Taking a walk on the wild side

We’ve been getting our fitness on here at Casa Towbin lately. And by “fitness” I mean taking a leisurely walk a few days a week after a filling dinner of, say, pasta and bolognese sauce. But nonetheless, activity is happening. It’s usually just my husband and myself taking the walk, which is nice, but I’ve noticed something weird with him on these walks. Shocker.

(On our walk)

Me: You know, if The Handmaid’s Tale ever happens in real life, you BETTER become a commander and you BETTER take me up the rungs with you. That’s the only way I would survive in that kind of world. I’m not saying I’d in any way be happy living as the wife to a commander, but I just wouldn’t make it in a Red Center, and if those are my only options, then that’s what I would choose.

My husband: Uh huh. (munching on something)

Me: Are you eating something?

My husband: Yeah. Want one? (He presents a handful of jellybeans to me, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.)

Me: You’re eating jellybeans on our walk?

My husband: Sure. I always do.

Me: Where do you keep them?

My husband: In my pocket.

Me: You’re telling me you shove your pockets full of jellybeans and eat them on our walks?

My husband: Um, yeah. Do you want one? Here’s a cinnamon one. I know you like cinnamon.

Me: That’s not the point. (Me, taking the cinnamon one because duh.) We’re exercising and you really shouldn’t be counteracting that exercise by popping jellybeans one after the other.

My husband: I don’t care.

Me: You’re an odd duck.

The next day he didn’t even bother to hide his stash during our walk. He literally grabbed a box of Jujubees and ate them one by one over the course of 40 minutes (we went on an extra long walk that night, maybe because he was thinking Jujubees are higher in caloric value that jellybeans? I don’t know how his mind works, to tell you the truth).

So that’s how we do fitness over here. Yes, “we” because I always eat the cinnamon jellybeans from his stash. Ok, and the toasted marshmallow. And 17 other flavors.

Life is just a bowl of cherries

A man who is not my husband.

The other day I was riding in the car with my husband, who had grabbed a bowl of cherries to eat on the way. About 10 minutes into the drive, I noticed something weird. Or, should say, I noticed something NOT weird.

When my husband eats cherries in the car, he always disposes of the pits in this way: He rolls down his window, spits the pit out to the curb, and screams, “ALEX CHERRYSEED!” (As in, he’s like Jonny Appleseed, except instead of planting apple trees, he’s planting cherry trees. Mixed with his spit.)

That particular day I noticed he had not even ONCE screamed, “ALEX CHERRYSEED!” What followed:

Me: (looking in the bowl, still half-filled with cherries) Um, where are the pits?

Him: Huh?

Me: What are you doing with the cherry pits if you’re not spitting them out the window?

Him: (shrugs)

Me: Wait, are you SWALLOWING the pits?

Him: Maybe.

Me: What?!? You can’t do that!

Him: Yes, I can.

Me: No, you can’t!! You can’t eat cherry pits!

Him: Sure I can.

Me: I am definitely certain that NO YOU CANNOT and now you’re going to get really sick.

Him: Or maybe I’m just growing cherry trees inside me.

Me: (fuming, because this is NOT a joke and people are NOT meant to eat cherry pits even though I’m not sure why, and I just know he will not have to face any consequences for this behavior because isn’t that always the way)

Him: (eats another cherry; swallows the pit)

Me: What is wrong with you?!?

Him: (continues to eat more cherries and swallow their pits without commentary)

Me: You are one odd duck.

Image from: Rodale’s Organic Life


Conversation starters for one

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it began, but I have come to the stunning conclusion that I am now a person who talks to themselves. I was in the Kroger parking lot earlier today, loading my reusable grocery bags into my car, when I grasped a particularly heavy bag and, as I tried to lift it up, the handle snapped completely off. I said, out loud, “Well, THAT’S not helpful.”

Who was I talking to? There was no one around, so I guess that would be myself.

It started to dawn on me that I do this several times during any given day. I forgot to mail a pile of letters that I was holding IN MY HAND as I drove right past the mailbox the other day, and I screamed out loud, to myself, “What the f*^$# is wrong with you?!?” Why do I speak to myself in the second person while I am by myself? No clue.

But, no, it doesn’t stop there. I also speak to other people when I am the only one in the room. My husband did the dishes after dinner last night, and as I opened the cabinet this morning to grab a skillet so I could make breakfast, I noticed he had precariously stacked the pots and pans he had cleaned on top of one another, WITH NO ORGANIZATIONAL PLAN IN MIND. I became so enraged I screamed, “Come on, dude! That’s not how you put these away! Get your head in THE GAME!”

My husband was not only NOT in the room, he wasn’t even in the house. He was at that moment 20 miles away at work.

Why am I doing this? I don’t know. Is it normal? I’m scared to ask.

Image from EyeOpening Info.

New Year, New You

I had this amazing idea during dinner yesterday. I’m not usually super into New Year’s resolutions, but I thought that maybe this year my husband, my kids and I could make New Year’s resolutions for EACH OTHER.

Within 10 minutes I discovered that this amazing idea was not, in fact, amazing but instead the exact opposite.

It all started out just fine. I was spitting out stellar New Year’s resolutions left and right for everyone. Less screen time! Better table manners! No more nail biting! It was amazing. It was like I had this superpower that would let me pinpoint EXACTLY what needed to be changed about a specific person and lay it out in no uncertain terms.

I saved myself for last. This is when I began to see the error of my ways. For some reason, I thought it might be hard for my family to come up with a New Year’s resolution for me. I don’t know why, because immediately all three of them started spouting off things that I could resolve to do:

  1. “Stop yelling so much.”
  2. “Pay more attention to me.”
  3. “Pay less attention to me.”
  4. “Publish a book.”
  5. “Be nicer.”
  6. “Stop our monthly check-ins where you ask me if I’m taking drugs.”
  7. “Don’t make us suffer because you are gluten and dairy free.”

To which I responded:

  1. I DON’T YELL! And anyway, if you want me to stop yelling, stop doing things that make me yell at you.
  2. Huh?
  3. Huh?!?
  4. That is out of my control. You have to tell me to change something I can control.
  5. SO. RUDE.
  6. Never.
  7. You’ve never eaten so well, ingrate.

What I’ve gathered from these suggestions is that: (a) I can’t take criticism, and (b) I basically need to change who I am as a person IN GENERAL. WTF?!? Like a simple, “Stop saying like so much” wouldn’t have sufficed?

I’m not going to lie. This cut me deep. Deeper than my #fingerbooboo, which, by the way, is on the mend. I have no feeling in the tip of my finger, but maybe that’s okay, because at least it’s numb to the events that occurred around last night’s dinner table.

Paris in the Scary Time


My husband thinks I’m super paranoid. There was this one time, though, when I was JUSTIFIABLY paranoid and I totally saved our lives. No exaggeration. I’m coming back from my lengthy blog sabbatical JUST to tell the specific story that follows, proving once and for all to my husband that I am not paranoid for no reason. I am, in fact, paranoid for extremely good reasons.

Here’s the situation: A couple weeks ago my husband and I went on a super fun trip to London and Paris. One evening in Paris we decided to eat dinner at a restaurant near the Eiffel Tower. We took the subway there and came out near this little park. We needed to figure out which restaurant we should try, so my husband suggested we go sit on a bench in this park and figure it out.

Four things you should know about this park:

  1. I’m sure any tourist who wants to see the Eiffel Tower comes out of this very subway station next to this park.
  2. We arrived there at dusk.
  3. It was kind of deserted.
  4. Except for a group of 20-something-year-old men who were loitering.

Just before we went to sit down, I said to my husband, “There are a bunch of guys around here and it looks weird. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

His response: “Whatever. They’re just guys hanging out.” Which might have been followed by an eye roll.

I trailed behind him and we found a bench. We sat down and he pulled out his iPad, scrolling through, trying to figure out where we should go. While his attention is focused on the iPad, mine is on the five young men that are literally starting to circle our bench like sharks.

I say, “We need to leave right now.”

My husband became annoyed. I had to take the time to explain that these guys were getting closer to us and we needed to vacate the premises immediately (mind you they’re circling WHILE I’m making my case to him).

By some miracle he listens to me…but only walks as far as the edge of the park. He stands there with his back to the park and keeps scrolling through the restaurant descriptions. I tell him I think this is an equally bad idea. He tells me, in no uncertain terms: “I KNOW HOW NOT TO GET MUGGED, OKAY?”

Okay, dude.

I let him be, keeping watch. In less than a minute, this one particular guy from the park approaches him and stops TWO FEET BEHIND HIS BACK and stares at him.

In my head, I’m like, Enough of this bullshit. I scream at my husband, “LEAVE. NOW!”

And get this. He yells back, “I don’t want to start walking in a direction that’s going away from the restaurant. I need to know where I’m going!”

W. T. F.

I scream, this time louder, “WALK NOW!!!!” This time I motion for him to look behind him at the man who is FIVE SECONDS AWAY FROM JUMPING HIM AND STEALING EVERYTHING HE HAS ON HIM.

It FINALLY clicks and he wraps both hands around his iPad and trails behind me as I book it the hell away from this park. Once we’re across the street, I look back and see that a bunch of these guys have strategically placed themselves behind bushes every 15 feet or so, staring out onto the sidewalk at tourists strolling by, trying to figure out which ones are the biggest suckers.

I just have to say that this entire exchange between us took WAY too much of my energy. Did he want a freaking term paper on why we needed to run away from the scary men? I have no idea.

So I’m paranoid, huh? My freaking SUPERPOWER is paranoia. And I saved our asses. You’re welcome.



Death becomes her

If you’ve noticed, every post about my husband features a picture of a cat. I didn’t want to break with tradition.

I’ve developed a new habit. I didn’t mean to and it’s really not a good thing.

It all started a few weeks ago when my husband had the week off. We were driving around town together and for some reason every time we drove by a cemetery, he would hold his breath. I totally remember doing this WHEN I WAS 8 but forgot about it when I became, say, an adult.

He did this several times. And despite my better judgement, I started holding my breath too as we drove by. I don’t know why I did it. I suppose I was scared NOT to do it. What would be the worst that could happen? I have no idea. I don’t know why holding your breath as you pass by a cemetery is even a thing, but somehow I decided that just because he was doing it, I had to do it.

Fast forward a week later. My husband was back at work. I found myself driving by a cemetery and…I held my breath the whole time. To the point where I maybe might have gotten just slightly dizzy, which is a bad idea when you’re the driver.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. All I know is that I can’t stop.

And I KNOW, 100%, that my husband is so diabolical that this is exactly what he intended to happen. I can’t believe he played me like violin. Actually, I can. And now for the rest of my life I have to hold my breath when I drive by a cemetery.

Wake up call

It’s been three days in a row. I can’t take it anymore.

You see, my husband has this suction-cup mirror thing that sticks onto the wall of the shower. It also holds his razor. And for THREE mornings in a row now, the stupid thing has come un-suctioned. No big deal, right?

Wrong. It comes un-suctioned at around 6 am. That’s while I’m dead asleep and he’s already gone for the day. The actual un-suctioning part isn’t the problem. It’s what happens one second AFTER it un-suctions. It crashes and clangs onto the tile floor of the shower, which causes me to not only wake up, but jolt upright in bed, scream “Holy sh*^!!”, and think that (a) the apocalypse is nigh, or (b) simply that some lunatic is breaking into the house and will murder me in the next 60 seconds.

Weirdly enough, I’m so out of it that I manage to fall back asleep within 30 seconds and kind of forget it even happened.

So the vicious cycle starts all over again. The next morning my husband suctions the mirror back onto the wall, it crashes to the ground at 6 am, I freak out for 30 seconds, fall back asleep, and forget to mention that he might need a new suction mirror.

So let this blog post be a reminder: YOU NEED A NEW SUCTION MIRROR. My heart might not be able to take it otherwise.


Too much on my plate

The most insane thing happened this past weekend. This:



It’s a broken plate (with honey and a shelled pistachio on it). Yeah. But do you even KNOW how that happened?!?

My head. That’s what happened.

Yeah, I broke a plate right down the middle USING MY HEAD.

No, I wasn’t training for some black belt karate competition. Here is how it went down:

I was bending down to pick up an orange peel or something that had fallen on the kitchen floor. Little did I know that my kid was bringing his used breakfast dish to the sink and, at the very moment that I popped back up, the plate was directly over my head. So I swung my head back up and BAM — the plate split in half.

I was all, “OMG! I can’t believe you just broke a plate over my head!” and my kid is all, “OMG! Are you all right?!?” not knowing if he should cry or burst out laughing because it was totally ridiculous.

My husband was at work at the time, of course, and I texted him the following:

Kid #2 just literally broke a plate over my head. I feel a little dizzy.

And…there’s no response on his end.

A few minutes later, I texted him the above photo with the caption: Seriously. Plate. Over my head. And there’s silence on your end?

FINALLY he texts back and asks me (1) if I’m okay, and (2) if kid #2 did it on purpose.

Me: “Yes. No. I feel a little off.”

His response: “You are always a little off.”

Nice. It was a craptastic morning. But on the up side, every time my kid asked me if he earned screen time yet for the day, I said, “You broke a PLATE over my head! What do you think?!?” It was hilarious.

Night owl

There’s been an ongoing conflict in the house for some time now. I’ve stayed silent for weeks, but last night was, as they say, the straw that broke the camel’s back–“the straw” being my husband and “the camel’s back” being me.

You see, it doesn’t take me long to fall asleep. I read for a bit until I literally can’t keep my eyes open, put down my book, and within 60 seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I’m out.

It’s at the 61-second mark that my husband thinks he’s the most hilarious person on the planet. He waits until that very moment and then does something to wake me up out of my dead sleep. Like says, “Goodnight.” Or grunts. Or makes some kind of annoying sound that jolts me out of my sleep and makes me start yelling at him. He laughs and laughs and laughs. And I am PISSED.

He did it again last night. When I confronted him this morning, he said it wasn’t him. It went something like this:

Me: Why did you wake me up AGAIN last night?!?

My husband: I didn’t.

Me: YES you did. You grunted or something and then laughed when I woke up and started yelling at you.

My husband: That wasn’t me.

Me: Then who was it? ME?!?

My husband: Yes.

Me: You mean I grunted in my sleep and woke MYSELF up?

My husband: Yes.

Me: You’re ridiculous. I’m writing another blog post about you.

My husband: (grinning)

This needs to stop. Seriously. STOP THE MADNESS.

Night terrors

This was pretty much outside my bedroom window.

I used to be really good at waking up in the middle of the night and being able to function in an appropriate way. When my kids were babies, I was up several times a night, totally killing it — changing diapers, feeding, taking temperatures and treating them accordingly.

But that was a long time ago. Now I can’t be trusted to even walk to the freaking bathroom in the middle of the night without falling down/tripping over my cat/being so out of it that I’m convinced Voldemort is outside my bedroom window and coming THIS close to calling the police. (Ok, I may have called the police once, but I was SO TIRED.)

Recent examples:

1. My kid woke me up in the middle of the night and told me he felt really hot. My response? “Don’t sleep underneath your blanket.” About 60 seconds later I realized maybe I should feel his head. Yeah, he had a fever. And I am the worst.

2. Same kid woke me up in the middle of the night by screaming, “MOMMY!!!” at the top of his lungs. He’d had a nightmare. I bolted upright in bed, barely refrained myself from puking from the shock, ran into his room and yelled, “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Realized a few minutes later that I should probably comfort him.

3. My husband was out of town and forgot to turn his alarm off. It goes off at 5 am. Which is pretty much in the middle of the night for me. His alarm started going off, and I got so confused that I thought it was the burglar alarm going off. So I get up and TURN OFF THE BURGLAR ALARM. Like that’s a genius move if somebody is actually breaking into the house.

The lesson here? Everyone in my house must fend for themselves between the hours of midnight and 7 am. Including the cat.


© Copyright Meredith Towbin - Theme by Pexeto