I’m used to a little static electricity in the winter, but this year it is OUT OF CONTROL. I touch the TV and get a shock. I touch the sofa and get a shock. I give Luke a kiss and get a shock. Slowly and for good reason, I’ve developed a fear of touching things. (On a side note, be on the lookout for my new self-help book, Static Electricity and Why Kisses Shouldn’t Hurt.)

It’s no mystery why I’ve taken to stuffing dryer sheets in my pockets. It gives me that added safety and protection I need to face the day. However, when my pants don’t have pockets I’m forced to tuck the dryer sheets in my bra, and if I’m not wearing a bra, (wipe that look off your face and stop judging me) I stick them in my underpants. See girls, this is just another reason to ALWAYS wear underpants.

Suffice it to say that I don’t clear everything I do with Brantley beforehand, so when he saw dryer sheets sticking out of my pants I was met with a puzzled look.

Me: “It’s to prevent static.”

Brantley: (with an “aha” look on his face) “I thought it was for a not so fresh feeling or something.”

Me: “Wow, what is that about?”

Brantley: “I uh…I’m just trying to be supportive.”

Me: “How ‘bout you stop trying.”


With a questioning look I asked Brantley, “why is your underwear on the floor in the hallway?”

His response, “because it fell out of my shorts when I was walking.”

Nuff said.


Brantley walked into the kitchen after a long day at work, and sat down at the table with an exasperated sigh. “Once again, breast cancer has upstaged pharmacist’s month.”

What could I say? “Oh, honey…those awful women. I’m so sorry.”


  • I had just lost a temporary crown for the ump-teenth time, yet Brantley was eager to get out of the house and go to lunch. After telling him I didn’t want to go out in public missing my front tooth, like a hillbilly, he asked, “How about Cracker Barrel?”
  • I was in the laundry room emptying the dryer when I overheard Brantley talking to Luke in the next room. “Go tell mommy you have a chunky in your pants.”
  • After mentioning that I was considering a nose ring, like my friend Myrna’s, Brantley remarked, “It’s totally up to you…if you want to call more attention to your nose.” Thanks, honey.


  • After announcing his departure to the little boys’ room, I asked Brantley to please use the overhead fan. I am after all, a fecal-phobic. His response, “I can’t crap with all that racket.”
  • After gawking at a half naked woman on TV, Brantley decided to smooth things over with me. “I love you just the way you are…more or less.”


After last week’s dental implant surgery I made an appearance in a friend’s wedding as a swollen-faced, matron of honor. Unable to smile, I made it through the festivities with the help of Percocet. At the reception, I was practically assaulted by my husband on the dance floor. Gyrating, grinding, doing the Hammer shuffle, and jiggling his belly to “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard,” Brantley really outdid himself. My face said it all. Yep, he’s going home with me tonight.

Later that evening, someone made reference to our readily approaching seven year itch. While scratching his neck Brantley remarked, “feels more like a rash to me.” Lovely.

For his final hoorah I overheard him tell the father of the groom, “I told him not to do it (get married).” I decided then that it was time to go (read: re-medicate). And with that, we said our goodbyes and left before he had a chance to do the electric slide.

More “Brantley-isms”

· After seeing an ad for Playtex “sport” tampons, he turns to me and asks, “Are those supposed to exercise your hoo-ha?” The sad part was I didn’t know what to say.

· While riding in the car, he checks himself out in the rearview mirror and remarks, “Damn, I’m a good looking man! You married up.” Nice.

· I was in tears one night, reading a sweet poem written by my friend, Myrna, when Brantley interrupts me with, “I sh*# a turd so big today that I almost fainted.” I suddenly wanted to cry for different reasons.

Brantley-isms and Other Funny Stuff My Husband Says

— “Will you go downstairs and get me some popsicles?”

— (Referring to a 60 year old car hop at Sonic.)
Brantley: She totally wanted me…
Me: (eye roll)
Brantley: …and I might just let her have it.
Me: Good. Hand me my corndog.

— (Following my appointment at the allergist)
Brantley: Your ailments are really bringing me down.
Me: Really?
Brantley: That’s what I said.
Me: Just so we’re clear, if I didn’t have this mold allergy you’d be sailing your yacht around the world or living it up at the Playboy mansion right now?
Brantley: Something like that.
Me: Well that’s a shame. I really suck.
Brantley: I know.

And my personal favorite,
— “There’s some turds under the dining room table.”

And this is just one day’s worth!


Prior to our meeting, my husband had a love affair. A love affair with the sweater vest. To my satisfaction, he then took a six year hiatus from the sleeveless golfer’s delight. To be quite honest, I didn’t miss it. However, this past Christmas his father very generously gave him, among other things, four shiny new sweater vests. As he untied the ribbon and opened the box, his eyes lit up and sparkled. If I remember correctly, there may have even been a tear in his eye. He immediately tried it on over his clothes, thus beginning our re-adventure into his fashion fetish.
The following is an actual conversation he and I had prior to meeting a friend for dinner one night. Hand on the Bible. Pinky promise. Girl Scout’s honor (I wasn’t a girl scout). No kidding. We were getting ready to walk out the door and I was reaching into the closet for my coat because it was January and four degrees outside. That’s right. Four degrees.

Me: “You better get your coat. It’s really cold.” (Yes, I know he’s a grown man)
Husband: “Ok, will you hand me the brown one without sleeves?”
Me: (My mouth gaped open.) “That’s a vest, Brantley. A jacket without sleeves is a vest.”
Husband: “Yeah I know, Lori. Whatever. Just hand it to me please.”
Me: “But you already have on a sweater vest. If you put this one on as well, you will be wearing two vests.”
Husband: “Just gimme the damn thing!”
Me: “Are we going to stop and go rock climbing on the way to the Chinese restaurant? I’m just wondering. I mean, why else would someone need to warm their core while having full range of motion in their arms?”

He began expressing his angst by sighing in a sort of “don’t start this” kind of fashion and I ultimately lost the battle when he reached around me and grabbed the vest himself. I had tried to block the closet with my body, but it was no use. So, my son and I went to dinner wrapped up like Eskimos at Christmas, flanked by the vested wonder who was wearing a thin long sleeve shirt and two vests, one cottony sweater type for “style” and a jacket type vest for warmth.
My hope for the future is that his taste in vests will change, but if that doesn’t work then I can hope for a band of renegade moths to storm his closet leaving nothing but clothes hangers.

This is a picture of my son, Luke taken recently. He is seven months old and thus cannot talk but if he could I think he would be saying, “One day I too will wear a sweater vest.”