What you don't want to see or hear right before bed:

1.) Your husband, crouched on the floor, sniffing the heating vent.

2.) Your husband asking in a fake-nonchalant sort of way, "Does it smell like something ... oh, I probably shouldn't say it ... but, well ... does it smell like something is burning to you?"

Translated: Hey, my darling neurotic, paranoid wife, let me ensure that you lie awake until 3 a.m. imagining that you just saw a plume of smoke in the corner.

Aww... what a guy.

February, despite being my birthday month (psst...I recently turned 38), is my low point each year. It brings depression, bouts of weepiness and a violent hatred of the cold and rain.

A mere forecast is enough to ruin my day.

So of course, when I decided to embark on the reproductive path, I delivered not one, but TWO babies in ... February.

Talk about one helluva maternity leave.

Hello Postpartum! Meet my dear friends, Depression and Anxiety. We're going to have wonderful time together during these next few weeks! Oh, and look! We're going to get rain and snow and ice the entire time Cathy will be home with the baby. Perfecto! Let the sobbing begin!

Which brings me to one of the nicest things my husband has ever done for me.

Realizing that I was wallowing in despair, Hubs asked several of my friends to get me out of the house. Bear in mind that our new baby very much preferred the boob to bottles and wouldn't stop shrieking until the right nipple was placed before her. In other words, Hubs knew what he was in for.

Even so, he made some calls, stopped by desks and rallied the estrogen troops.

"We're taking you out to eat tonight," one girlfriend informed me. And then a group of women pried me from my spitup-stained couch and dragged me out the door.

It was a reprieve I dearly needed, but new motherhood, fear and guilt had kept me confined to my house.

I remember how disoriented I felt at first -- the lights, the chatter, the drinks. And I remember how much better I felt when I returned home just in time for 10 p.m. nursing.

"She did fine," my husband said.

I know he lied, to spare me any guilt.

So why am I telling you this story? Because I'm PMSing. And it's one of those nights when I have to remind myself that I really do like the guy. Even when he keeps breathing in my direction.

For my Hubs, size DOES matter

There's a reason we don't have a membership card to The Giant Store that Sells Supersize Items in Mass Quantities.

My husband, you see, has a problem.

I refer to his belief that Big is Better, to his theory that we save money by purchasing six bottles (at a time) of an alleged kitchen cleaner that doesn't clean a damn thing.

Now I have nothing against his desire to purchase 100 rolls of toilet paper in one go. We use it. Well, most of us use it. The younger people in this house still don't understand that our butt-wiping requests are not negotiable.

I do, however, have a problem with the bottle of olive oil that's too heavy for me to heave down from the overhead cabinet. Or the lemonade jug that requires a crane to assist in the pouring process.

Each time Hubs has tagged along with our membership card-carrying friends on their trips to The Giant Store, I cringe.

But that's OK. Because in the near future, The Store that Aids in Clutter Elimination is opening here.

And boy, do I have plans for his deer antlers and antique family knick-knacks.

Because there's no such thing as too many cute, striped storage boxes -- and the bigger, the better.

I may be barefoot, but I don't want the backwoods.

On the occasional weekend, Hubs and I have been scouting out area towns in his quest to find a rural home.

The more we look, the more opposed I am to this idea.

Do. Not. Want. To. Live. In. A. Forest.

(My idea of country living involves rolling green meadows, dotted with clusters of towering shade trees and a two-story newly renovated farmhouse with all the modern fixins'. Located within 10 minutes of a large city. Not a town. A REAL CITY.)

And this process of "just looking," with two bored children in the backseat -- painful.

Here's a sample:

E-man: Daddy, are we there yet?

Cathy: Ha. We're still able to get a cell phone signal. No, sweetie, we're not there. If "there" is any further out than this, I am filing the divorce papers tomorrow. Or upping my medication.

E-man: I eat a booger! I eat a booger!

Tootie: Mommy, E-man's eating boogers!

Cathy: E-man, quit picking your nose.

E-man: I eat BOOGERS!

Cathy: [to Hubs] Can we go home yet?

E-man: Are we there? Are we there?

As we drove through an increasingly dense patch of woods yesterday, I tried to hide an episode of hyperventilation.

Oh my God, could we get any further from civilization? What's next, a two-room cabin?

Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply.

Just then, our daughter piped up from the backseat.

"Daddy, why do people live where there's not any grocery stores?"

I whooped.

My sweet, loyal little urban child.

Living room wars

OK, so if you look to the left of my lovely stepdaughter, you'll see a hideous lamp...



Ugly, no?

Notice how the age-yellowed lampshade is held together only by peeling masking tape?

That atrocious lamp is symbolic of the disparity in Hubs' and my taste in home decor.

For the Hubs, all that matters to him is that something is old. He loves antiques, faded linens, knicky-knack things.

Me, I'm a minimalist. I hate clutter and what I will generously refer to here as "stuff." The comedian who moved temporarily into the IK*A store? That is my fantasy.

Clean and modern. Lots of light. NO KNICK-KNACKS. No dark, brooding furniture.

Like this hulking thing, to the left of cute daughter:



This, my friends, is an antique hall tree.

I refer to it as the Clutter Collector.

We've never had a hall to put it in, mind you, but it has accompanied us on each move. I LOATHE it. For one thing, it's just a depressing-looking piece of furniture. It's ugly. And — most offensive — everyone dumps stuff on it, thereby making whatever space it occupies CLUTTERY. ACK!

Jackets belong inside a closet, not dangling from an horned piece of furniture that takes up valuable space in my dining room.

When I have to shove my way through a dozen coats and scarves just to sit down at the table, I break out into hives. Oh, and the hall tree has a seat. So there's more junk under the bench and on the bench.

As I said — Clutter Collector.

I want to burn it. After I take an ax and chop it into itty-bitty pieces. Such is my hatred of the hall tree.

Anyway, back to the lamp.

On a recent trip to my parents', I hauled Hubs into the IK*A store.

Halfway through the vast, uncluttered store, as I fondled the floor lamps, he finally clued in.

"We're here for a new lamp, aren't we?" he asked.

I smiled. Evilly.

A new lamp was purchased and erected in the spot once occupied by the taped-together piece of junk.

And then the battle began.

"Why are you taking the old lamp outside?" Hubs asked indignantly.

"Because we can leave it out on the curb for pickup this week."

"You're getting rid of it?"

"Why would we keep it? It's broken. It doesn't even have that globe-thingy in it anymore."

"Yes, it does. I found one for it."

"Oh. Yes. The one that's just balanced in there because you can't attach it. The one that could fall out at any minute. The one that cost us more than the new lamp."

Sure enough, as I carried the old lamp outside, the globe fell out and smashed into a zillion little pieces on our front porch.

Hubs was appalled.

"Look what you've done!" he cried. "We could have saved it! It's probably worth $100."

I looked skeptically at the ugly, 70s-looking thing on our porch.

"Would you pay $100 for this?"

"Well. No."

"OK, then."

Bear in mind, this isn't some family heirloom. Hubs found the lamp while scavenging in an antique store and bought it for $25. It was ugly then. It's even uglier now with all the masking tape. (Son tipped it over and the shade ripped in half.)

In the next year, Hubs and I hope to move into a bigger house. If the hall tree goes with us, I'm leaving him.

For the comedian in the IK*A store.

Not in the mood

Not tonight. Not most nights.

And it's not just me. This is a frequent complaint made by my girlfriends.

He wants it. I don't.

My reasons vary:

1. I'm tired. Not sleepy-tired, but weary-in-my-bones tired. My brain is tired. I have other things on my mind, an endless string of must-dos and haven't-dones.

I forgot to get my daughter's shot records for the school.
... must plan her birthday ...
Did I write the check for daycare?

2. I don't feel like getting naked.

It's too cold.
I'm 30 pounds overweight.
My boobs plummet when I take off the underwire.


3. I filed two stories today. Went by the grocery store. Am busily gathering all the documents needed to request a kindergarten transfer.

Why do I always have to ask him to help with the kids at night? I work too.

He says: "Even if I'm not in the mood, I can be persuaded."

I can't. If I'm not, I'm not. And if I'm PMSing, I think about how I wouldn't miss sex at all, not one bit.

Does it change as the kids get older? Where's that mid-30s peak I've always heard about? My theory is that the alleged peak was created by a bunch of sex-starved men who hoped to convince their wives that they really were in the mood, like all the time.

Ha.

Each night, I can sense his expectations, even before he makes a move.

Pre-emptive sex doesn't work. As one girlfriend puts it, "In their minds, that's the appetizer. They just want more, more, more... It's never enough."

And so we wonder, who are these other women who have the extra energy? Who are these women who still have desire?

And, most importantly, where did mine go?

Wanted: Missing libido. Last seen in 2002 during an evening of rum runners in New Orleans. May be dangerous if confronted.

Edited to add: My husband is an attractive man. I love him. But after the kids are in bed, I just want to sprawl on the couch.

Random thoughts of a PMSing woman

As many times as I've snapped at him tonight, how can he still think he's getting the bow-chicka-bow-wow treatment later? That portion of the male anatomy must zap millions of brain cells every time it goes on high alert.

Has my son always possessed such a piercing scream?

Why did Hubs think it was a good idea to let our daughter watch some History Channel dinosaur program in which a newly hatched baby dino is consumed by giant ants? And why is he surprised that she is now afraid to go sleep because she might dream about carnivorous insects?

Dear God: If Hubs' ex-wife is ever again going to ask us to help buy a car for my unemployed stepson, please let her call tonight. And please let me be the one to answer the phone.

P.S. If the firemen ever have to come back to our house, please let my bedroom be clean. Oh, and if I could be wearing something cute (like clothes) as opposed to my raggedy flannel PJs, that would be mighty nice too.

Do nipples get bigger in proportion to boob sag? Because something's gone wildly awry here? All I know is none of the parts are where I last saw 'em.

A Christmas of Calamities

Desperate times.

I was actually eager to come to work this morning because – omg, two days without Internet access and my fingers had started to shrivel and fall off ... because, you know, I clearly didn't need them anymore.

On the Eve of Christmas Eve, the power in the master bedroom went off. Hubs fiddled with the fuse box and got part of the room powered up, and then there was this pop and a hideous burning smell.

"Fire in the attic!" Hubs yelled. "Call 911 and get the kids out of here!"

Tootie and my stepdaughter were already up, having smelled something strange in Tootie's room. I snatched a sleeping E-man out from his bed and we all headed outside.

Minutes later, the first fire engine pulled up. The E-man was agog.

So was his mommy, during the few seconds, that is, that she forgot the house might be on fire.

Firemen! Oh, goody! Merry Christmas to me!

Then all rationality returned when I remembered the state of our bedroom — which, given that we had just returned from a weekend away — looked as though 20 sugar-fueled toddlers had romped through it.

And yes, fleetingly, I did wonder: Could I maybe dash in and tidy up before they start, you know, putting out flames?

As it turns out, there was no fire. There is, obviously, a problem with our wiring. An electrician is coming tonight. Meanwhile, we have no power in that part of the house. And since the previous homeowner did terrible things with the phone lines underneath the house, the wireless unit thingy is operational only in our bedroom.

I'm not sure who was more horrified by the realization that we would be without the Internet — me or my stepson.

"You mean I can't get online?" he asked over and over. "At all?"

Hey, buddy, you're supposedly grounded from MySpace. I'm the one who's going to be suffering here.


By Christmas Eve, Hubs was curled up on the couch, hacking and whimpering under an afghan, while I hurriedly assembled and wrapped toys.

"I think I hab a feber," he sniffled. "Can you beel my borehead?"

It's been joy, joy, joy around these parts, let me tell you.

So. Hubs remains ill. We still have no power. No Internet. *sob*

But hey, I can now say I've had firemen in my bedroom.

If only they hadn't been greeted by the sight of my old, stretched-out maternity bra dangling from the closet door, which, of course, is conveniently located next to the fuse box.

*blush*

Wordless Wednesday

(Hubs' birthday, 2007: Tootie, E-man, Hubs, Stepdaughter, Stepson. Tootie wanted more cake.)

More Wordless Wednesday here.

Once upon a time...

... there was a fluffy Persian kitty named Precious.

She belonged to a couple named Jo and Staton.

Only Jo was allowed to pet Precious. Anyone else who tried to cuddle the kitty ended up leaving Jo and Staton's house with oozing wounds.

Anytime Jo and Staton went out of town, a friend -- let's call him ... Hubs -- would drop by to feed Precious.

One evening, after Hubs had filled the kitty bowl, he realized that he had to pee.

There was a nightlight in Jo and Staton's bathroom, so Hubs didn't bother with the overhead.

He shut the door, unzipped and started his business.

Midstream, he heard a frighteningly familiar noise:

Hissssssssssss... Hahhhhhhh... Hissssssssss............

Hubs froze. He looked to the right. There, between him and the closed bathroom door stood a bristling Precious, who, according to Hubs, was clearly eying Hubs' prized dangly bits.

Frantically, Hubs zipped and edged cautiously past Precious.

He never again used the bathroom at Jo and Staton's without inspecting every nook and cranny before unzipping.

"I fed and cared for that cat for years," he recalls. "And never once did I ever pet the cat."

Pause.

"Never once did I ever want to pet the cat."

So the Hubs? Not a cat person.

Which may be why he's willing to overlook the fact that our dog has taken up residence in the dirty-laundry basket.

Sux to be me...

... where sports are concerned.

Let me explain:

While some tonight were gnashing their teeth and trying not to spill their bourbon, I was pausing at the gym and in the grocery store to inquire where things stood in the Arkansas/LSU game.

Not because I'm a Hog fan.

*BLASPHEMY!*

yeah, yeah, whatever

My photographer husband shoots a lot of sports. This means frequent absences during certain times of the year -- like now, right before the holidays, when I'm remembering how he had to leave on Christmas Day 2006 so that he could be in Florida to shoot a week of practices -- PRACTICES! -- before the bowl game. I rushed the Cornish hens in and out of the oven so fast, they were still squawking when I laid their neatly little trussed-up bodies on the dining room table. Because, you know, Hubs had to catch a flight.

grr.

When we lived in San Antonio, with our toddler and newborn -- TODDLER AND NEWBORN!! -- the damn Spurs just kept on winning. And I kept cussing. Because every time they played, Hubs was there, editing photos. The night the fireworks went off on our cul-de-sac -- well, I was the bitchy freak yelling, "Could you please keep it down out there?!" as people frolicked through neighborhoods. The city filled with residents unified in joy -- all except for the snarky, sleep-deprived, breastfeeding mother over on Irish Lane. I was the beeyotch of the NBA, and I held that title proudly.

So games like tonight, games that will determine which weekends of my holiday season will be ruined -- ruined, people! -- by those *splutter* unaccommodating athletes, oh, they leave me wringing my hands and drinking my own bourbon.

How would you like to plan all your visits and celebrations around the Hogs'schedule? When you're not a Hogs fan, I mean.

It was bad enough in Texas, where A&M cranks out cult members and UT trots out a longhorn and the Tech horse ends up dead when it runs into a wall during halftime -- but now I'm living in a state where people "call the hogs" at games.

They. Call. The. Hogs. Let that settle in your brain a bit before you comment.

Never, given my apathy toward sports, did I dream I would end up married to a man who shoots sports or living in a state in which people yell "Wooooo, Pig! Soooie!" with religious fervor.

So Paige, despite my Arkansas residency, I feel your pain. Hubs won't be home for hours...

Still -- check out this photo from last year's SEC Championship -- you can tell by the photo that things did not go well.



Yes, yes, very nice. But the Hubs' talents could be much better used. Take, for example, these Clinton photos. Love them. LOVE them! (That's his nephew peeking out the house with him during a tour of the boyhood home.)





Final blow of the evening? I accidentally threw away a plate of brownies after mistaking them for Hubs' leftover lumps of deer sausage. Am weepeing...

Ride along with me and the Huzzer

CATHY: Do you have to drive so close to people? You're riding that poor woman's ass.

HUBS: There's plenty of room between us.

CATHY: No there's not. If I lean forward two inches, I can see the driver's footwear. Prada. Very nice. Like the red.

HUBS: I am not riding her ass.

CATHY: No, because now you are all the way up her butt. Look, the shade of her toenails matches the shoes. Admirable color-coordination. SLOW DOWN! You are making me nervous.

HUBS: (sighs, shakes his head, keeps following too closely.)

CATHY: Look, you hate it when other people get too close to you. So why do it to them?

HUBS: There's plenty of ---

CATHY: (shrieking) She's stopping! She's stopping! Slow down!

HUBS: I am slowing down.

CATHY: You are not. That wasn't slowing down. That was slamming on the brakes because there wasn't enough space between you.

[Sunday-afternoon drive continues, with Cathy chastising and panicking, and Hubs becoming increasingly defenseless.]

CATHY: Look, would you slow down? Just because you're pissed at the other drivers doesn't mean you have to fly around them.

HUBS: Everything is fine. Let me drive. You're starting to really annoy me.

CATHY: I just want you to slow down and give people a little breathing room.

HUBS: I know what I'm doing.

As he approaches a four-way stop sign, a cop coming from another direction motions for Hubs to roll down his window.

COP: Sir, you are going too fast. Slow it down.

HUBS: Uh. OK.

CATHY: (to herself: Do not say anything. Hold back the gleeful laughter.)

HUBS: Why won't people just let me drive. Why does everyone have to tell me what to do?

CATHY: I can't imagine, honey.

To the police officer who reprimanded my husband today in the mall parking lot: I love you.

Open letter to my terrified spouse

Dear Hubs:

First, I mean "dear" in a totally unsinister way. Really.

I know you do not understand why an approaching period would make someone so cranky. Why, you wonder, must this be such an ordeal every month?

I'm not even going to attempt to explain hormones and their effects. Instead, here are some pointers to help ensure your survival during this time:

1.) Do not attribute my bad mood to PMS. I know I'm in a bad mood. Even when I'm ranting at you for daring to exist, I'm thinking: Wow, I have reached a new, all-time high in irrationality. By pointing out the obvious, you will put me in a worse (read: scary) mood.

2.) Instead of inquiring when my period is due, the implication being that I am acting like an irrational beeyotch, you would be better off volunteering to feed and bathe the children while I brood over how certain people (you) have wronged me in recent days.

3.) Definition of "wronging" me:
a.) Breathing in my direction
b.) Looking at me
c.) Making any references, joking or otherwise, to S-E-X

4.) Speaking of, do NOT ask how many more days "we" have to go because you are wondering when marital relations will resume. I am already bitter about my six-day period. I do NOT need you to remind me of just how freaking long it is.

5.) Do not EVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN eat the last chocolate chip cookie.

6.) What part of SUPER ABSORBENT do you not understand? When I specify SUPER ABSORBENT, I am, indeed, requesting that you purchase industrial-strength tampons. Do not take it upon yourself to decide I might like to "try something new."

7.) MOST IMPORTANT RULE: When in doubt about what constitutes appropriate behavior (from you), simply nod and say, "You're right. I understand."

8.) Remember our friend Cindy's theory about PMS: Sufferers are not experiencing irrationality, but rather, moments of sudden clarity.

I'll sign off now so that you can process that last part.

Ever So Lovingly and With Only Good Will Toward Man,

Your Wife

Can this marriage be saved? Depends on whether there's a dead possum within the next 24 hours.

Let's say you love to deer hunt, so much so that this really isn't a hobby, but more of an obsession.

Let's say the last time you had a conversation with your wife was, say, Friday evening, as you hurried out the door for the deer woods.

Acceptable: Calling the wife after you get to your destination.

Not acceptable: Calling periodically over a 48-hour period and leaving messages for your wife on voicemail. Because you refuse to use a landline, even though numerous phones are available at various relatives' homes, your messages -- delivered from an area with virtually no cell service -- are barely understandable.

"Hey! It's [crackle, buzz, static] me! Got a [crackle] 7-point this [buzz] morning! Going [static] back out this evening. Bye!"

"Hey, [crackle, static, buzz], it's me! Saw two doe today [crackle] Going back out [buzz] this [static] evening! Bye!"

Let's just say your wife is at home with two children who are both suffering from nasty head colds. Between them, they've produced 12 gallons of snot and are not sleeping well at night due to hacking coughs. Your wife also is not sleeping well because when she's not tending to the children, she's up at 2 a.m. Googling "whooping cough" and "TB." Or she's listening to a large animal scuttle through the attic.

If these are the circumstances, you should not be surprised to call home and get the following greeting on voicemail:

"Hubs, if this is you, call me on a damn landline. Your cell phone isn't working. If this is anyone else, please leave a message and I'll call you back."

Tonight, for the first time in said 48-hour period, I had a real, live two-way conversation with The Deer Hunter. It went something like this:

"So today I saw one doe and --"

"Honey, just a bit of context: I'm at home with two sick children and a wild animal is throwing nightly frat parties in our attic. I DON'T CARE HOW MANY DOES YOU SAW IN THE DEER WOODS! They're DEER WOODS! That means there are DEER! DUH! So enough about the damn does. Let's talk about the Bud-swigging raccoon hanging out over our bedroom."

"The kids are sick?"

"Grr."

"What animal?"

(Lengthy description of children's illness and the competing racket from our mouse-turned-rat-turned-raccoon-or-gasp!-possum ensues.)

"Oh. Well, here's what I would do. Just pull down the trapdoor to the attic and leave it open for awhile so whatever it is can hear people beneath it. That'll scare it away. Or you could go up there and turn on the light, maybe hang out up there and yell a little."

hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!! ---

"Are you fucking kidding me? Why don't I just invite it down for tea and crumpets on the off-chance that it's not carnivorous?"

"Oh. So I guess we won't be having sex first thing when I walk through the door?"

Click.

Beware the wildlife

Behold, the javelina:




A rather comical-looking creature, you might think, with that stout body perched on spindly little legs. I used to giggle when I saw them.

Now I know better.

On April, 30, 2001, the day after Hubs and I wed at Big Bend National Park, we set up camp down by the Rio Grande. A sign, bolted to the picnic table, warned us to leave our tent down during the day in order to avoid javelina invasions. If an encounter could not be avoided: "Do Not Provoke the Javelina!" the sign declared.

Hubs and I cackled.

Until, 30 minutes later, we watched a band of javelinas slice open a tent left standing. Horrified, we watched the resourceful creatures make short work of the tent's contents. They rooted, ravaged and feasted.

Oh, well, we thought smugly. We didn't leave ours up. Things will be fine.

We spent the day hiking. When we returned to the campsite, we saw a German couple circling their devastated tent, clearly puzzled as to what had happened during their absence.

Hubs pulled up next to them. "Javelinas," he offered helpfully, leaning out the window and pointing.

The Germans looked puzzled.

"Javelinas," Hubs repeated. "You know" -- he fluttered his fingers in air piano fashion -- "pigs."

Actually, javelinas are NOT pigs, but I kept silent as Hubs and the Germans continued to waggle their fingers at one another.

I'm not sure that they ever understood. By that evening, they had packed up and left, leaving us as the only tent-campers in the area.

That night, Hubs and I ate a leisurely dinner, toasted our nuptuials and crawled into our sleeping bags. Sometime around midnight, I smelled something ... garbagey.

I heard snuffling. Snorting. And -- was that chewing?

I poked Hubs in the ribs.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

"Mmmm...no..." he mumbled.

More snorting. And that smell.

Suddenly, my side of the tent bulged inward.

"Aaiiiieeee!" I shrieked, rolling on top of Hubs. "They're coming in!"

Hubs grabbed the keys and started pressing buttons on our pickup's remote. The horn blared. Headlights flashed.

The javelinas scattered.

A half-hour later, they were back.

Snuffling. Snorting, Chewing.

I could hear them surrounding the tent. And then -- another jab at my side.

"Eek!" I screamed.

Just then, something crashed from our picnic table. We would later learn it was our box of cooking utensils. No food. Just silverware.

Hubs leapt to his feet, hair standing wildly on end. He jabbed at the bulge. Then he unzipped the tent and lunged through the opening. There was much shouting and clanging. The horn blared. Headlights flashed on.

I fumbled for my glasses and then peeked outside. My new husband was crouched on top of the picnic table, waving -- was that a spatula or a pair of tongs? -- at the 10 or so javelinas running amok through our campsite.

"Do NOT provoke the javelinas!" I yelled, quoting the picnic-table sign.

"What do you want me to do?!" Hubs yelled back as he brandished his tongs. "Pet them?"

Finally, the javelinas trotted off, reasonably certain that the humans at this particular campsite were totally and hopelessly insane.

Hubs clambered down from the picnic table and picked up the pieces of his dignity.

"I guess they won't be coming back here," he boasted.

Nevertheless, after two more sleepless nights involving more horn-blaring and spatula-waving, we fled.

To a motel.

View from our campsite...

... in the Chisos Basin at Big Bend National Park.



Hubs and I both loved this wildly beautiful, desolate place long before we ever met. So on April 29, 2001, we got married on a trail at Big Bend. This was our backdrop. Gorgeous, no?

We spent our wedding night at the Gage Hotel, then headed back down to the park for several nights of camping. In my next post, I'll describe our scary -- yet amusing -- encounters with the wildlife. For now, however, here are a few photos from this trip:

This is where we usually stay before heading down to the park and then again on our way back to civilization. We're here right now, actually:



In the next photo, you're now in Big Bend, looking across the Rio Grande and down on the Mexican village of Boquillas. For many years, the park service turned a blind eye to the many illegal crossings made by tourists. For a few dollars, a Mexican man would take you across the river. For a few more dollars, another would drive you up to the village in a beat-up truck. Hubs and I spent a wonderful day there in 2001, stuffing ourselves on Mexican food and hanging out in a ramshackle bar, downing beers. After 9/11, however, Homeland Security decreed that this was a dangerous practice and the crossings stopped. Boquillas, already poor, was devastated. Many people left, unable to make a living without the tourists. Each time we come back to Big Bend, Hubs and I check check the former crossing, hoping it has perhaps reopened. But the road down to the river remains gated.



Here's Hubs, standing by the Rio Grande.



And here's me:




We saw these *shudder* everywhere. I don't mind snakes. But spiders, especially hairy ones? Ick.



Still, they're nothing compared to the javelinas. But more on that next time. Right now, there's a Mexican beer calling my name...

Those #%*@#$*%$ morning people

Last night, we stayed here, on our way to here.

Drinks at the White Buffalo Bar, a cozy hotel room (with creaky floors and a creaky bed, which wouldn't have been a problem except our second-floor room was right above the front desk)...

Damn it, Martha, I told you not to give Room No. 9 to any particularly affectionate-looking couples. If they're canoodling, they don't get No. 9!

But she was complaining of a headache when they checked in.

Yeah, well now I have a headache.



Ah yes, good times...

... comfy bed, lovely squooshy pillow, a cool breeze blowing through our open window...

... and then this, at 7 a.m.

Hubs: Hey! It's already 7! We need to get moving! (Yes, he speaks in exclamation points)

Cathy: mmmmphfff

The bed creaks as Hubs climbs out. The floors creak as he rummages for clothes, his glasses, his wallet... finally, the door closes and Cathy resumes drowsing.

Ten minutes later, he's back.

Hubs: Hey! I brought you some coffee!

Cathy: mmmphfff

Hubs: I'll put it right here next to you! Why don't I turn this lamp on?!

Cathy: mmmhphff grrr mmmmphfff

Pause. Hubs lingers.

Cathy: Why don't you go down to the lobby and look at some of those photography books or something. Just go ... wander.

Creak, creak, creak. Door opens and closes. Cathy drifts off.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: I'm back! I read all the signs and brochures! Ready for breakfast?!

Cathy: mmmphffff Coffee's cold. Need more.

Hubs: I'll go get it!

He bounds from the room, creak, creak, creak. Door blessedly closes.

Five minutes later.

Hubs: OK! Here it is!

Cathy: mmmmphfff 'mk

How, how do these people function? How can anyone bound from the bed and morph into freaking Pollyanna at 7 a.m. On vacation.

That's OK. I'll get even. When he crashes in the tent tonight, I'll start my grousing.

"It's cold. I'm cold. Are you cold?"

Nudge, nudge.

"I have to pee. Where's the flashlight?"

Nudge, nudge.

"Did you hear that noise? It sounds like something chewing grass. That! Did you hear it?! Do you think the javelinas are back?!

"Hey, mind if I read for awhile? I'll just use this camping lantern. Will that bother you?"

Click.

Vacation! Alone! Must remember birth control...

You think I jest.

I am the woman who ovulates immediately upon arriving in another city. The plane lands, the car slides to a stop, we unload our bags, and my ovaries leap into action:

"Hey, you — on the right! It's your turn to release the egg! Hurry, they're putting up the tent!"

We made Tootie on a weekend jaunt to New Orleans in 2002. After a night of beers and crawdads, Hubs and I awoke in the guest bedroom of our kind hosts, Dick and Rita.

Yes, Dick and Rita. Are those not the perfect party names? How could you be named Dick and Rita and not want to ply your guests with alcohol and cheese dip all weekend? And really, could Dick and Rita live anywhere other than New Orleans? I think not.

Anyway, the guest bathroom was located between our room and that of our other friends, Jo and Staton. At the time of The Conception, Jo was in the bathroom getting dressed.

Now Hubs and I did briefly debate whether morning s-e-x rightthisveryminute was such a good idea. I mean, what if Jo could hear? But then we heard the roar of the hair dryer, and given that Jo has this incredible, lovely, thick hair, we figured we had time.

And presto! The Toot was on her way, likely soaking up the rum runners I enjoyed that night. (Yes, this caused me great worry later. Helpful hint: Getting pregnant in New Orleans will ensure months of wondering whether you damaged your newly fertilized egg with all that carousing.)

Fast-forward to 2004, when I went to New York City to accept a journalism award. The newspaper was kind enough to send Hubs with me, and we spent four blissful days wandering Manhattan. The awards luncheon was on a Tuesday. Our plane was departing Wednesday. And, after two months of taking my temperature and tracking my cycle, I calculated that I would be ovulating right as the plane soared over the city.

"We have to do it right now," I informed Hubs when he collapsed on the bed, exhausted from his awards luncheon duties. (Those included: Giving his wife pep talks in the hours before she had to stand in front of an intimidating crowd of well-known journalists to give a speech; keeping her wine glass full during said event; and reassuring her afterward that no, she did not sound like a stupid, babbling hick.)

"But I'm so tired," Hubs moaned.

Eventually, he gave in — not because I looked especially seductive in my polka-dotted suit (oh my god, what was i thinking?) — but because he can't stand to pass up that kind of offer, not when it's so rarely made. We had a toddler at the time, remember? The marital bed had become a place strictly for sleeping.

And thus, the E-man was created.

This weekend, we leave for Big Bend National Park. Sans children. Lots of Mexican beer, maybe a little dancing...

Which is why we're stopping at the drugstore on our way out of town.

Pee-worthy

My husband is a deer-hunting redneck sort of guy.

He also has two older kids from a previous marriage.

And these two bits of information are related ... how?

Well ---

Hubs considers himself an expert on certain parenting matters. Because, you know, he's done this before. (italics are his, not mine)

Which is why our toddler son now thinks it's appropriate to pee on trees.

Let me back up:

Countless times, countless, I tell you, Hubs has shared with enraptured audiences the story of how he potty-trained Stepson. (After, that is, he tells the one about how he once washed down Stepson at a car wash when the poor child pooped during a road trip.)

Anyway, the potty training. Let's allow Hubs to use his words:

"I showed him how to pee on a tree in the backyard when I was trying to get him interested in going potty. And it worked. When he had to go, he'd say, 'I need to pee on a tree.' Then he'd go in the backyard and pee on a tree."

And life was good and diaper-free, until the day Stepson decided he needed to pee at a local park. "Next thing I know, he's dropped his pants and is peeing on a tree," Hubs says.

Proudly.

He concludes: "It was a hard habit to break."

So you can imagine my chagrin a few nights ago, when Hubs led my little E-man to a tree in our backyard and urged him to drop his Handy Manny pull-em-up and whip out the pee stick.

"You try to encourage them to be aware of their functions," my spouse explains. "Peeing on a tree is a novel idea. And besides, wherever you go, there's always a tree."

But what, I asked, if people are present? You know, like non-family members. People who might not understand Hubs' peculiar backwoods brand of child rearin'?

"Well, then you have to hope it's a big tree," Hubs says, unperturbed. "Then he can hide behind it while he's going."

I've heard men obtain special joy from taking their biz outside. Is this true?

Hubs contends: "All guys want to do it. We just refrain from it. I think it's because there's no target. We can just spray wherever."

This, dear readers, is what I'm up against. It's why we will soon be blacklisted from social affairs, because, really, who wants their cocktail-sipping guests subjected to the sight of a wee tot washing down the oak tree in their backyard.

And now my daughter wants to pee on trees. My 4-year-old, already-potty-trained daughter.

In fact, she and her brother keep fighting over one particular tree in our backyard because apparently, it's the only one that's pee-worthy.

I should make it clear here that, thus far, neither has actually peed. Daughter has yet to drop her drawers, perhaps because she senses the logistical difficulties. But their interest -- clearly, it has been piqued or they wouldn't be in the backyard selecting trees.

It's only a matter of time... And if, what if?

How to explain this bizarre behavior at the next birthday party, when both my kids suddenly dart to the nearest tree, bickering over who gets which spot as they drop their pants. With my luck, one of them will pick the spot right under the damn pinata.

Or, worse -- *shudder* -- one of them will need to go No. 2.

The Suspicious Spouse

Tonight, as Hubs and I sat on the deck with our glasses of wine, he asked, "So you're unhappy?"

"What?" I asked, emerging from my mellow state.

"I found your notes. The ones about being unhappy."

Huh?

"And who's coming to town?" Hubs asked.

Wha?

He started quoting -- from ... something:

"I miss you ... let's get together ... I'm alone ..."

Those words, they sounded so ... familiar.

"... like a lover ..."

And then I realized -- Hubs must have found my jottings for a recent post, When She Calls, in which I compare depression to an old lover who refuses to disappear.

Problem is, my handwriting's terrible, so Hubs could only make out a few incriminating phrases.

Poor man. He really was a little worried.

Needlessly.

In fact, I howled when I finally figured out what the hell he was blathering on about.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I frequently write down my thoughts, just as soon as they flit through my head. Otherwise, I forget things.

I do this when working on longterm newspaper stories -- ledes, especially.

Many a time, I've awakened at night and grabbed a pen on my nightstand so that I could scrawl a thought before slipping back into sleep. If you were to look in my purse, you'd find scraps of paper with seemingly random phrases written on them.

In this case, I'd written down my musings on notepaper from the newspaper. They were even illustrated, as I'd used that same notebook to draw mermaids, clams and fish for my daughter.

No wonder he thinks I'm a raging lunatic. He's finding "evidence" of adultery complete with badly rendered sketches of Ariel.

Sheesh.