Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and there are tons of adorable, glitter-y, do-it-yourself Valentine tutorials making the rounds on the internets. I’m all for handmade but I know that a LOT of us just don’t have the kind of time to cut out doilies and get glitter all over the damn place. So, instead of teaching you how to make a valentine from scratch, I straight up made one for you because I love you. I mean, I don’t KNOW all of you but I’m just going to assume you’re lovable and not like, a puppy killer or anything. I hate puppy killers. And killers in general. 

Here you go! Just click, save, print, and fill it in.

 Here are some samples for you in case you need some loving inspiration.

I’m talking about far more dastardly deeds than just doing The Deed. I’m talking about dreadful, heinous acts that I perform for my husband. Things like watching movies starring Kevin Costner or listening to Rush. Oh, the humanity.

Now, I’m not one for chick flicks. I do not indulge in watching the Real Housewives bicker with each other and pull one another’s hair. I rarely make my husband go shopping and when I do, I never make him hold my purse. If anything, he’s the one constantly asking to go shopping, insisting he needs a new pair of shoes because his casual brown ones are scuffed.

With this in mind, I think it only fair that I get excused from having Texas Hold’em poker tournaments in my house. Whenever such a manly activity occurs in your home, you find yourself futilely fighting the stink of dude for weeks. Your house continues to smell like old sweat socks, cigars, Jack Daniels, and balls for what seems like an eternity. As a woman who has never so much as jokingly asked for a Coach purse, I’m fairly certain my nose should be excused from these offenses.

I’m fully supportive of my husband getting his dude on as long as it does not occur in my house. I also do not want to participate in activities teeming with testosterone. The thought of having to endure a film about cars driving fast or furious, or–heaven forbid–both fast and furious is enough to make me want to launch myself out a window.

Why is it that we live in an age when being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen is not enough for me to be considered a good wife? Seriously, I like being pregnant and I hate shoes, so I could easily fulfill the 1950s protocols for being an ideal housewife. Sure, I hate cooking and I refuse to mop floors but I rock at being pregnant and barefoot.

But no, to be a good wife you now have to care when the NFL draft will occur. Not so that you can cook your mate a hearty meal for the festivities, but because you’re expected to have opinions on which college QB should be a first round pick. I can’t take it! It’s too much pressure to emulate dude culture! I just want to read my book!

Seriously, can’t we just have sex instead?

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I gotta admit, I think they’re kinda weird. Trying to get all the cats into a family photo is fun I’m sure. And posting continuous updates of what the cats ate, drank, or puked up that day to Facebook must be interesting some of their friends, judging by the “likes” and “aww how cute” comments. But I just find it annoying.

Don’t get me wrong: I love animals. But there’s a line between child and pet. My pets are not my “fur babies.” They’re animals. I think it’s disrespectful to their animal nature to treat them like mini-humans. But that’s just me. Live and let live. Call them your fur babies if you want.

But for the sake of all those furry little neutered balls, can you please at least put the “fur” in there? There’s nothing more confusing than talking to a colleague about their “baby” and halfway through the conversation realizing that it’s not a child you’re talking about.

Sometimes there are tip-offs. Like if you don’t have a birth story. Let’s face it–every woman who has labored has a birth story these days. And a FUPA to go with it. Despite what daddies and some pet-owners might think, witnessing the birth is not “practically the same as” giving birth. Unless you have a wretched story involving multiple hours of pain and pushing, I’m not going to believe your “baby” is real.

Another clue is when you don’t talk about the breastfeeding debate. Or the co-sleeping debate–’cause for some reason it’s way more acceptable to let your dog sleep in your bed right up to old age than it is to let your child sleep in your bed for the first few years. If you’re not bemoaning the high cost of and lack of reliable daycare spaces, that’s a pretty big tip-off too.

But the easiest way to tell if someone is talking about a human child or a “fur baby” is to listen for judgment. If your little darling eats straight off the table, wakes up four times a night, poops in the neighbor’s yard and is constantly tearing apart your flowers and no one accuses you of being a bad mommy, I know we’re talking about a pet, not a child. It’s sad but true. No one judges a fur baby’s mommy like they judge a real mommy.

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If we wouldn’t be able to enjoy adult conversation, I would just as soon be in my fat pants drinking the cheap shit listening to the smooth sounds of my children fighting. But since we had already made eye contact with our friends and I had made the valiant effort to zip my jeans, there was no backing out.

My husband enjoys music, yet has no discernible musicality, either. His mama forgot to tell him he was lousy. For the sake of our children’s dignity, I am thankful that he is way too old to audition for American Idol. No one wants to see those pants on the ground. 

I admire his ability to sing like no one is listening, but sometimes my eardrums wish he’d shut the fuck up. Thankfully his music appreciation skills are more developed than his raw talent. Every week he tries to inflict his will upon me by forcing me to listen to The Friday Night Blues. Naturally, he wasn’t disappointed when he found out it was a blues performer at the winery.

As we exchanged pleasantries with our friends, I kept a fierce eyeball on the guitarist.  He assembled the stage minimally with a harmonica, amp, and a big ol’ honky tonk microphone. Still, I knew the rest of the evening would be reduced to nodding, smiling and hoping for short sets.

Then the unexpected happened.

He started playing and I didn’t hate him. He played a little more. And I started to like him.

Like, like him like him. I haven’t had such a visceral reaction to music since I touched myself to Tiffany.

It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome. Yet, I was a glass of petit syrah away from throwing him my granny panties which probably would have dwarfed the stage.

I’m not sure if it was his guitar, his harmonica, or his raspy drawl, but I finally got it. This guy’s stage persona totally made him hot. My reaction didn’t go unnoticed by my husband either. The following week, NPR trumped The Friday Night Blues.

If I’d have known fawning over a hairy musician would have gained me access to the radio dial, I would have played that card years ago. I’m great at faking it. After all, I am married.
Photo Credit: Pacdog via photopin cc

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”
–Gertrude Stein, Sacred Emily

I love taking pictures. I especially love taking pictures of flowers. Lots and lots of flowers, from every conceivable angle, in many different lights. My photo blog is full of flowers of all shapes and sizes.

Except for roses.

Roses are the supermodel of flowers–they are showy, bright and beautiful. They impress the masses.

But they leave me cold.

Pretty as they may be, I prefer the elegant lines of a calla lily or the cheerful face of a daisy or the graceful, drooping head of a tulip. These are simply more interesting to me than the perfect folds of a well-cultivated rose.

Perfection is perfection, but there’s nothing for the eye to hold. A rose is a rose is a rose. I am captivated by what might be considered imperfection. Asymmetry. What’s worth documenting  to me is not dictated by a set of standards.

You know I’m not really talking about flowers, don’t you?

You may come to believe that in order to be loved, in order to be considered beautiful, to be liked, you must be one of the roses. One of the popular ones, the pretty ones. You must make yourself in the image of a rose.

A rose is a rose is a rose.

Meh.

I like quirky. I like unique. I like people who have something to say, who have their own opinion on things and aren’t afraid to voice it. I like loud. Or quiet. Funny. Silly. Reserved. Or all of those rolled into one. I like someone who always surprises me, someone who can teach me a thing or two. My best girlfriends always do.

Cultivate a personality if you want to be accepted and liked. Don’t mirror others simply to go along.

Be different. Be a mini burgundy calla lily or a bird of paradise or a brightly-colored gerbera daisy. Read a book that doesn’t feature a glittery vampire (although it’s OK to read that too if you truly like that sort of thing) or listen to music that moves you–even if it’s not popular.

Be an original.

I can buy roses by the dozens under the highway overpass. But I have to make an effort to get a gorgeous hydrangea or perfect orchid. I have to work at it, but it’s so worth it.

You want to be beautiful? Be interesting. You want to be liked? Be witty. You want to be accepted? Be you. Because a rose is a rose is a rose, but nobody else is you.

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The only reason my husband learned to use Facebook

On our first date, my husband took me to a hole-in-the-wall authentic Chinese buffet after the lunch rush had ended. A woman who looked like a waitress simply gestured toward one of the many empty tables when we walked in because she had a chicken foot dangling from her mouth. Though completely grossed out by the poultry protruding through her top incisors, I was impressed by his creativity; this was not the typical first date. It didn’t take long for me to learn that it wasn’t about taking me somewhere I had never been; rather, it was about taking me somewhere deeply discounted. Looking back, I realize we were probably at a Chinese soup kitchen, or eating the leftovers with the employees.

I was being courted by a frugal man.

I married him despite his collection of “2 for 1” coupons for old people pie houses, “I break for garage sales” bumper sticker and claims that he actually invented the Diva Cup. I don’t even bother rolling my eyes anymore when he slams on the brakes to retrieve a rusty wrench from the side of the road on the off chance it may be a Craftsman. Sears is not closing 100 stores because of poor holiday sales–I believe guys like my husband who take advantage of the generous lifetime warranty on Craftsman tools are responsible.

When I saw my husband had recorded a TLC show called “Extreme Cheapskates,” I was really tempted to erase it from the DVR. My husband does not need affirmation by self-proclaimed penny pinchers with their goat heads and reusable toilet paper that he is not the only one who refills his own condiment bottles with extra packets procured around town.

I don’t know if my husband recorded the show for thriftiness tips or to expose me to whack jobs so I would appreciate his mainstream frugality. Either way, a box of animal crackers, a bottle of water and a googly-eyed Halloween decoration for a grand total of $1.29 is not an anniversary present. It is an “X” on the irreconcilable differences box.

Early in our marriage it was decided that I would be the spender and he would be the saver. My husband simply adopted the “Cheaper to Keep Her” mantra. Which is a true statement now, but if he puts the finishing touches on his second generation reusable tampon prototype, he’d be smart to set me up with the goat head guy.

Anyway…

Here’s a newsflash. It’s not you, it’s him. Or her. Or whomever. True story.

If there is one and only one lesson you learn–really learn–in your life, let it be not to take anything personally. It is the key to achieving inner peace and calm. And it will transform your life in ways you never even imagined. All you have to do is stop believing that anything anyone else does is because of you (or to you).

It’s simple. It’s just not easy.

I hear you starting to argue: But Megan… but nothing. People do what they do and say what they say because of things that have nothing to do with you. What you do and what you say have nothing to do with anyone else but you. We are all a product of our genetics and our experiences.

If I compliment your brand-new red wrap dress, it’s because I really love wrap dresses. And red. It’s not because you have the best taste ever. It’s because you happen to share the same taste I do.

It works the same way with people. If someone doesn’t like you it’s not because you suck, it’s because there is something about you that bothers the other person. Maybe you are everything that she wants to be but can never be. Maybe you have quirk that his mother has–the one that makes his teeth itch. Perhaps she has a mega-crush on your boyfriend and feels awkward around you. Or it could be that you simply have nothing in common.

Look, even Hitler had friends. And a girlfriend. That’s not because he was a swell guy, it’s because those people where as batshit crazy as he was.

Honestly, you can’t control or change anyone else’s behavior. All you can do is change the way you react to it. When a someone snaps at you for no apparent reason, they may be having a bad day, be under a lot of stress, or have raging PMS. None of these things have anything to do with you. Let them vent, take a deep breath and get on with your day.

Seriously. You can do it. Just try. You might have to try it 1,001 times before it doesn’t feel like an effort anymore, but you’ll get there.

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This is why animals hibernate in the winter. They know they need that time to get their groove back on through deep breathing and meditation. Us humans decide to throw the most stressful holidays of the year into winter and also try to shovel snow. We’re crazy.

But it’s easy to take a page from the animals’ books–the bestiary, if you will (get your mind out of the gutter, that’s not the word you think it is). If your New Year’s resolution is to reclaim your mojo (i.e. be, do, look better), then you might want to follow their lead.

1. Be antisocial like a bear: No you don’t need to build a snow cave or anything, but consider doing a little hibernation of your own. Don’t charge your cell; tell your ”friends” you’re taking a Facebook sabbatical; stay off the interwebs. By all means, accept party invites if they’re from people you like, but otherwise just spend some time reveling in the company of your family, or yourself. You might feel refreshed.
2. Romp like a rabbit: Recharge the ol’ batteries with some bedroom action. Your partner and your body will thank you for it. Orgasm=endorphins and endorphins=happy. Why do you think bunnies are so bouncy?
3. Prance like a peacock: So your post-Thanksgiving-turkey-plus-Christmas-cookie body is a little plumper than your beach body was? So what. Strut your stuff. Put on some beautiful, flattering clothes and walk into each room as if you own it. If you’re feeling insecure about your body, join the club. The only solution is to fake it till you make it and pretend that you’re loving your new love handles.
4. Get loud like a lion: Did you think the lion was democratically elected the King of the Jungle? Nope, he just roars so loud that no one questions him. And if they do, it comes back to bite them in the ass. The lion has learned to claim what’s his and be bold about his strengths. And the important thing to note is that no one questions it. You want people to see how awesome you are at work or home? Just tell them already.

There you go: four ways to regain your mojo. Now get grooving. Catch you next year when you’re even more awesome.
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