I was going to simply post this picture without dialogue under the guise of a “Wordless Wednesday,” but considering I had a wordless Monday and Tuesday, I cannot afford myself such luxuries.

The following is a picture of my husband taken while he was “working.” And while I don’t have a typical Brantley-ism zinger to accompany it, I think it speaks volumes by itself.

As you can see, his work computer was outfitted with Photoshop, or at least it is until his boss gets wind of this picture. My husband is a brilliant man who went to school for much longer than me, and has many letters after his name. Just try to keep that in mind…

This is the same man who just last week (while sporting a Kool Ade mustache) argued that HE should be able to read my TB skin test because he is technically a doctor, to which I replied, “No. Technically, you’re not.”


I sat on the couch drinking my coffee and watching the Today Show. Brantley sauntered down the stairs and asked, “What time are you supposed to go to work this morning?”

“Just some time this morning,” I replied.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means when I feel like it.” I didn’t think this was a difficult concept. “Don’t you start stressing me out before I have to go to work,” I warned.

“Wow, I would really hate to do that.”

I didn’t appreciate his tone. “I’ll have you know that I have a very high pressure, high stress job that requires me to show up two to three times a month. Do you think I’m going into work this morning to sit on my butt and watch HR videos while eating Skittles? Well, you’re wrong. The snack machine is out of Skittles and there is no telling when it’ll be restocked.”

He sighed. “We need to remember to get you checked.”

I shouldn’t have taken the bait, but I did. “For what?” I asked.



I had just returned from a visit to the ENT and was giving Brantley the details of my upcoming and dreaded septoplasty surgery. When I finished he had one question for me. “Does he do boobs?”

“No, Brantley.” I answered. “My ear, nose and throat doctor does NOT do boobs.”

He sighed. “Well, that’s a shame.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, honey.”

Happy Marriage Tips

In order to maintain a long and healthy marriage avoid ever asking your wife, “Are you wearing a bra?” Nothing good can come from the awaiting conversation. If you are lucky she will answer you abruptly. However, if you aren’t lucky, she will answer your stupid question with her own question. “Do you think I’m wearing a bra?” If you find yourself up this creek, try and change the subject to something nostalgic, like how magical your first date was. Chicks love stuff like that. Then, ask her if she would like something to drink, or perhaps a foot rub. Hopefully by then, she will have forgotten your insensitive faux pas and the fact that her nipples are being pinched by the elastic waist band in her granny panties.

Now let’s say you weaseled your way out of trouble for the last question, and you ignorantly assume her reaction to the foot rub means that she is ready for a roll in the hay. Under no circumstances is it ok to replace foreplay with the line, “Hey, you busy?” Whether you’ve been married a week or a half century, the sound of your voice is most likely no longer giving her goose bumps so you’re going to have to try a little harder. (I’m not naming names.) In the end, you will be pleased with the result and so will your wife.

Remember fellas. They cook your meals. They clean your house. They raise your kids AND provide a much needed second income. It would be wise to keep them in good spirits.

Brantley-isms (cuz it’s been a while)

We went for our daily family walk this morning. As it turns out, seven AM is too early for mascara so I improvised in order to become suitable for the public eye.
Giant aviator sunglasses that make me look like a mosquito? Check. Ball cap? Check. Mismatched shorts and shirt (didn’t really help the look, but) check and check.
As we approached the top of a hill, one of our three town police men (That’s right, I said three. Please don’t rob me.) slowly drove past us. Brantley gave me a heads up. “Look out. It’s the po-po.” He whisper shouted.
“Thanks, babe. Are we doing anything wrong?” I asked.
“Well I’m not, but you’re dressed like you’re casing the neighborhood.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
“You run kinda gay.”

Miscommunication (and a Brantley-ism)

I went to the local grocery store yesterday, where shopping is a pleasure. Smiling faces greeted me everywhere I turned. However, as I was checking out, I noticed my groceries being bagged by an unfriendly individual. As luck would have it, she had bagged my groceries the last three times I was there, and every time she had refused to speak to me. She had been standing two feet away while I made friendly small talk. I had smiled and thanked her for bagging my groceries, and the most I ever got out of her was a half smile. This was unacceptable to me. I considered complaining to the manager, but I never got around to it (read: chickened out).

Here we were again, and this time, I was determined to make her talk to me. Without offering to take out my groceries, she headed out the door with my buggy and my kid. “Perfect,” I thought. She would have to talk to me now. The silence of the stroll to the car would be too awkward to stand. “What a nice day,” I said. “Sure is warm. Are you having a good day?” I said everything I could think of and, as the silence continued, I got angrier. She placed the last bag into my trunk, closed the door with a half smile, and walked away without a word. I was over it. “Unbelievable,” I said aloud. Had the manager been within sight I would have complained, but Luke was tired from shopping and we were all the way to the car. “Next time,” I thought. “He will get an ear full from me.”

Later that day, I went to Verizon Wireless to have some work done on my Blackberry. As I sat on the bench and waited my turn, who should I look up and see, but the same girl from the grocery store. Imagine my amazement when I realized she was communicating with her mom completely in sign language. It turns out that she hadn’t been ignoring me at all, but rather, that she is COMPLETELY DEAF. Woops. This brought deeper meaning to the slogan, “Can you hear me now?”

The highlight of my day came later when I explained the whole ordeal to Brantley. Missing the point, as usual, he responded with, “Why would a deaf person need a cell phone.” Oy.

What had started out as anger had turned into humiliation, guilt and finally laughter thanks to my husband. It had been a full circle day, and thankfully, I had not complained to the manager. There would have been NO coming back from that.


  • Brantley and I were pulling into the parking lot of a restaurant today, when a morbidly obese individual went strolling in. Brantley ruined his daily Karma with the comment, “How much you wanna bet her eyes AREN’T bigger than her stomach!” All I could do was shake my head.
  • This evening while applying Jergens lotion to his sunburn, he exclaimed, “Mmmm. Original cherry almond scent brings back inappropriate adolescent memories.”
    TMI, honey.


  • Brantley got home from work the other night around ten o’clock. I had just finished a long shower and was sitting in the recliner relaxing and watching TV. He walked into the bedroom and exclaimed, “It feels moist in here.” Sigh. His word choice, at times, is a little lacking. He could’ve said humid or muggy, but he’s Brantley so he didn’t.
  • Upon exiting the shower this morning, Luke (20 mos) ran up to me, stuck his finger in my belly button and said, “Ay-ee-oh-uhh.” I marched straight into the bonus room where Brantley sat, eating a popsicle and watching Sponge Bob. “Did you teach Luke to say areola?”
    “Yep, it’s anatomically correct…and it’s funny,” he snickered.
    “Well, he thinks it’s in your belly button,” I insisted.
    Without taking his eyes off of the TV, he mumbled back, “He’ll figure it out.”


Brantley: Don’t forget to take your winning lottery tickets by the Shell station and get your money.

Me: How much did I win?

Brantley: Seven dollars and another lottery ticket. Be sure and tell them it’s your birthday and that you want them to “make it rain.”

Me: That should make for a nice long shower.


Brantley: “It’s pajama day at work and I don’t know what to wear.”

Me: “Wow, pajama day. Hey don’t forget your science project and your gym clothes.”

Brantley: “I’m serious. What should I wear?”

Me: “Would your actual nighttime ensemble be unacceptable, i.e. basketball shorts, no shirt and slobber on your face?”

Brantley: (no response)

Me: “Ok, how about the footy pajamas your cousins got you for Christmas.”

Brantley: “It’s a relatively new job, Lori. That would be too much, too soon. Not to mention they’re a little tight and you can see my frank and beans.”

After much deliberation and a little brainstorming he decided on flannel pajama pants, slippers and his robe. However, I would like to show you the little piece of heaven that his co-workers missed out on. Please note the striking similarities between Brantley and the Hoodie-Footie Snuggle Suit model. I think he missed his calling.