I'm not dead, nor am I in the hospital. But I did just spend a day and a half watching the mental equivalent of eating seven Big Macs in one sitting: TLC. What is it with babies, armless people, wedding dresses and Kate Gosselin? Anybody?
Mr says it's the girl version of Spike TV, and at first I thought "no way, you're totally wrong". Spike is boobs and punching and cars. TLC is babies and weddings and drama.
Oh. They ARE the same.
And now, some Lannis. Because one crazy isn't enough for this blog.
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Mr Lannis and I have a deal: we don’t celebrate.
Our birthdays are three days apart, and our youngest was born three days after that. It’s a freaking week-long birthday bonanza around here, and we focus on the kidlets, of course.
Also? We’re cheap.
I’ll bake a cake, make his favourite meal. Maybe we’ll buy a DVD we’re both interested in adding to our collection.
The Mrs doesn’t have the corner on the cheapo market, no sir-ee.
Besides, we know how to have fun without spending money. As I restrain myself from inappropriate comments, please see visual evidence — my all-time favourite photo of us (circa 2001):
The only dollars spent that day were in developing a roll of antiquated film to display this adorable sideshow.
So when it comes to our wedding anniversary, we have a deal: we plan to go somewhere (Paris, or a dreamy island of sandy beaches) for our tenth. Somehow, over this past weekend, we managed to hit number seven.
Seven? Already?!
God bless that man, because I am not always an easy person to live with.
And Lord knows, if ever there was a year in which I was a trial, it was this one. Without going into details, suffice it to say we were both duly reminded that we need to be more appreciative of each other. We are partners first, parents second.
And I definitely appreciate Mr Lannis. I adore him to pieces.
And not just because he makes it possible for me to write “spoiled princess” in the occupation field on paperwork (SAHMs: do this. It’s much more satisfying than “homemaker”. Trust.)
So when I came downstairs to discover him proffering my favourite Tim Horton’s berry smoothie with a “happy anniversary!” kiss?
I bawled.
Over a three dollar smoothie. Yep.
Again, without details, I’d had a rough week. And Mr Lannis knew this. He also knows our deal (no celebrations). And I’ve said before: he gets a pretty good pass in the romance department.
(Also? I think he is secretly tickled when he gets to be the rock in our relationship.)
But really? I didn’t just bawl. I crumbled. I melted.
And he panicked.
Not because I was crying, but because he’d arranged for the neighbour kids to come over in the next few minutes and now I was a puffy mess.
I’m not a pretty crier. Pale and blotchy, that’s me. One tear = highlighted streak down the cheek and instant bloodshot eyes. I’ll save you from the description of the full-out Ugly Cry. Because truly, it’s called The Ugly Cry for a reason.
Why were the neighbourhood kids coming over? Because it was our anniversary, of course!
And cheaper delivery doesn’t exist —
♥
I live in a small town with my favourite people: my husband, Mr Lannis, and our two boys, along with two cats and one hamster.
If you follow me on Twitter, you might witness my issues with linear thought, road rage, spending more money on food than books, and potty mouth. Be warned.
