Posts Tagged ‘husband’

Here comes the post in which I am going to MORTIFY my dear husband. Are you ready? Look what I found!

THAT, my friends, is a box of notes written to my husband from his girlfriends in JUNIOR HIGH (and a few from high school). Many of them were even still folded up in those perfect little triangles. After COMPLETELY busting on him for holding on to these notes written by various girls from 23 years ago (TWENTY THREE YEARS AGO!!!), we cracked open a few bottles of wine last night and read through them. All of them.

What made them particularly amazing was the fact that since I have known Pete since elementary school, I also know ALL these girls. In fact, one of my best friends “dated” my husband for a few weeks in 7th grade, and some of the notes were from her. From SEVENTH GRADE. I died laughing. DIED.

The angst. The fights. The gossip. The proclamations of everlasting love. They were BEGGING to be shared, so I’ve pulled out some of my favorite bits.

**Remember, all names are changed; these were from about 5 different girls (Pete was kind of an adolescent ho); and they’re from the minds of 13-16 year olds (many of whom I know and love today, which is why this makes me pee.). If I had a box of my own notes, I would share them in a HEARTBEAT. So here goes:

:: Hello, what’s up? My name is ****** and I’m in your homeroom and english class. Tell you the truth I am madly in love with you. My locker number is 1223… I love you!!

:: I love to just sit in my room, with soft music on, and think about you.

:: In english class I asked you “if we are going out?” You said “do you want to?” I said “O.K.” That’s what happened.

:: I wish the world was ours. A world where we could be all alone and share these times together. Because I don’t think I will ever be happier than I am now.

:: It seems to me that whenever you come over all we do is make out or whatever you want to call it. It’s gotten to the point when it’s starting to make me feel as if that’s what you love, not me, as a person.

:: Do you remember when you wrote, “I really like you, as a person, you are what I have been looking for, for a long time?”.

:: ****** was really upset about #### breaking up with her. She told ^^^^ that she was crying all through 8th period and the teacher made her go to the bathroom to calm down.

:: What have I done to deserve you? I’m really lucky. You REALLY love me and nothing else matters.

:: I feel so ugly b/c my skin is so dry, blotchy and broken out. I got a new lipstick. I’m so excited!

:: Reasons why you should smile!

  1. You have lacrosse today.
  2. There are no canker sores in your mouth.
  3. Lunch is coming soon.
  4. You remembered to put socks on.
  5. I love you very much!

:: I feel that the only time I can really even get close to making you happy is when we make out.

Last, but not least: my absolute FAVORITE…

:: Wear your boat shoes!! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!! Remember, preppy guys are REALLY attractive. Especially ones who have boat shoes! WEAR THEM!!

*****I love you guys. šŸ˜‰ *****


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Memo to my husband

To: The most awesome husband in the universe

From: Your loving wife

Date: July 6, 2011

Subject: My imminent admittance into a padded cellĀ OR solitary shack on a deserted island never to be seen again.


While I value your devotion to our partnership and find your companionship both tender and hilariously joyful, as one of the primary shareholders in this company I have a few concerns that need to be addressed.

That is a plastic bag Ā filled with your jogging clothes. The clothes that you wore the last time you went running, 5 days ago. While I appreciate you containing the foul stench within the confines of this non-recyclable, doggy potty bag, I’m a tad bewildered. Has said bag been sitting on the bedroom floor because I’m supposed to wash them? Have you ever smelled the swampy, crotch-rot odor that emanates from a plastic bag filled with male running clothes that have been stewing for 5 days? I have. I dry-heaved. No more. As we cannot afford to purchase a HazmatĀ suit for such purposes, from now on all plastic bags filled with anything found on the bedroom floor have a 2 day grace period. They will be properly disposed of (in the garbage) on day 3.

As the partner primarily in charge of all company food services, I am most appreciative of your attempts at cooking. The abundance of cold potato and leek soup, however, has to end. It would be in the best interest of the entire entity if you would:

A. Cease from cooking any more vichyssoise, or cold soups in general, and

B. Find another god damn recipe.

For the past 10 years this partnership has been inundated with seeds, be they sunflower or squash. On the carpet, in between the couch cushions, spit encrusted into numerous mason jars and fine pint glasses, in my shoes, stuck to the bottom of my bare feet, clogging up the kitchen sink and kicked into the corners of every room. While I do sometimes relish a company field trip to Jeff’s Parrots of the World in Rockville Centre, I don’t want to live amongĀ the birds. Our current residence is starting to resemble a bird house. Please remedy this.

I would appreciate your immediate attention to the matters mentioned above. Failure to comply could result in one of the following:

  1. A dissolution of the formal partnership.
  2. A dissolution of my mind.
  3. A drop kick to the jugular.
  4. A trance-like state involving banging my head against the wall or hair pulling.
  5. A solo escape to a deserted island free of stench-filled running clothes and cold leek soup.
Thank you for your time. XO.
Cc: your future second wife
Bcc: your mother

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5 years ago…

Five years ago today, I married the boy who sat in front of me in first grade.

Happy anniversary to my best friend.

Happy anniversary to the man who can make me laugh like nobody else.

Happy anniversary to a remarkable father.

Happy anniversary to the love of my life.

I can’t wait to see what the next five years will bring.

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Breakfast with my gorgeous fam.

New pink toes. They might be a liiiitle bit stripper-y, but it was time for a change.

Could this day be any more perfect? Could Prospect Park be any more kick-ass?

When you’re a city kid, this is a serious wilderness adventure.

This little one has wished me a Happy Mother’s Day 5324 times. Seriously.

I love you, nap time. Please don’t ever leave me.

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Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I have to fight the urge to smother my handsome husband.

Here’s why:

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