Men are from Mars

Bet you didn’t expect to see me blog’n, did ya? Well, here’s the thing- J-Dawg’s been the mastermind behind this whole blog thing. He’s/we’re excited that it’s back up and running just in time for us to boast and brag about our adorable, oughta-be-in-pictures baby, Will. We haven’t seen him yet, but we’re quite sure he’ll be cuter than your kids/grandkids.

The other reason why you probably didn’t expect to see an entry from me could be one of many reasons. (1) Critics have been heard saying that I try too hard to be too funny. Well, guess what... God made me this way. God gave some people awesome talents, while he gave others rock’n bodies, athleticism, knowledge, patience, good looks, big boobs, etc. He gave me humor, okay! Just let me have that! Roll with it and enjoy it. Besides, I bet you’ve never heard anyone say Monet tried too hard at painting. Put that in your back pocket. Slam! (2) Others may say that I’m crude and irreverent. I’m pretty sure God didn’t make me this way, but it’s definitely my cross to bear in this life. So you have two options, you can indulge in it or go pray for my salvation. You decide. (3) It’s been rumored that I’m boring… gnirob m’I that deromur neeb s’tI… BACK UP! I don’t do boring! I do funny and irreverent. If you’re bored then you’re obviously reading the wrong blog! Go read your scriptures or recipe books and leave us alone if you think we’re boring.

I also don’t have a very good relationship with the blogging world. To me blogs are unforgiving vortexes that suck you in and spit you out feeble and exhausted. I can only allow so many time sucks into my life. Soon I’ll have a leach-of-a-time-suck-baby glued to my hip (more likely my nipple)… and I already have my iPhone. Plus, I can’t deal with the psychological inferiority that comes with keeping up with the Joneses wickedly awesome blog and failing (our kids will definitely be cuter than the Joneses, by the way).

Anyway, I have something I want to share, and since it’s about Justin I thought this blog would be an appropriate place to do just that.

Justin being the git-‘er-done type of guy that he is (I say that ignoring the fact that our- very real and VERY dead- Christmas tree is still sitting out in our garage) reminds me that my license is going to expire soon and that I will be needing to get it renewed (as if the two different cops that pulled me over on my two separate traffic violations within the two months of each other didn’t already point this out to me). So again, being the git-‘er-done husband that he is, he prints off the appropriate paperwork and fills it out for me. He also makes sure that I have all the needed documentation for license renewal (one would think I was trying to adopt a child from Africa with all the paperwork and documentation needed). Okay, I know what you’re thinking…you’re thinking I’m pathetic that I can’t/don’t do this for myself. However, if left to my own devices I’d NEVER get it done! It’s not THAT bad driving with an expired license, right? Plus, I’ve never been one to pay attention to detail. I’d rather get a root canal, change my grandma’s diaper, or go to Disneyland (in that exact order), than read through directions/instructions (my high school grades demonstrate this perfectly) and fill out paperwork. I would be the person who goes to the DMV months (maybe years) after her license has expired, then has to return home to get my passport because I didn’t know I was supposed to bring it, then have to go home again to get other documents because I was thinking about who would be the next person kicked off Survivor while being instructed on what to bring. The “kind of person” I’m talking about is pretty much my sister- who made multiple visits to the DMV after months of driving with an expired license. It must run in the family, or something. Anyway, don’t feel bad for Justin. I wash his cloths, make his dinner, and occasionally make the bed. He, in return, fills out paperwork and legal documents for me. He also makes sure that I’m following every law and every rule every day. God bless him. It’s a hard job.

So I make it to the DMV with paperwork in hand. Everything goes great! The line is short. The guy taking my picture is in a good mood and even lets me smile for my photo. My number gets called within 5 minutes of sitting down. I pass my eye test and pay the nice man who, believe it or not, has an uncanny resemblance to Steve Martin. I then pass my driving test with flying colors. (Did you know that you have to yield to blind pedestrians? It’s true!) Things are going awesome! As I’m getting ready to leave, a pleasant man hands me my temporary license. First thought is, YUCK! Could my face be any more swollen? The timing isn’t the best being in my ninth month of pregnancy, but oh well, I’ll get over it. And then I see it, MOTHER OF EVERYTHING HOLY!! How did they know my weight!? This number isn’t my pre-pregnancy weight. It’s not my pre-marriage weight (which some might argue was a little skinny, but I’m still convinced that’s how I’ll look in heaven); it’s not even my weight from a few months ago. It’s my current nine-month pregnancy weight! My mind starts racing… maybe I was standing on a hidden scale when they were taking my picture. Could it be? Wrong-O. There was no scale… it was Mr. Git-‘er-done who filled out my paper work. Honest Abe (Justin) thought honestly was the best policy and that putting my current weight was the best, and more importantly, legal thing to do. So just in case my swollen face wasn’t reminder enough, I now have this insanely large three digit number to identify me everywhere I go from henceforth. Hey, I have an idea… how 'bout you just take a picture of my stretch-marked-watermelon-of-a-stomach and paste it on there for my picture?

Here’s the thing- any woman would tell Justin that you JUST don’t do that! You ALWAYS make yourself 10 pounds lighter on your license (like my sister- yes the one with the expired license and the third attempt at the DMV- did. She walked out 10 lbs. skinnier than when she went in and I walked out swollen and pregnant... only to remain in that state for a very long time, according to my license)!!! It’s the one time we can lie about our weight and get away with it. It just feels good to put down on a legal document that we are lighter than we really are. It may be a psychotic female neurosis (one of many), but it’s true and it makes us feel better about ourselves.

So, moral of the story is… If you want things done right (not necessarily right, but the way you want them done) you gotta do ‘em yourself.

Thanks for the help, Justin, but I’ll take care of it next time... but I can't promise that for sure.