How Do You Know if Your Husband Still Likes You?

Posted on April 9, 2014 by AM Roselli

I’ve listed a few benchmarks based on years of experience for you-my friends, to help assess the status of your own unions. I personally use these common situations to answer the question: How do you know if your husband still likes you? Feel free to use the same criteria where applicable…

Your younger-married version of a healthy fish dinner – frying canned tuna, frozen mixed vegetables and mustard together is met with a fork and a smile (he might admit disgust years later).

He overcomes the enormous disappointment of marrying into large Italian family where only two people enjoy cooking and neither one of them is you (you fry canned tunafish).

He allows you to pick a tiny pimple on the tip of his nose. For the next several weeks, he roams the world with a scab the size of a pencil eraser on his face.

He does not get angry when you hand him his freshly-laundered, leather wallet complete with soggy money and warped business cards.

He is supportive when you’re temporarily replaced by an insane amalgam who calls herself ‘first time mommy.’

You request drawer dividers to separate your numerous socks and he builds them.

He rubs your back whenever you say it’s sore, even though you complain that his back is “sooooo much bigger,” when he asks the same of you.

When you (both) forget your Anniversary and it’s no big deal, because you consider yourselves the most intimate of friends above and beyond any other titles.

To summarize: Your husband still likes you if he can recall what life was like before he met you, and he still chooses scabbed noses and fried tunafish.

An Unusual Exotic Dancer

Posted on April 4, 2014 by AM Roselli

Admitting sheer stupidity is depressing, so it is with great humility I share this story with you-my friends.

Not far from my home, but far enough away is an exotic establishment. The nondescript building sits along a main route. Now don’t let your imagination wander, there’s no nudity involved in this story unless exposing my naked soul counts. The brick exterior of this exotic house holds no aesthetic allure other than its ‘mysterious’ blackened windows. The tall, magenta sign in front of the building – nearest the road is another matter. Whenever I happen to be driving by and get a moment to read the neon sign, I find myself thoroughly entertained. I’m fascinated by dancers’ names like Mama Lucious and Dolla Tiny Feathers…
Now back to my stupidity…the giant husband’s folks were visiting from the Land of Enchantment. One night, New Mexico Nana and Papa wanted to treat us to dinner. The six of us packed into the car, drove to a nearby restaurant and enjoyed a lovely meal out. Returning home we took a different route which lead us passed the exotic dance establishment. When I spotted the neon, magenta sign ahead, I began telling my in-laws what fun it was to read the dancers’ names. As our car passed by the glowing words, I blurted out “Wow, look at that unusual name – Montofris. That’s the best name yet!”

The giant husband and in-laws burst into hysterical laughter. In my unbridled enthusiasm, had I been unwittingly humorous? I didn’t understand what had just transpired. It took several very long minutes for the giant husband to catch his breath. When he finally calmed down he simply said, “It’s not Montofris darling, you read the sign wrong it’s Mon to Fris.” Then he began laughing all over again.

All I could do to defend myself was stammer, “They forgot to put spaces in between the words!”

The giant husband stored the Montofris gaff in his arsenal. To this day, whenever I boast of how brilliant I am, he quickly shoots me with Montofris ammo.

But who knows, I may have the last laugh yet. Somewhere out there lovely Montofris could be making happy the hungry hearts of the well-intended…

Generation tXt

Posted on April 1, 2014 by AM Roselli

The delicate daughter and the big son both abide by their home’s Cell Phone Credo:

1. Thou shall not use cell phones at the dinner table or any other table where there are real people.
2. Thou shall not text while in the presence of adult human company.
3. Thou shall love people better than cellphones, iPads, tablets, MP3 Players, iPods, Blackberrys or anything else that doesn’t have a real mouth.
4. Thou shall inform their friends of the Cell Phone Credo, because if friends have cellphones at said table, they will be most embarrassed by thy mom or giant dad.

I find Generation tXt a little depressing. I know technology is fabulous. It allows me to reach others oceans away. But there’s something about observing kids in the same room, all friends – texting. Are they texting other friends? Are there not enough friends in the room to converse with? Are they actually conversing with each other, but only appear as if they’re texting? Are cell phones more comforting than flesh friends?

To their well-intended detriment, many teens write what they say, but often times, it’s not what they mean. This underdeveloped texting technique leads to many a miscommunication. Perhaps, more evolved body language emojis (like the example below) could help. No child would be left behind trying to dissect the meanings of unclear text messages.

This dilemma leaves me pondering two things:

1. Will the next generation of humans be born with ginormous thumbs?

2. Will there be emoji education?
A while back I was embarrassed to learn, I was texting my daughter poop, when I thought I was being sweet and sending her chocolates…

Shaping Goo

Posted on March 29, 2014 by AM Roselli

Life is like gooey jello: add hot and cold water to something sweet then hope it solidifies into a fun shape. We view our lives in terms of taking shape. We view our bodies as changing shape (some more shapely than others). The glorious upside of aging (besides getting all jiggly), is the ability to look back with humor. Peering into our chilled jello bowls, we have the luxury of laughter as we recall our youthful lime-green messes.
Perhaps that is why at 50 years of age, I can now giggle at pirates with eyepatches. I too wore an eyepatch. I was in fourth grade – my patch was pink (a bad tomboy color). My eyepatch had an elsatic band much like a costume eyepatch. The eyepatch covered my right eye ‘casue the left had astigmatism.

My adult jello bowl also allows me to chuckle at food handlers’ plastic gloves. I too wore plastic gloves. In fourth grade a weird skin rash decided to take up residence between my fingers. First thing every morning, my red-itchy hands were slathered with cream then stuffed into plastic gloves as to not smear my school mates.

Today, I can gaze deep into my jello bowl and say with confidence it’s okay to be jiggly. I can affectionately recall the lime-green messes. I remember the little chubby girl with the pink eye patch and plastic gloves and can honestly say – 4th grade really sucked.

If I can admit all this while smiling, I will not live my life shaping goo.

Super Heroes Shouldn’t Own Cows

Posted on March 25, 2014 by AM Roselli

The year is 1968 and I’m the strongest kid in kindergarten. Today my title will be put to the test. My class will be making buttermilk then enjoying the results. Crisp, blue and white boxes of saltine crackers are stacked atop a nearby classroom table. My teacher, Ms. T informs the class, “Saltines are absolutely perfect with sweet buttermilk.”

Thirty-one little mouths are salivating for this delectable, creamy treat, but first comes the challenge of making the stuff. Ms. T pours milk and what she calls ‘buttermilk magic’ into the big jar until its almost bursting. She places, then twists the gold lid with the long crank handle on the buttermilk jar. She gives the giant jar a thorough shake to ensure nothing leaks.

Ms. T regards us thirty-one, drooling tikes sitting pretzel-legged on the classroom carpet, “Okay children, time to line up for churning. Now remember, as I explained this morning, the buttermilk will get thicker and thicker as it is mixed, so I’d like the girls to lineup first then the boys. I’ll pass the jar to each of you. You will turn the crank a few times then I’ll pass the jar on to the next student in line.”

From the carpet, my hot little hand shoots up like a cheese knife slicing soft gouda. “Ehem, excuse me Ms. T, I’d like to line up with the boys.”

“No.”

“Ms. T, I’d like to line up with the boys.”

“No.”

“Ms. T–” I was just going to tell my teacher how strong I really am, when she grabs my little arm. She proceeds to line up the girls first, then the boys, then places me at the absolute end of the line. I’d be the last to turn the crank. It was my proudest moment.

My knees are whacking into each other and my feet are tap dancing on the tile. The jar of golden buttermilk is making its way down the line. The biggest boys near the end of the line are straining.Their faces are shades darker, several are breaking a sweat. Me, I’m not worried at all. I just want to have at that jar. The husky boy in front of me managed four turns of the crank then quit. Ms. T takes the jar from his exhausted paws.

I grab the jar from Ms. T, tucking it into my side, like a running back securing the pigskin as if his life depended on it. This is the moment of truth for the strongest kindergartener. I start imagining myself a superhero with a plaid cape and red PF Flyers. I firmly grasp the wooden handle, take a deep breath and force the handle clockwise. It goes slowly and it’s difficult to move. I go for a second turn which is equally as trying but I push into a third rotation. I’m biting my lower lip except I don’t notice. I’m going for a fourth. My grip hand is sweating and the other hand holding the jar is too. There is a small slip, then a drop, then CRASH…

I learned three very important lessons on that ominous kindergarten day: The first is never give small children large glass jars. The second is without sweet, creamy buttermilk, saltine crackers are very dry. And finally, superheroes should never own cows.