Small Town Coffee Time

I grew up in a rather small town. The Dutch Maid grocery store tripled as a gas station and a post office. After morning farm chores were finished, the old men used to gather at the Daylight Donuts-without changing their boots. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of confectionary sugar, burnt coffee and cow dung.

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There were no “salons” or “spas” in my hometown. I had my hair cut by a man named Noel at his shop that still sported a swirling red, blue and white barber pole.

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We waved at everyone driving by-especially if we were on a rural road.
And a newcomer was easily recognized for the lack of the “two-finger-lift-while-still-holding-the-steering-wheel” wave.

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That said, Biceps grew up in a town roughly 4% of the size of my town. They have one hanging stoplight-recently switched from a flashing yellow to a full-on green, yellow and red.

Image Credit: David Friedman/Getty Images
The video store doubles as the town’s tanning headquarters. And there is still no place with Wi-fi when one certain blogger goes to visit. (me).

I miss my small town-I even miss Bicep’s small town. Just a short drive outside of Tulsa, I find a bit of that flavor once again in Muskogee. Biceps began the Fire Academy today and I decided to accompany him on his adventure.

I packed up the laptop, some snacks and threw on my comfy-but-cute shoes. The only free Wi-fi in Muskogee happens to be at McDonald’s-which is also the only coffee shop open before 10am.

After setting up camp in the corner on a hard plastic bench, I noticed a peculiar amount of gray hairs infiltrating the burger joint. This was their coffee shop.

And they knew I didn’t belong. It might have been that I asked for a ‘tall’ cup of coffee. They felt the need to protect their turf, slowly adding me to their circle, to make sure I was on the up and up.

“What’s a pretty girl doing here all alone at this time of day?,” one asks over his shoulder, as if I was at a bar at 2am.
“You look like Cher,” another states on his way to the bathroom.
“Well, Cowboy, what’re ya doing today?”, the first one asks of his buddy who just walked in. “See that girl over there. She’s working hard.”
“I suppose I ought to head to the library,” Cowboy responds, nodding in my direction. “I have a couple overdue books I ought to pay for. I remember the fines used to be a penny a day. Now, they’re probably a dollar. She is working hard. We shouldn’t bother her.”
“Mh-hm,” said my Cher complimenter.
“We don’t want to bother you while yer working so hard on your laptop,” said another. “But did you know that they threw my newspaper away yesterday when I left it for just a minute?” (I did not see the need for this information.)
“They don’t speak English. So he just bought another one,” said Cowboy.

And on and on it went. I couldn’t quit smiling, laughing and being just a bit nostalgic for home. The only thing missing was cow poop on their boots and donuts in hand.

The Difference Between Man and Wife and Laundry

Awhile back, I noted a difference between Man and Wife in my own household when painting our windows. Biceps was surprisingly not himself when it came time to grab the paintbrush. But, I won’t reiterate what I’ve already stated-you can read about our window difference, if you are looking for something to do.
This Sunday morning, I would like to show the difference between Man and Wife and Laundry.
Here’s a pile of my laundry from one load.

Three pairs of socks and a workout shirt. To be fair, I have several unmentionables hanging to dry and a pair of running shorts.

And this is a pile of Bicep’s clothes from the same load. How does one man go through so many things in a matter of a couple of days?
Yeah, he’s fighting fires, working out and just generally being a sweaty guy. But, come on.

Six t-shirts…

…six pairs of socks and four unmentionables.

Thank goodness I am making my own Cheap Laundry Soap or the household budget might be busted with this guy around.

But, since he’s such a hard working man, it’s worth the extra soap to keep this sweaty guy clean.

The Eleven Year Non-Itch

Biceps and I will celebrate 11 years today as a married couple. This amount of time is just a hair longer than we’ve actually known each other.

Let me tell you, this boy moves fast when he finally comes to a decision. (If you want to know more about our backstory, read “How I met Biceps“. It’s good bathroom reading.)

Eleven years ago today, we said our “I do’s”. And here are eleven things that I’ve learned about my marriage since that wonderful moment we became one:

1. Mumbling under your breath gets you absolutely nowhere except into more anger.

2. Men, no matter who they are, want to hear that they are
A) Hot-not handsome, cute or sexy (although these are good things to say, too) but HOT,
B) A good provider and
C) Able to beat up Daniel Craig.

3. If you want anything to change in your marriage, prayer is the first thing you do, complaining about it is the last.

4. Don’t present a problem in your relationship without a viable solution.

5. Never call your husband’s hands “small” or “cute”. Trust me on this one.

6. If you want your husband to be your best friend, do the things he enjoys doing (within reason and within the boundaries of the law)-including watching that horrible army movie when you would rather watch Alvin and the Chipmunks.

7. A good meal, a clean, peaceful home and a presentable self may seem archaic, but they are magic to a marriage’s soul.

8. If you are your husband’s biggest fan, he will be yours.

9. Never insult your husband in public-only offer praise of the man you chose to marry.

10. If he doesn’t like the shirt, the pants, the shoes, etc.-what’s the point in wearing them? Who am I dressing for anyways?

11. If he screws up, be his confidant, not his condemner.

I love you so much, Biceps. Thank you for waiting for me, for choosing me, for honoring me and for loving me every single day of our married life. I know you aren’t perfect, but you are perfect for me.

Prague-A Simple Question

Dear Readers:

I’m not ashamed of my European roots. Both Biceps and I are Germanic. We are huge European supporters. We attend Oktoberfest with glee, wear Lederhosen if need be and drink dark ales just to show how devoted we are to the European cause.

So, without judgement, hate or sarcasm-I have one question.

Why?