Date Night: You Can't Take Me Anywhere

Most couples have an unspoken contract—we expect that we’ll have each other’s backs, right or wrong. But are there any circumstances in which a spouse should not come to your rescue? Is there ever a good reasonto refuse to tag-in and leave your partner alone in the fighting ring?
My husband and I dove into that fun topic the other night. Check out this tangle of thorns: . We were at the movies, which is always a potentially volatile situation for me. If anything distracts from the screen, I can’t enjoy the movie, no matter how good it is. Had I been seated next to an occasional throat-clearer during Forrest Gump, I would have shrugged my shoulders and said to my date, “Meh. That was okay, I guess,” as the credits rolled.
To avoid this kind of strife, I have some rules: We don’t see anything on opening night because I feel too self-conscious eating my contraband four-layer chocolate cake or hoagie with extra vinaigrette while a stranger is sharing my armrest. We arrive at least a hal…

Good vs EVL

I yell too much. I know this because Chad laughs whenever I raise my voice.  He’s completely desensitized. Anything and nothing can set me off—him wearing a dirty shirt; the way he brushes his teeth (WRONG); him eating my Ben & Jerry's after I told him he could eat my Ben & Jerry's, but he waited so long that I just assumed he never ate it. I go along thinking there’s Ben & Jerry's, and three weeks later when I find one bite left in the carton, I lose my shit.
The frustration is real, but sometimes I wonder if I’m also yelling for comedic effect at this point. Like a kid who drops the F-bomb to riotous laughter. She looks around, pleased that she got such a wildly positive reaction from all these adults. She says FUCK again and again until faces and words get stern, and finally she’s sent to bed without ice cream. That’s me. Except my husband keeps laughing. So I keep yelling.
There are times when I’m really mad, but he doesn’t always know that right away. So …

How Facebook and Twitter Injured my Eye

I like to think I have a relatively healthy relationship with social media. I try to remember it’s not a tool for gaining validation and attention. Ideally, it should only be used for looking at puppies.
So, I hardly ever post selfies (because I look haggy in them), or my accomplishments (nobody cares if I did half a pull-up), or sappy sentiments about my marriage (because this is almost always an omen that the relationship is doomed).
I just know my followers and friends are seeing my feed and thinking to themselves, “now THAT’S one well-adjusted lady!”
Wait—you’re not looking at my feed at all?
I don’t care. See? Healthy.
But lately my social media activity has not felt healthy at all. (I’ve been using it for reasons other than looking at puppies.)
I knew things might get weird when I started promoting myself on Facebook in hopes of getting a publishing contract. For 30 days, my book Wait for the Light is posted on Kindle Scout, and I need to campaign for votes the entire time.

STAY BACK! 5 Things I Learned from my Aggressive Dog

It will be fun, we thought. A lifelong playmate for our current dog, Chilly! Someone to take the constant pressure for canine entertainment off us! The perfect addition to our family! Little did we know.

My husband Chad always yearned for an Irish Wolfhound. It was one of his life’s dreams, and it still is. However, when we agreed to get a second dog I was adamant that we rescue. We quickly discovered that these sedate, pricey gentle giants weren’t just sitting around in shelters free for the taking. So, we came up with a compromise: an Irish Wolfhound mix  that we found online.¹

We fell in love with this lanky black dog that had been left on the side of a Fayette County, Ohio road in a cardboard box along with her 4-6 siblings. The rescue organization had dubbed her Eileen. We decided to change her name to Liz Lemon (a big shout out to all my fellow 30 Rock fans) because that was the kind of cool people we were. We also thought it was ridiculously cool that she was being trained by a…

A Personal Story

About four years ago my wife Erin called me crying from work. She hated her job. She was miserable.
I told her to quit. That she would find something else.
Erin had never really found her place in life, never really done what she wanted. I told her to find something she loves and do that. For about a year, she meandered from one thing to the next: Coffee Barista, Dog Walker, Dog Trainer. She spent some time in the world of retail. None of it ever really fit.
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but one day she started to write. She became obsessed with it. She read books on writing. She took voluminous notes. And on every long car trip it would be another title from Audible like "How to Write Like a Pro" or "How to Write a Novel that Doesn't Suck." And we would talk about plots and characters. Several times in my life I tried to write. I would bang out pages for maybe a year, then I'd quit. All I have left now are two cringe-worthy novels sitting on …