Loripalooza Valentine’s Day Edition: Love Hurts

It’s been said before, but I’ll say it again. I’m not big on romance. I don’t want anyone to gaze endearingly into my eyes unless they have challenged me aloud by shouting, “Staring contest!”


Valentine’s day for the husband and I involves zero expectations. It isn’t like Christmas when we say we’re going to keep our gift exchange low key, then both of us secretly and simultaneously do the opposite. We literally don’t observe it and I LOVE that. 

Our son on the other hand is a hopeless romantic. 

“I love valentime’s day,” he tells me. 

“What do you love about it?”

“Because it’s all about love. I can’t wait until me and my wife live here without you and Dad.”

“Why can’t your Dad and I stay here. This is our house, too.”

“Mom, you have your own husband. You need your own place.”

I ran up the stairs and before slamming my bedroom door I shouted, “I hate you! You’re not even my real kid!!!” 

OK I didn’t actually say that, (to his face) but lately he’s been obsessed with talking about his wife and I’d probably be more concerned if it weren’t for the fact that his wife is a stuffed dog. 

It makes absolutely no sense, but a few weeks ago he announced that he had a wife and that she was coming for dinner. She has been at the table for every family meal since then. She’s proving to be a persistent gal.  

I do my best to ignore it when he talks about her, but this week he insisted on taking her to school for show and tell. Believe me I tried, but there was no talking him out of it. 

When I picked him up from school his teachers were very amused. They had been hearing great things about his wife for weeks, so naturally they were excited to finally meet her. 

On the ride home I said, “How was school?”

“It was good,” he said nonchalantly, “except that Owen punched my wife.”

I spit coffee all over my steering wheel as I guffawed with laughter. 

“Mom, it isn’t funny.”

Of course it wasn’t. There’s nothing funny about domestic abuse. BUT IT WAS because his wife is a stuffed pug. I don’t even mind admitting that I’ve punched her a couple of times, myself. She’s mouthy. 

Thankfully, I’m friends with Owen’s Mom. When we got home I sent her a text explaining what had gone down and to let her know that her son was a wife beater. No big deal. Thankfully, I had relocated myself to the office where I was pretending to check my email so Luke couldn’t hear me laughing. Owen’s Mom responded back with, “Tell your son to keep his wife at home from now on unless she wants to get punched again.”

The mere image of his Pre-K classroom being rocked by such a scandal had me laughing so hard that tears streamed down my face and I could barely catch my breath. 

They grow up fast in Brentwood, TN. 

How do teachers manage to keep it together? I bet it’s alcohol. 

Happy Valentine’s day!!
xoxo
Lori

Post-Valentine Confession

Now that Valentine’s day is over I can stop pretending that I have a perfect marriage and tell you what happened the week before. Ermahgerd!!

So ok, I got really mad at Brantley Wescott two weeks ago, and I can’t remember the details right now, but trust me that he was being a total douche. I know I have it all written down in text messages to my friends. Hang on while I look it up. Here it is. (Oh, Jesus take the wheel! I’m angry again!!)

He wasn’t being a good communicator and he said, “Shut-up,” to me.

I’m not kidding. I was furious.

Later on, but before he apologized (that detail is crucial), I ran errands that landed me near in proximity to Green Hills Mall, specifically Nordstrom. I can honestly say that I’ve never been revenge shopping before, but I did it that day and it felt good. At least, until check out time when the girl ringing me up (who I realized by engaging in not-so-small talk with, is someone who I was almost related to by marriage, briefly, but still. Small world!!) said, “I need your address so I can send you a thank you note in the mail.” I asked her to forego the formality and just say it to my face, but she insisted and I wasn’t far enough along in my friendship/almost kin-ship with her to tell her that I was shopping on the down-low, not to mention my mail phobia. I mean, if I don’t know who licked it, or recognize the handwriting on the envelope, then it goes straight into the pile for Brantley to open. Because of this, I have an open mail policy with my husband, and there is a good chance of him intercepting said “thank you” note. Rats!!!

I then added that I’m a terrible liar, and that there was very little chance of making it through the day without spilling my own beans, anyway. Brantley always knows I’m lying because I have a tell. It consists of me speaking in a loud-monotone voice while gazing directly into his neck. I swear it’s like he’s in the CIA, or something. He always knows.

Anyway, a few days later this envelope came in the mail and it made me chuckle.

Clearly, it’s NOT from Nordstrom.

Brantley-isms: Valentines Shmalentines

I believe Valentine’s Day is a made up holiday perpetrated on consumers by the candy, greeting card and medical industry in an effort to have us needlessly spend money. Those with partners fall for it hook, line and sinker with Godiva chocolates, and cheesy cards about love. Those without partners unnecessarily decide they must have a partner, if only for one night. That person then goes home with someone from the bar, catches a germ that won’t wash off, and shows up at their doctor’s office for treatment three to four days later.

One of the many things I love about my husband is that he is as unromantic as I am. Most women would’ve been appalled at the question he posed to me last week regarding Valentine’s Day.
“Hey, instead of getting each other Valentine’s Day cards this year, can we each throw five dollars in the garbage can? That’s where it’ll go the next day, anyway.”
My heart swelled with pride. “You complete me.”

I don’t need a specific day of the year to remember that I have the most wonderful husband in the world (when he isn’t being a butt hole). Happy VD everyone.

Winter To Do List

It’s already February and I have to say that I have been cracking away at my winter bucket list and New Year’s resolutions. Here are a few accomplishments that really solidify my my swagger.

  • Being named Trophy Wife of the Year for 2012. Caught be completely by surprise for the eighth year in a row.
  • Supervising Luke in hand making eleventy million Valentine’s. My house is covered in glitter and pom poms. 
  • Detoxing my son from candy. Although this has only occurred in the last week or so, it’s kind of amazing to see what happens when he gets his hands on a few Smarties, or God forbid a red ring pop. Katy, whoever you are, grab some rope and bar the freaking door. 
  • Giving up red meat in my super-slow attempt to one day go vegetarian. I also gave up pork, only to have a bacon and pepperoni relapse forty-eight hours later. Baby steps, as they say.
Pork-on-pork crime
I want to hear about YOUR winter accomplishments. Sound off!!

    David Beckham Sexiest Man! Poppycock

    I was driving down the road today when I heard a celebrity news bulletin on the radio. The DJ explained that David Beckham had been named Sexiest Man on the Planet for 2012. “How can this be?” I shouted. “They have not even met my husband. They don’t know what they’re missing.” I knew then and there that it was my job to reach the nations with the glory that is Brantley L. Wescott.

    Step 1: (There’s only one step, actually.)
    Flood the internet with attractive photos of him

    Here you see him catching up on some beauty rest. It takes work to look that good, people. Work and face cream. I believe I have made my point (and quite possibly, laid the ground work for him to file for divorce). David Beckham has nothing on my Valentine. 

    The full article: The Doghouse and a Three Hour Lunch

    My apologies for a non-functioning link yesterday.  Here is the full article in all its glory…

    I found myself in a new position this past Valentine’s Day.  Get your minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the doghouse.  Here’s how it all went down.  Every weekday my husband, Brantley, listens to the radio show, Three Hour Lunch, on 104.5 The Zone.  You could call it his “me” time, and during our tenure together I have had quite a few chances to enjoy the show myself.  Blaine Bishop, Clay Travis and Brent Dougherty are the hosts, and even though I don’t always know what they’re talking about they still manage to make me laugh.  Well, yesterday I got one of my really good ideas.  I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if I infiltrated Brantley’s precious radio show by being one of the callers?”  I toyed with this idea while I listened to the humorous Three Hour Lunch commentary.  It was around noon when one of the hosts brought up the subject of bad Valentine’s Day gifts.  He said they would be taking calls and wanted to hear about the worst Valentine’s Day gift you ever received.  However, it sounded more to me like, “Hey Lori, it’s God.  Call this number.  Everyone would LOVE to hear what you have to say.”  How could I say no?
    I almost died when I heard, “Lori from Nolensville, you’re on the air with Three Hour Lunch.”  I tried to keep it short and sweet while sticking to the facts.  “Hey guys, I love your show.  I wanted to tell you that the worst Valentine’s Day gift I ever received was a hair dryer from my husband.”  The collective group broke into laughter and one of the hosts asked why my husband would’ve gotten me such a thing.  I went on to explain that he was a pharmacist when one of the fellas interrupted with, “No, he DID NOT just pick something off the shelf at Walgreen’s while he was at work?”
    I came to the end of my story and was quite certain I would soon be cut off, but I wasn’t quite finished.  I can’t recall my exact words, but it went something like this.  “Guys, if I may, I’d like to send him a Valentine over the airways while he listens on his way to work. Hey honey, SUCK IT!”  My comments were again met with laughter, and as I guessed I was promptly cut off.  I waited about ten seconds and then called my husband, Brantley.  I could tell by his voice that he was a little apprehensive, but he laughed it off.  However, as the day passed, he had more time to think it over, and I guess it hurt his ego a bit.  I began feeling a little coldness in his text messages.  I asked if he was angry and he responded with, “No more radio calls for you.”  I couldn’t believe it.  It was my first radio call ever, and I had rocked it.  He couldn’t make me hide my light under a bushel.  Or could he?
    I started feeling guilty, but why?  It’s not like public ridicule is new to our relationship.  It may be a first for the radio, but I’ve been making fun of him twice a week for three years on the web, and he has (almost) always approved.  Not to mention, playful teasing is how I show my affection.  I’m like the eight-year-old boy who runs up and punches you in the stomach on the playground to tell you that he’s interested. 
    Regardless of my explanations and excuses, I was in the doghouse.  I can honestly say that I haven’t spent a lot of time there during our relationship so that either means I’m really awesome, or my husband is really forgiving.  Assuming that the latter is most likely true, I decided to make some changes.  So, from now on, I am going to make a concerted effort to stay out of his sacred, sports radio territory, and if that includes Three Hour Lunch, then so be it.  (Single tear rolls down my cheek.)  I will also try to mature in my displays of affection to that of at least a fifth grade level, and to prove that, I have one question for my dear, sweet husband.  Will you go with me?  Check yes or no. 

    The Doghouse and a 3-Hour Lunch

    I found myself in a new position this past Valentine’s Day.  Get your minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the doghouse.  Here’s how it all went down.  Every weekday my husband, Brantley, listens to the radio show, Three Hour Lunch, on 104.5 The Zone.  You could call it his “me” time, and during our tenure together I have had quite a few chances to enjoy the show myself.  Blaine Bishop, Clay Travis and Brent Dougherty are the hosts, and even though I don’t always know what they’re talking about they still manage to make me laugh.  Well, yesterday I got one of my really good ideas.  I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if I infiltrated Brantley’s precious radio show by being one of the callers?”  I toyed with this idea while I listened to the humorous Three Hour Lunch commentary.  It was around noon when one of the hosts brought up the subject of bad Valentine’s Day gifts.  He said they would be taking calls and wanted to hear about the worst Valentine’s Day gift you ever received.  However, it sounded more to me like, “Hey Lori, it’s God.  Call this number.  Everyone would LOVE to hear what you have to say.”  How could I say no?

    Happy Valentine’s Day!

    Luke (19 mos) and I spent all last week homemaking valentines for friends and family. He would scribble them up with markers and I would add the glitter glue. We had it down to a pretty organized assembly. Until the last one, when I ran short on glitter glue and was forced to abbreviate Valentine ’s Day to “V-Day,” or so I thought. There was less glitter than I realized and the card wound up saying, “Hope you enjoy your VD!” I think the message was somehow lost in translation.

    This got me thinking, if you opened a greeting card from an ex-lover this week that read, “Hope you enjoy your VD!” then maybe they too ran out of glitter glue, and you need not rush to the health department. I’m just sayin’.

    Happy VD to you all.

    Dear Cupid,

    Dear Cupid,

    Please bring me one Hoodie-Footie Snuggle Suit. I have been good all year and would really love to feel sexy and warm at the same time. I didn’t think it was possible until now. There’s really nothing worse than getting a chill when you’re feeling in the mood, but it doesn’t have to happen anymore. Sweats and lingerie have finally come together to make this uber-sexy, velveteen suit and I would love it if you could send one my way.

    All my best,

    Lori

    PS: Sorry to hear about the rotator cuff…occupational hazard, I guess.