art room. When she was in one of the lower grades and attended Santa Gift Land, she bought my husband a wolf-clock.

I’m not sure where we have it stored, but it looked sort of like this:

A fine clock specimen if you love a good mini-wolf. Plus, nothing says, “What time is it?” like an animal’s ribcage.

I don’t know why there aren’t many good choices for dads at Santa Gift Land, but this was about as good as it got. Until this year.

Last week, after shopping at school, my son came home with a coffee mug for his dad. Perfect! My husband likes coffee, he needs to drink it out of a mug and there wasn’t a wolf on it! I was actually pretty excited for him to open this gift on Christmas morning. It would be such a pleasant surprise!

The other night, my two fellas were sitting together on the couch when my nine year old suddenly asked, “Hey, Dad. What do you want for Christmas?”

My husband said, “Oh, I don’t know. I need some socks and a new pillow.”

My son nodded. “Do you want anything else?”

“Well, you know I love the Dallas Cowboys. I’d like a new Cowboys shirt.”

Then my son looked up at his dad and said, “Oh, those are good ideas. But, how do you feel about coffee mugs?”

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I am a big girl.

There is no side-stepping the issue. I love chocolate, beer and bread. I am also 5’10”, wear a size 11 shoe and have hands that only a Globetrotter would love.

See?

Last night, we were watching an episode of Survivor when my husband spied a young, blond woman and innocently said, “She’s cute.”

I gave him a look, innocent or not.

“Cute” is not a word that has ever described me. I don’t want to hear him saying it about someone else.

As my husband tried to backpedal, our 12 year old daughter came to his defense, but if I have never heard anyone call me “cute” I’ve, for sure, never heard anyone say this…

“Mom, he didn’t mean cute, like pretty! He meant cute, like petite.”

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