10 Rules for a Successful Marriage

As a 4 1/2 month veteran of marriage, I've created my top 10 rules for a successful marriage since I clearly know all the answers by now .

I received a list from someone else that centered around love, kindness, patience, patience, and patience; those are wise, but ring true for successful parenting to me. Automatically creating my own revisions to that list as I read it, my first thought was, "10 rules? You only need one: don't be an @$$hole." That pretty much covers all ground, at least for this newlywed, but to break it down in no specific order:

1. Bite your tongue.
2. Seriously, bite your tongue.
3. Remove "I told you so" from your vocabulary.
• This includes all non-verbal gestures, eyebrow raising, teeth clenching, head shaking, muttering under one's breath, and recounting details to your friends while your spouse/partner is within earshot, usually unknowingly. And usually while you think you're being sly and quiet.
4. Love big. Mean it.
   
5. Communicate.
• Trick rule! Men communicate issues in 10 words or less. Women communicate the same issues in 10-60 minute intervals. Repeated times. And then maybe revisit the issue. Repeatedly.
6. Don't be literal.
• "Sure, it's fine if you go out again." "No, you don't need to call when your flight lands." "I don't want anything but flooring materials for my birthday." Ignore all of these grand gestures of minimalism and self-sacrifice and ask yourself what behavior you would expect in reverse situations. Stay home. Call. Buy something special.
  
7. Remember why you picked your spouse in the first place.
• It can be easy to forget when he/she forgets to take out the trash, the cell phone service gets turned off, you rack up 10X the cost of a product in late fees, etc.
8. Always live up to your word.
• Don't skip taking out the trash, mailing the bill when you said you would, or returning the movie you forgot to return FIVE WEEKS AGO, even though you swore you did 4 weeks and 5 days ago and can't explain the late fees drawing from your checking account.
  
9. Relax!
• Maybe your spare change did disappear into thin air. Maybe the dogs did sprout opposable thumbs and leave the door unlocked all night long. Maybe someone did break in to your house with no motive other than to turn the ice maker off. And just maybe the $15 you put in the gas can for the lawnmower last week did mysteriously disappear because it has an undetectable hole in it. Bottom line: does it really matter? Breathe. And relax!
10. Your partner comes first. Everything and everyone else is second, including you.

I'll revisit these self-proclaimed rules in a year to determine whether I've learned to behave better or not. I'm hoping so for the sake of my sweet, even-tempered, patient husband although he knew my mantra when he married me 4 1/2 months ago. As the legend Mae West knew well before society and Chelsea Handler made it common: well behaved women rarely make history.

My Funny Valentine

Ahhhh, Valentine's Day. A day for couples to celebrate their love for one another and specifically for men to show their adoration for the women they love with romantic plans of flowers, candles, and wine.

Little did I know that Sam had made festive dinner plans for Valentine's Day...kind of.

I spent Valentine's morning working like an illegal migrant male laborer cleaning my dad's "garden." This is no typical old man garden. It's 10,000 square feet of vegetable bliss in the summer, but this particular morning, it had weeds the size and strength of small trees seven feet tall from barb to barb. My task was to mow it. Any other farmer would brushhog it; I, however, had to knock it out in 32-degree weather with a John Deere push mower. My back muscles are still achy days later.

I finally finished "gardening" and doing yard work at 2pm. I walked into the house and Sam asked me if we had any plans for the evening. I gave him a look that implied, "well, this is a commercial holiday for YOU to make plans, not me," and I said, "I don't know. Do we?"

"My mother would like to have us over for dinner at 6:30."

Seriously? I giggled. For as loving as Sam is, he does not have an ounce of romance in him. For our one-year anniversary, he gave me a vaccum. He has also promised to buy me a new toilet for my birthday or some other gift-giving occasion.

Some people have in-laws, but not me... My most clever friend, Maura, calls Don and Sammye my sin-laws because Sam and I love, live and fight like we're married and we share the same living space.. in sin.

We spend a lot of time with my sin-laws. They are some of the most wonderful, graceful and warm people I've ever met and I admire them in countless ways. Plus, his mother is a classically trained French chef, so any time she offers to cook-- lovers' holiday or otherwise-- is good for me.

We started the evening with good wine, great cheese, and exceptional conversation as his mom prepared the meal. It was almost like any other dinner we have when they host. Almost.

Sammye is a divine hostess and always decorates the table to suit the occasion. She had created a beautiful tablescape for Valentine's Day with elegant flowers, red heart adornments and white candles in cut crystal holders. So I was having a candlelight dinner on Valentine's Day. With Sam's parents. Not bad at all!

Here's where it gets.... different.

The steaks were ready and we headed to the table to eat like we did any other time we ate dinner there. Almost.

Sammye dimmed the dining room lights down low. Realllllly low. The small flames of the candles flickered like thousand-watt light bulbs, casting giant shadows of us against the wall. This was ambiance like I'd never experienced it there before.

I was looking around a bit puzzled from the mood lighting and a little giggly from the cabernet when Sam turned a slightly funny but beautiful dinner into a HILARIOUS night.

The stereo had been playing upbeat tunes from the 70's. He turned the volume up a little bit and changed the station. 'Is that what I think I think it is?' I thought to myself. Surrrrely not.

Sure enough, the slow melodious seduction of Luther Vandross ensued, followed by Lionel Richie, Etta James and their lascivious, procreation-encouraging counterparts. I was dining with my sin-laws on Valentine's day with candlelight and SEX MUSIC.

Apparently no one seemed to find it ridiculously amusing but me. I was polite and gracious, thanked them for a wonderful evening, and then burst into a fit of church giggles as soon as the car door latched shut.

Sweet, sweet Sam. I not only got flowers, an incredibly sweet tear-inducing card, and a MommyDearest-no-hangers-kind-of-clean house, but what might be the most memorable Valentine's Day dinner of my life.

Don't forget to use your patience.

This is my sweet baby niece, Sophia, who likes to kick and push people.

Her mother and I were out for a stroll on Sunday and, as two year olds tend to do, she stopped on every sidewalk crack, rock, bug, piece of trash on the ground, random penny, etc., to stop and inspect.

After several stops to see the various wonders of Zio's parking lot, Monica told her sweet baby to "hurry it up."

Sophia responds, "Mommy, I need you to use your patience, please."

One can't argue with that.

Cosmolene

This is my original fur-kid, Cosmolene Cascabelle Eaton. She is named after a song by one of my favorite Texas Music artists, Houston Marchman, called "Cosmolene" about a "redneck hippie truck stop cutie/roadhouse queen with a blue bonnet tatoo on her toe."

She has earned many nick names throughout her five years: "Lupita" for silently stealing and eating my crunchy tacos as a 4 month old pup on a road trip from Dallas; "Snob" for walking up to one person in particular at a party who was dressed poorly (read: GANGSTA) and peeing on his shoe. Out of about 80 people, she walked right up to him and tinkled on his big shoe; "Señorita Cosmolita" for stealing margaritas out of people's glasses when they weren't looking. The kid has got spunk.

My favorite story associated to Cosmo and her nicknames is "Cosmo Knieval." Let me paint the picture for you.

You know when you're a little kid and you learn the law of gravity at school, but you still think up ways to prove it? Like if you're riding in the bed of a pick up truck that's going 25 MPH and you jump straight up, will you fall out or land in the pick up truck bed?

I did my own inadvertent test. But I was in my late 20's, not my elementary school years.

It was a glorious, beautiful sunny day, perfect for a girl to cruise around with her convertible top down. My hair was down and flying and the sun was burning my cheeks. Glorious day!

Cosmo had socks on her feet (attached with rubber bands) so she wouldn't claw my new leather seats. I always kept a leash on her when she rode with me to act as a child seat: safety first!

I was speeding down the B.A. expressway (literally... 90MPH) and was blasting Willie Nelson. Life was good!! Sweet Cosmo's leash was attached to my wrist, but after a few miles, I noticed that it felt a little taut for optimum steering power....

I look to my right where my co-pilot sits and the passenger seat was empty. EMPTY. Keep in mind that when panic strikes and you're sitting in a chair, that's fine and good; but when panic strikes and you're doing 90MPH on a fairly crowded expressway, that's a little less comfortable.

My little black convertible coupe had only two seats, zero room behind those seats, and then led to the trunk area. Atop that trunk, sunning herself like the princess she is, was Cosmo, basking in the sun, head to the sky, paws stretched out like she was on a white sand beach.

I jerked the leash while simultaneously braking a little, sending my little sweet furkid baby into a blind panic of her own. She froze and immediately hopped back down into her co-pilot chair.

I still wonder what thoughts must have crossed other drivers' minds as I passed them at an unsafe speed with my Siberian Husky tanning on the trunk of my car, Willie Nelson's "Shotgun Willie" blaring... my blonde hair whipping me in the face (and not in a hot way, I assure you).

The good news is that little Cosmo didn't scratch my leather seats. She did, however, leave claw mark scratches about five inches long on my TRUNK from where I yanked her back in the car.

Not long after that, I traded in the fun but completely impractical shiny coupe for a 4Runner, specifically for the back window that rolls down so my little kid could bask all she wants, but not put me in jail for cruelty to animals.

Long live Cosmo Knieval.

Warranty honored. Who knew?!

I love my vehicle. I mean love my vehicle. I've had sports cars, coupes, other SUVs, and my 4Runner fits me perfectly. There's room for my sweet baby niece who likes to kick and push people till they bruise, as well as for my combined 220 lbs of fur-babies to ride in. They can even stick their heads out the back window that rolls down to drool on/flirt with other cars (respective furbaby personalities).

While I don't keep my car as clean as I'd like (you read the part about the baby and the fur), I do take excellent care of it. Having a P.O.S. with no working radio that requires you to drive around college with a battery-powered GHETTO BLASTER in the backseat will teach you to appreciate what you have (thanks for the deathtrap, dad; good times).

My car is only two years old and I bought it brand spanking new for a dang lot of money, but it's worth it. Quality always is! Why buy used when the interest rate is lower, hence the overall amount cheaper, on a sparkly new one? To sweeten that expensive deal even more, the dealership where I bought it offered a lifetime warranty on the tires, powertrain, and FREE oil changes. Woo!

Even now, two years later, I love everything about it: the dash controls, the MP3 player, the ride of a luxury vehicle with the practicality of an SUV. I've had no trouble with it, except...

One rush hour, I'm driving along, jamming out to an MP3, cruising through a very busy intersection by my house. I hear a funny noise followed by a loud CLANKKKK. I look in my rear view mirror and see a big ass sheet of metal skidding along the intersection with the many cars around me swerving to avoid it. I immediately look to my left and my right to see what old piece of junk and low rent driver would drive a car that has a 3.5' x 2.5' metal sheet coming off of it. That could have killed somebody!

Um, that would be me and my brand new, expensive, quality SUV.

I'm too embarrassed to pull over to retrieve it and at this point, so what can I do but deny, deny, deny? I continue towards the Y-- I can't be late for racquetball.... and I'm beet red.

One hour later, as I'm leaving the Y for the house, I see that some kind soul has picked up said big ass sheet of metal and placed it on the corner of the intersection. I should retrieve it... that will cost a lot to replace. Damn brand new car!

I pulled into the garage and honked for Sam and told him to get it. "We need to go pick something up."

He had no idea that I was making him act as my runner monkey to pick up the piece of metal as fast as he can while stopped in the intersection without anyone being able to identify me as that low rent person who lets car parts fall off.... and doesn't stop to pick them up.

Here's the fun part (fun to Sandy, a little embarrassing to me):

Now post rush hour, there's not a lot of traffic. In fact, even though the light is green, no one is even on the streets, so I can just brake and Sam can jump out lightning fast, throw the part in the cargo area, hop in and we're off!

I live near LaFortune Park so this metal sheet is on the corner across from the park where lots of people golf, jog and picnic. In my planning of execution to have Sam pick up the piece, I didn't take in my surroundings.

As Sam jumps out of the car at lightning speed, determined to pick up the part in Olympic-qualifying time, he nearly knocks over a preteen boy with a walkman who was waiting to cross the street.

Here it is, 7:30 in the evening with dusk approaching, hardly any cars out... except for this black 4Runner screeching to a halt with a large, hairy man jumping out of the front before the car was fully stopped.

All the blood drained from this sweet pre-teen boy's face, fear filled his eyes. I think he dropped his walkman (at least the head bopping and dance wiggle stopped).

He thought we were kidnapping him.

I got my car part back and the kid probably recovered quickly, although I haven't seen him jogging alone since.

So now, months later, I went to the dealership and said I needed my "metal sheet thing" replaced. The nice serviceman said "your skid plate?" "Um, yes, my skid part."

Come to find out, although this metal sheet was welded on at time of manufacture, mine somehow came loose... in the middle of an intersection... during rush hour.. and almost cost me a felony count of child kidnapping.

With only 24K miles on it, the dealership shocked me by showing me the bill for the part replacement, apologizing, and covering the part under warranty. I've had warranties before.. they were just a piece of paper to make me sign on the dotted line.

All in all, car malfunctions could be worse. And once all the parts fall off my car... the tires, wheels, bumper and maybe a door or two.. I'll replace it with yet another 4Runner.

When beer gets replaced with beauty.. or at least the attempt

You might have noticed a change in my header. As I get a little older and barely wiser, I find I have less time and patience for beer and my waistline could use a break for the good, imported stuff. I'm sure if I could suffer canned beer, my waistline wouldn't be growing, but we've established that unless I am on water AND on a boat (neither alone), I am far above canned beer.

With less money spent on fine dining and upscale beer (who do I think I am? Omarosa?), I have more left for better things in life like pampering. At my age, no kids=pedicures, massages, waxings and other general maintenance necessities.

After a tripled workload and the most stressful week of my adult life, I made an appointment a full week in advance so that I could get in to see THE masseur of choice. If you're a spa princess, you know who I mean. I am trying to make massages a habit but had never been to The Man, so you might imagine my anticipation as I waited for Saturday to approach.

I show up to the spa with the glee of a little kid on Christmas morning, wrap myself in a luxuriously fluffy white robe and bounce my crossed leg in anticipation as I wait for The Masseur of Choice to take me to his room. Eeeeee!!!!

Our consultation was quick and went well. He was very knowledgeable. So knowledgeable, in fact, that I might have left out some details about where my tension was because he is The Masseur.. he'll figure it out! He asks me to pick out some scents and I tell him I don't really care, I trust his judgment, and let's get to it! WOO HOOOOOOO!

I am naked (tee hee) underneath the soft, 1,000 count massage sheet. The Masseur is mixing up his magical potions with this maggggggical hands and ohhhhhh, here he comes. First touch and my eyes open wide up in astonishment. MAGICAL HANDS, I tell you. Ohhh, and to be honest, it was all quite professional, but with a touch like his, I felt like I was cheating on my Manly Man. Keep it up, keep it up.... why didn't I come to you before?!

That was just the warm up though.

You know how the first time you visit the spa, you fill out a form indicating where you hold tension, whether you have injuries, whether you like light, moderate or deep pressure, and what you like least about massages (is there really an answer for this last question other than 'it ended?')? I can't remember ever filling one out at this particular place, but as The Masseur started to get past the warm up and really get into the thick of things, I found myself wondering if maybe somewhere in the past I had crossed off "moderate pressure" and replaced it with "lethal, bone crushing, joint-snapping pressure." Still, he must know what he's doing. He is The Masseur!

As he starts 'working' on my left shoulder joint, he tells me the reason he had me smell four different oil vials. Some scents are associated with bad memories; say, had I been bitten by a Doberman (I have.. different story, right in the ass cheek, too) next to a rose bush, I'd dislike the smell of roses. Sensical enough. As he illustrated his in depth knowledge of scents, their effect on pheromones and neuron paths, I stop hearing his words and start hearing "waaaa waaaa wa wa wa" as they drown out. In retrospect, maybe that was me passing out a little bit.

PAIN. And I mean PAINNNN, as in pain reserved for four letter words, teeth biting into the bottom lip, furrowed brows, and prayers to the Virgin Mary to make it stop pain. Why was he trying to rip my arm off the shoulder like you would if you wanted the drumstick on a rotisserie chicken? I told him my scapula hurt, so surely doing this to the joint meant it would alleviate the path of knots in my shoulder blade?

He continues to tell me about scents associated to bad memories and all I could think-- aside from four letter words while biting my lip, furrowing my brow while grimacing in pain and saying a little prayer to the Virgin Mary-- was that I'd never be able to smell the Egyptian flower oil he was using ever, ever again because I was in the process of forming my very first negative memory/scent association and he was the cause of it.

After what felt like 3o solid minutes, he left what was still attached of my arm to my shoulder and moved to the shin. THANK YOU VIRGIN MARY, BABY JESUS and anyone else who I may have asked favors of.

He starts kneading my shin bone-- my SHIN BONE-- with the same excruciating kneading. There are no knots in my shin bone. None, I promise! Back away from the shin bone!

He then flipped me over where he did a few wonderful things, but this is the whole story: 60 solid minutes with THE MASSEUR and I left with maybe one or two fewer knots, but I had a dangling arm, felt like a Hummer had just tanked me over at drive-by shooting speed, and a few nice smacks to the back (not backside, just back). He did compliment me on how my breathing improved from beginning to end. I didn't think he'd appreciate me telling him that my lamaz-type breathing, along with the grimace, was my only coping mechanism against his vice grips. Hell yes I started breathing well; it was either that or run out of the massage room in panties and no one needs to see all that. It's a place for enjoyment, peace and relaxation, not frightening experiences.

Then it was over. SWEET JESUS, over!

I now have an answer for that question on the form that asks what I like least about massages: wishing I were getting a filling at the dentist's office, jumping out of a plane, bailing hay, chopping wood... doing ANYTHING other than enduring torture. Correct that: PAYING to endure torture.

A few days later, the bruises are subsiding along my shoulder and shin, but the memory of Saturday haunts me, as does the scent of that dang oil he talked me into buying.

Pamperees beware: beauty hurts like hell.

Bruisanne Beaten

Years and years ago, my most clever friend aptly nick-named me Bruisanne Beaten (which is much nicer than some of my other nick names) because it rhymes with my name. It went well with the black and blues on my legs and arms from time spent in the racquetball court and years later, I'm still "Bruisy," but their origins have broadened.

Most everything interesting I have to say relates to beer, bruises, and occasionally, bruises earned while drinking beer. Whether it's friends raising a glass, a life decision made while drinking beer, or a bruise initiated by my ox-strong two year old niece who likes to kick and shove people, my stories somehow relate to beer and/or bruises. I also have a degree in Beer Consumption (not really, but I did go to OK State and really, what's the differnce?) and will review ales in my typical opinionated fashion. I'm not bossy... I just have better ideas.

Picture Caption: "You're in my seat, b****."
This is Maura, my most clever friend, on Sam's boat this past 4th of July. She is in Cosmo's seat and don't think Cosmo doesn't know it. That's one dirty look!