Lucky Thirteen

Took the train to Santa Barbara for our 13th wedding anniversary.

Went to the museum of modern art.

Walked around town.


Ate this giant goldfish.

Drank four margaritas between the hours of 6 and 11 pm.  My husband tried to take me for a romantic walk on the beach, but instead I flashed him and ran away giggling.  Then nearly tripped over another couple making out on the sand.  I’m classy is why.

Because JUSTICE, I awoke with a hangover so bad I had to take a pregnancy test.  I’ll admit the logic is still a little fuzzy to me, but involved the theory that only a case of human parasites could justify such massive queasiness.  Hypothesis denied.  Turns out I just have a case of the olds and my liver hates me.

Although we’ve been married thirteen years, we were together six prior.  In a move that is either Twilightian levels of romantic or as utilitarian as if I were a rent-to-own couch, my husband has spent years promising that one day, I will have been with him longer than I have been without.

He says it sometimes in this tone of gleeful domination usually reserved for those of us spelling out our initials as ASS on Donkey Kong’s HIGH SCORE board at the local pizza joint.  This year is the equinox – 19 years of my life without him, 19 years with.  Joke’s on him.  In 2014, he will assume ownership, my warranty will expire, and my muffler will rust off.  Or so my Guide to Being a Bride circa 1999 informed me.