Marriage

I try to believe that each sunset has followed a day where I have learned something new, that each season waxes and wanes as I search for a deeper happiness, that each revolution around the sun has made me a better person. But then my husband hobbles all over my Zen with an arthritic toe.

I left the husband to turn off the television. For some reason, I went back to the family room and quite nearly choked on my chamomile tea when I saw what he had done.

The empty tissue box that sat in the bathroom for a full week is an example of how no one else in the household feels responsible for its management.

Wrestling with thorny berry brambles and mugwort in the garden is not Laurie's idea of fun.

Life throws unexpected circumstances our way. Even in the kitchen. It's how we respond to them that matters.

Man-stink clearly spans generations, race, and class, leaving no one safe. Cornering the market on Febreeze wouldn't make a dent.

The five stages of letting my child go away. Far away. Like, multiple states away. Where I can't be there to console, rescue, and/or feed him in a reasonable amount of time.

We may dream of perfection, something out of Martha Stewart magazine — then reality interferes.

His life would be so much easier if he'd just listen to me in the first place.

For people who lack object permanence, once they walk out of the bedroom, the wet towel that they left on the bed ceases to exist. Same with the boots shed directly in front of the door. Or the dirty socks on the radiator.