Ours was last Saturday.
Hard to believe that its been only seven years in some ways, hard to believe that its been as long as seven years in others, if that makes sense.
Normally we try to follow the traditional gifts, but wool in April just doesn't work 
So, I bought Wolf a watch. Its nice enough to use as a dress watch (assuming we ever go anywhere ) and sturdy enough that he could wear it to work and it would be ok. I had the back engraved: "7 years and still ticking! Love The Wife" Guy looked at me funny for that, lol!
Wolf bought be a lovely pair of Peridot earrings with diamond chips encircling the stone, and a jewelery box. I was very surprised, and I guess it showed.
He looked sheepish and said, "I know you don't like your birthstone, but I wanted to replace the earrings my sister stole."
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww!
He's right. I hate my birthstone. When he gave me the first pair for my 30th birthday, he said, "I couldn't remember if you loved or hated your birthstone, just that you had a strong reaction to it." So yeah, I do hate Peridot, but love him...so the earrings were precious, and I wore them a lot until they went 'missing', later spotted being worn by my SIL.
The reason I don't like my birthstone is that its the colour or pus. Or snot. Blech.
He's so happy I haven't taken them off, even to the point of prompting me to show the nurse that comes out every Friday.
Yeah. Stuff like this explains a lot of why we've made it seven years. 
While the title is appropriate, I now have that David Bowie song in my head. And I've never even liked the song! *sigh*
There have been some changes around the Stepford Home. Literally around the home...or in it.
Wolf *finally* got around to moving some furniture that I've been begging him to do. I now suddenly have THREE bookshelves in my homeschooling/computer area. Not only do I have all my books out on the shelves, but room for more! It makes my book junkie heart race with delight, lol!
Also, much to the delight of the entire family, we ditched the three legged table to the basement and moved the table that had been holding my printer and file boxes into the kitchen. I wish someone could explain to me how it is that once Wolf moved the broken table downstairs, he FIXED the dang thing. Why couldn't he have done that, oh, say THREE MONTHS AGO when the table leg initially fell off? I swear, I just don't understand the man.
He also rearranged the living room. We suddenly feel like we have a larger home to be honest.
Its funny how rearranging furniture can rearrange attitudes. For the first time in I don't know how long, we're all eating at the kitchen table. Like, for every meal. It used to be that we'd eat in front of the tv. *waiting for all the gasping and 'tsk tsk' to die down* Hey, I did say this was the NON Stepford blog, right? Never did I claim perfection in anything.
While the Flylady would die of mortification and shame, I'm finding it much easier to keep the house clean with this new arrangement. Yeah, still one armed, my sink isn't shiny, I don't have shoes on...heck, I haven't even brushed my hair yet this am, but I'm feeling better about the house.
Here's the biggest shock of all: I'm not drinking coffee any more. I know! Me, the person who swore that you'd only get my Timmie's cup away from me by prying it from my cold, dead hands is no longer drinking coffee!
It wasn't intentional. I got hit with some sort of weird illness on Saturday. (It never fails. Ever since I was a kid, I'd get sick before/after/during an anticipated event...Hallowe'en, Christmas, etc. Or one of my brothers would.) I lay shivering under several blankets, looking like death...without a costume or make up. I don't mind looking like death warmed over for Hallowe'en, I usually consider that a triumph of my theatrical makeup skills, but this wasn't intentional, and therefore, completely unappreciated by me.
And its left me unable to stomach coffee. I just can't do it. I've tried, honest! I've finally made the switch to tea, so I could get my caffeine fix. Sorry, but I just cannot stomach Coke or any other caffeinated soft drink in the am. Caffeine must be delivered via a hot beverage.
I don't even own a tea pot, for pity sakes. I'm nervous about anyone from the government reading this, since I'm fairly certain that lack of a teapot is grounds for revoking my Canadian citizenship, declaring me American, and shipping me across the border.
While I love my American friends, I can't live in the States. No Timmies, no Smarties, and I've heard that our Oreos are better for some odd reason.
****PSA ANNOUNCEMENT****
If you boil water, add it to your mug with a tea bag in it, wander away, get distracted by kids and blogging, it WILL turn into a substance suspiciously similar to lye.
Just a friendly heads up.
*******
So, I guess I need to go get a teapot soon, before the government tracks me down. And a proper kettle. I'm using a flipping sauce pan to boil water.
In my new tea drinking defence, I'm drinking Red Rose. None of that decaffeinated-herb-ground-mouse-toe stuff.
I should also mention that I was astounded by how much CRAP we got rid of over the weekend. I'm talking about SIX garbage bags full. And BIG garbage bags. I didn't even know we had that much stuff, let alone crap! Holy decluttering, Batman!
I told my gf K, it feels like we're gearing up for a move. To be honest, that's usually when we declutter and ditch stuff, because both Wolf and I have a bit of a pack rat tendency.
The one thing that does worry me is that he ditched a whole slew of baby gear. Toys, clothes...He isn't completely daft, and did keep the bassinet and swing. I've warned him before that getting rid of baby gear tends to guarantee conception. It happened before. When Tazzie was around eight months old, Wolf got rid of his swing, and a few other things. Boom, I was pregnant with Princess before Tazzie's first birthday.
He's hoping that keeping the bassinet and swing will be enough to ward off the stork. I'm thinking its only bought us time, lol!
So, there's us at the moment. In my next post I promise to tell you about the Incredible Eating Machine.
This is what I need to tell my husband. I know, I know, there are women out there that would give an appendage for a husband that cleans house.
But not the way Wolf does it.
He throws everything in the garbage that *he* doesn't think is important. Stuff he *does* think is important he stuffs in a box, or on my desk/homeschooling area. Then, of course he nags me about the mess my desk/homeschool area is. *sigh*
I cannot FIND things when he 'cleans'. Case in point, I can't find the reimbursement form for Diva's homeschool stuff. I've looked everywhere, and nope. The entire 'welcome package' we were sent, including a computer disc, has vanished. *Poof* Heaven only knows where the heck it is.
I've already called and thrown myself on the mercy of the folks at the school board, and they're emailing me some files (as soon as they can figure out how to make them smaller, because apparently my email doesn't like the current size of the files) so that I can at least get the reimbursement done.
All I can say to the women whose husband's don't clean is to be careful what you wish for...because one day, he might.
I've finally figured out WHY I'm the Non Stepford Wife model.
Its my kids' fault. And, by DNA responsibility and other issues, my husband's.
But definitely the kids.
Lets start with the fact that there isn't a parenting manual in existence that deals with the issues I face on a regular/daily basis.
Take today for example. There isn't a parenting manual on the shelf that deals with potty training a la non-Stepford style. Princess has been 'sorta' trained for about a year. The 'sorta' parts come in when she will not ever wear anything on her butt. Initially, putting underwear on this kid had her screaming like I'd dipped her in acid. And not the funky hippie dream, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds acid either.
Sooooooo, we let her go bare butt in the house. Never an accident.
But the problem arises when its time to go somewhere. Yes, even homeschoolers take their kids out. Occasionally.
Put a diaper on her, she uses it. Usually in the worst, smelliest, leakiest way possible. I know there are other moms that read this blog, so I know I don't need to get any more detailed than that. Same with disposable so-called training pants. Training my left foot! Only training that occurred was when I had to teach/train Wolf that they rip down the sides, you don't have to slide a poop filled training pants down her legs. Lets all take a moment for a group shudder at the visual that sentence produced. *shudder*
Until.
I found a no name brand disposable training pant that had PRINCESSES on it. From my Princess' all time favourite movie(s), Shrek 1-3. Well now. Defiling those were obviously a no-no. *cue angels singing*
Of course, me being me, didn't figure this out ahead of time, and neglected to buy out the entire in store stock (they were even on sale). However, the bridge between 'bare butt' and 'scream like a banshee' has been bridged, and she will wear underwear now. *cue angelic chorus*
But only if they're pink. With flowers. aka 'pretty'. *headdesk*
Sigh.
I figure that she'll be in normal underwear about a week before she turns 21, and then will be demanding thongs a week after THAT.
In the meantime, I have a three year old that appears out of nowhere, panties around her ankles, announcing "I pooped!", handing me a roll of toilet paper, and bending over. All my other kids had the grace to simply holler at the top of their lungs for help from the bathroom. Not her. *sigh*
Take that, parenting manual. Never read THAT being discussed.
Its not just my youngest either. Tazzie, at 4, has been known to listen to me, cock his head to the side with a puzzled look, and tell me, "I just can't visualize that, Mom." and walks off.
Seriously.
And, the most psyche scarring event of all occurred with Diva, my eldest daughter today. I.Had.To.Teach.Her.To.Shave.
I may never recover. I literally crawled into Wolf's lap, shaking.
(As an aside, why do men think the cure to psychological scarring is them receiving...uh...personal attention? Or is it just my dh?)
As my ever helpful husband said, "At least it was just under her arms. She could have been asking about bikini---" He wasn't allowed to finish that sentence.
Parenting manuals at the Non-Stepford home...best used as paperweights. Or to start fires...if we had a fireplace. *sigh* And I could use some help, dang it!!
Yes, I consider myself to still be a 'young woman', so you can stifle the giggling right now, thanks very much.
I said, STIFLE!
I have puppy lust.
There, I said it. I've confessed. I know some women go through pangs of 'baby lust', but not I. Wolf usually knocks me up before I usually realize I want to be pregnant. Ok, not so much with Tazzie, but definately with Princess.
Anyways, I find myself deep in the throes of puppy lust.
How deep, you ask?
Well, deep enough that I would forgo my deeply held and long cherished dream of getting a Douge De Bordeaux, my all time favourite breed that I've promised myself would be my publishing gift (when I finally get a novel published, I'm buying one with the advance...assuming the advance is big enough, lmao!) and get another pug.
Now there's some serious puppy lust happening, folks.
We have had two pugs. Our first, beloved but none too bright and well...rather untrained (our fault...fell into the 'its a small dog' mind set and didn't bother with training *blush*) scooted out of the house on Hallowe'en a couple of years ago. The Mom with the trick or treaters PUNTED him like a foot ball, and he ran off, yelping. Diva took off after him...only to witness him being killed when he was run over by a speeding car.
Utter heartbreak, as only an eight year old can know.
Last year, we tried a pug again. Winston. He was 18 mths old when we got him, from a 'breeder' I kinda sorta knew. Biiiiiiiiiiiig mistake. Huge. He was nervous as all holy heck, high strung, couldn't be trusted around the Littles...as bad a fit as could ever be. We ended up rehoming him with a sweet sixteen year old whose mom used to breed dogs, who would pamper the heck out of him, and most importantly, had no small children, and wouldn't for years to come.
A few weeks after, we got Jack the Cat, whose about the size of a pug, if not bigger. Great cat, as far as cats go. Lets the kids maul him, until they go too far, and then he gives them a nip or a bit of a swat to keep them in line.
But he's still a cat.
And I'm a dog person. And like his Momma, Tazzie is also a dog person, since he's been heard lamenting lately, "Can we trade Jack in fow a dog? Pwease?"
Kid after my own heart.
Reality of it is, now just isn't the time for a puppy. Wolf's just gotten back to work, so we're starting to bail out our financial boat. His 2nd pay will be going to an accountant to file taxes (yes, late, bad bad bad!) finish catching up on bills if we're not all caught up by then, and kitting out the family for summer gear.
But...the van's paid off in July.
I'm just sayin....
This is something I've heard more and more. "Would you let a teenage BOY mind your children? You would?!" *gasp* *choke* *wheeze*
I've had a brother and sister team mind my kidlets...if one wasn't available, the other would mind them. Occasionally, for a day time job, both would come, since 2 kids under 3 can be a handful for anyone.
Why should having a PENIS render someone automatically suspect? There seems to be a growing trend across North America these days...Suspicion of The Danglers.
There have been situations when I was working that Diva would invite a friend over, and the question would come, "Is your Mom home?" and the answer, "No, my Dad is." and the child wouldn't be allowed. Meanwhile, my husband has far more patience and tolerance for opk (other people's kids) than I do, on any given day. He's the one making them popcorn for their movie while I'm fleeing for the sanctuary of my bedroom to escape the shrill giggling of little girls.
OK, not quite that extreme, but you get the picture. He's more the Mr. Rogers type when it comes to a host of other kids, and I'm more the Miss. Hannigan type. Adore my own, adore a FEW other kids (friends of mine, basically...one here in my city, hers are freaking adorable!)
And he's judged unsafe...because he has dangly bits. Parents would leave their little heathens with ME, assuming I'm perfectly safe, on the basis that I have a uterus. Meanwhile, I could be (and probably am) contemplating how quickly I could duct tape their child's big mouth shut.
Trust me, out of the two of us, Wolf's the safer bet if you're looking to leave your kid with someone. *HE* won't actually duct tape anyone.
I probably won't either, but that's cause of the whole one armed thing, not for lack of desire or trying.
So, Happy 6th Wedding Anniversary to Wolf and I! Wow...6 yrs. Boggles my mind. I won't waste time contemplating the crimes I could have committed and be paroled for by now, because that would just be a downer. But 6 yrs! That's somewhat impressive...unless you're Sm, or other folks like her that have been married for 17 yrs and the like. 6 years is impressive to ME, ok? :oP
Anyways, Wolf and I have been in a wee bit of a financial bind. I've kept it out of the blog, but its pertinent to this story, so thats why I'm mentioning it here. We're so freaking broke its scary.
So, my gf K came by last night with some groceries that she'd pulled from her storage. She swears her husband, 'Costco J' buys apple juice and ketchup by the vat. She had asked that Wolf go out to the car to bring the stuff in. No prob.
What I didn't know was that the sneaky wench had something up her sleeve. $10 to be precise. Which she slipped to my husband, with the commandment,
"Thou shalt by thy wife an anniversary card. And not one of those funny ones either, Bub. It better be romantic, got it?"
I woke up this afternoon (yes, I was allowed to sleep in...until 1230, at which point folks started to worry that I wasn't actually sleeping but had died, and the attempts to check my pulse woke me) to find a lovely card on my night table. It plays, "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You." What really, REALLY got me was what Wolf wrote on the inside. Its intensely personal and private, so I'm not sharing it :oP but it rocked me...One of those, "Wow...he really *does* get it" moments...he really does understand how much I do work at this whole marriage gig some days. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible, ya know? That he just doesn't see. But he does. And that means more to me than anything else he could possibly have bought or given me today.
Dang. I absolutely DID marry the right guy...and he's bought himself another year of it...poor bugger.
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