The 18 Reasons Why 2012 Was The Best Year Ever

Without question, 2012 was the greatest year of my life. And, well, our lives. Bridget and I became "The Briddons" in March and it's been nine months of growing closer. That's not to say we both aren't the same independent (and very different) people we were in 2011, but most sentences now begin with "We." So, in looking back on 2012, here are the 18 things that made it our best 366 days ever:

1. We celebrated five wonderful weddings -- including our own -- with friends and family. We may be biased, but we think ours was the best.
2. We never have to deal with the stress of planning our wedding again.
3. We ran a half marathon.
4. We're healthy.
5. We -- and Oscar -- survived the great hambone disaster of 2012. (In short, my mom, excitedly gave Oscar a hambone, which he excitedly devoured. We all smiled and laughed. Then we realized dogs are never, ever supposed to eat cooked bones. It was a tough and fairly disgusting couple weeks.)
6. We locked up our love on the Seine River in Paris.
7. We stayed in the nicest hotel room ever in Enniskery, Ireland. There was a damn TV in the bathroom mirror. In the mirror!
8. We enjoyed a week of paradise -- and ate about eight pounds of ribs and sushi -- in sunny Mexico.
9. We sat on a riverbank on a glorious sunny day in Breckenridge, Colorado, which, for my money, is the nicest town in the United States.
10. We bought a leather couch. (Weeks ago, Bridget and I decided it was best to wait until next Christmas to make the purchase. So, naturally, I'm staring at it in our living room right now.)
11. We saw the Lumineers, The Head and The Heart, Bon Iver, and Ben Harper -- four of the best concerts in recent memory.
12. We won the New Yorker Caption Contest. (One of the coolest things about this was when the guy at the framing store let out an unsolicited laugh when we brought it in.)
13. We went to a San Francisco Giants game, a Red Sox game, a Patriots game, and a Celtics playoff game. (Mike went to the Celtics game, but, you know, the whole our thing.)
14. We booked our one-year anniversary weekend at the Chatham Bars Inn. 
15. We went to Cambridge, 1 and West Side Lounge a whole bunch of times.
16. We got a MacBook Air and an iMac. (We really, really like Apple products.)
17. We started a blog. This is our 42nd post.
18. We were fortunate enough to do the first 17 things.

We only hope that 2013 can somehow rival 2012. It's a tall order, but if Kanye and Kim Kardashian can make it, hell, anything is possible. Happy New Year, everyone!

The Futility of Spending Limits at Christmas

This is the third Christmas Bridget and I have spent together. And every year, the same question gets tossed around starting in early November: How much should we spend on each other this year?

In our three yuletide seasons, I've learned two very important things:
1. We are great at setting spending limits.
2. We are absolutely horrible at sticking to spending limits.

Now, we always have the best intentions. And we're both fairly resourceful and careful with our cash. But for whatever reason, we really, really suck at this.

Take last year, for example. We set our limit at $200, which seems completely reasonable for a couple. Think of all the great stuff you can get for $200! A little weekend getaway in the winter. Lots of nice, warm, stylish clothes. Tickets to a Celtics game or a concert. There are plenty of options. So, of course, we went with diamond earrings and a vacation to Ireland. The trip, obviously, was way more than $200. And so were the earrings -- that is, until Bridget finds out they are cubic zirconia.

This Christmas, the same thing has happened. Realizing that we took several big trips this year and, you know, got married, we were going to take it easy to the tune of a $100 limit. And we really tried. At least I know I did. I spent a lot of time thinking about it. I looked around online for hours. Heck, I even went to a couple brick-and-mortar stores. (Imagine!) In a nutshell, I failed. Miserably. And while I haven't unwrapped her gift to me, I know she failed miserably, too.

This all leads me to a simple question: Why? Is it because we are greedy people who love material things? No. Is it because, as my friend Jesse said the other day, you really can't buy anything for 100 bucks nowadays? Maybe. Is it because this is the last year we're going to have extra disposable cash? That could be it. (Read: Mothers, Bridget is not pregnant. I repeat: Not pregnant. We're just assuming life will be much different next year. Again, not pregnant.) But I think the real reason is -- and get ready for the corny line here -- we're really, really in love. Getting a gift that is "good enough" just isn't good enough. We both feel the need to go above and beyond.

Will there be years when we can't go nuts with gifts? Probably. Will someone need braces or money for a hospital bill or a college education? Most likely. But those years, when we actually stick to a limit, we'll look back at these years and smile. And then probably find a way to break the limit again.

The (Stupid) Top of the Wedding Cake

From the title of this post, it's pretty easy to see where I'm going here. I also considered going with "I Want My Damn Freezer Back," but that didn't seem to be descriptive enough.

No matter how you say it, the tradition of keeping the top of the wedding cake until your first anniversary is silly. It needs to be retired immediately. No, yesterday. Or maybe even a year ago so I wouldn't be stuck angrily fitting things into our tiny freezer every Sunday for the last eight months.

Like many couples, we saved the top tier of our cake after our wedding in March. Covered in wrapping, foil, and probably like a veil or something girly, it has dominated the freezer space ever since. And every time I go in there to put away some ice cream, chicken wings, frozen dinners, or freeze pops, it taunts me. "Ha," it says. "I'm huge and annoying, and you can't get rid of me."

I've pleaded with Bridget several times to do something about this:
Me: "Hey, this cake thing is dumb. What if we just save one piece and share that?"
Bridget: "No."
Me: "Why not? It's not going to taste good anyway. It's going to be gross."
Bridget: "Because it's tradition and it will make me happy."

End of conversation.

The "make me happy" argument will get me every time. But tradition? Come on. What does that even mean? I decided to look it up and, on the Bridal Guide website, I found this:

Origin: To understand this tradition, you just have to think back to a familiar schoolyard rhyme: “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage!” It used to be thought that once a wedding took place, a baby was going to come shortly after, so therefore the wedding and christening ceremonies were often linked, as were the respective cakes that were baked for each occasion. With fancy, elaborate, multi-tiered wedding cakes becoming a major trend in the 19th century, the christening cake began to take a back seat to the wedding cake. Since the top tier of the wedding cake was almost always left over, couples began to see the christening as the perfect opportunity to finish the cake. Couples could then logically rationalize the need for three tiers — the bottom for the reception, the middle for distributing, and the top for the christening.

Today: As the time between weddings and christenings widened, the two events became disassociated and the reason for saving the top tier changed. Now, couples enjoy saving the top layer of their wedding cake to eat on their first anniversary as a pleasant reminder of their special day.

"As a pleasant reminder of their special day?" Seriously? What are the pictures for? Plus, it's only a year. If you forget your wedding day after a year, you probably have bigger problems than the top of a cake.

Sure, when March 31, 2013, rolls around, I'll take a (small) bite. And yes, it will be nice celebrating one year of marriage. But mostly, I'll celebrate the return of space in my icebox.

Thanks for Nothing, Happy Endings

There's only a certain amount of time in every day. Between work, eating, working out, Oscar time, iPad time (which is sacred!), and sleeping, Bridget and I are left with about 30 minutes each night. And, often, to unwind, we like to fill those 30 minutes with a little mutual TV.

What's mutual TV? It's TV time that couples share. For us, that means it's not Syracuse basketball. It's not The Real Housewives of Ann Arbor or whatever stupid city they're in now. It's TV that we both like. By definition, then, it's also TV that's hard to find. So as you can imagine, trying to find mutual TV is like trying to find penguins in Mexico. Here is our short list of successes:

• Parks and Recreation. Best comedy on TV. Everything else is a distant second.
• New Girl. Pretty good, but not great. Without Schmidt, it would likely be off the list.
• Friday Night Lights. Loved it. Amazing. But, sadly, it's over.
• The Newsroom. Compelling TV, but we've done away with HBO.
• Downton Abbey. Fantastic show, but on once every three years or something.
• The League. Hit or miss, to be honest, but the hits are pretty fantastic.

That's it. Six shows. And that's why Bridget and I were so excited to find Happy Endings last year. The show had everything -- good writing, lots of humor, a fun cast, and attractive female stars. (Truth be told, I'm a huge Elisha Cuthbert fan. I have been since 24. The way she ran through the woods when that bad guy was chasing her. And then The Girl Next Door. Good God. But I digress.) It was a show that, as 30-somethings, meant something to us and spoke to us in a way that PBS and MTV do not.

But then this season came. And now Happy Endings is both awful and terrible.

Whatever, Elisha, it's true. Your show has become predictable, boring, and forced. It's poorly acted. The writing is garbage. And last week I read a story about how the cast is full of jerks. So thanks for nothing, Happy Endings. You've become part of our TV Cemetary. Say hi to The Office, Cougar Town, Community, and Two and a Half Men. (Just kidding. No one ever watches Two and a Half Men.)

So if you have suggestions for the winter, we'd love to hear them. Is there some hidden gem on NBC? A diamond in the rough on AMC? Mutual TV is in need of some help.

The Most Important Purchase We've Ever Made

It's a picture of nothing, right? Mike forgot to take his finger off the lens because he's old and he doesn't understand technology, right? Wrong.

This picture -- this ugly, ugly picture -- of a brown curtain may not mean much to you. But the curtain in the photo has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined.

As you may know, Bridget and I buy a decent amount of things. (We are, actually, quite conservative when it comes to cash, but that's a story for another time.) We took three honeymoons. (Not really, but that's what our friends like to say.) We like our iPads. (Bridget has a somewhat unnatural affinity for hers.) And our wonderful kitchen island has been well documented.

But above all these things, above all these wonderful items and memories, one purchase stands above the rest. Three words: Room darkening curtains. Cost: $60. Place of purchase: T.J.Maxx.

Until about two months ago, I had never heard of room darkening curtains. My guess is most guys haven't. We don't really think about those things. At all. Ever. We mostly think about sports and food and beer and video games and women -- not necessarily in that order. So when Bridget asked me if I thought we should get room darkening curtains, I looked at her like she'd asked if I prefer a shirt with vertical stripes or horizontal stripes. (Read: I didn't care one bit.) I believe my response was, "What the hell are those and how much are they?"

In classic, calm Bridget style, she explained that they were curtains that made a room darker and that they'd help us sleep better. "Sure," I said, "I like sleep. Go for it."

And from the moment they've gone up, it's been a whole new world. We get at least an extra hour of sleep every morning -- and sometimes more. (And really, is there anything more valuable than a good night's sleep?) The curtains do an amazing job of making it always seem like it's 3 AM even if it's 9. (Here's an awkward customer video if you want to see the curtains in action.) They fool Oscar, too, which is probably the most important thing. With little to no light shining in, he's content to just lay on the bed until we decide to wake up.

So, yes, the curtains are another example of my brilliant wife strutting her shopping stuff. But as I thought about this post, it quickly came to me that the curtains are just an example of something larger -- that it's important to marry someone who has a different perspective on money.

I was chatting with a financially conservative friend at a bar last night. We traded stories about stretching dollars and denying ourselves life's pleasures. And, sure, there's a time for that. It's nice to have savings. But it's also pretty nice to sleep well and, in the words of Tom Haverford: Treat. Yo. Self. Said a different way, I would never, ever have paid $60 for curtains. (I used to think curtains came with apartments. They don't.) But I'm really, really lucky to have such a smart wife.

The Trouble With Bedtime

The first disagreement Mike and I ever had was about bedtime. Mike took that position that going to bed at the same time was romantic. He said he liked everyone to be all tucked in and tuckered out at the same time (I'm clearly paraphrasing here. I don't believe he has ever used the phrase "tuckered out." Thank gawd.). At the time of this bold declaration, I was a devout night owl.  When no one is around to tell me to go to bed, I'll likely be found passed out on the couch, makeup smeared across my face, teeth unbrushed, with half a sandwich hanging out of my mouth. So I reacted badly to this idea of forced bedtime. Especially since Mike is an early-to-bed-early-to-rise-take-an-agressive-mid-afternoon-nap kinda guy. Mike is sensible. Mike always brushes his teeth before bed. Mike always goes to bed at a reasonable hour.

After much initial protest, I ultimately decided to try things Mike's way for a bit. And it turns out, it is actually really nice to get eight hours of sleep. I never knew I could feel so rested! So alive! I even liked turning in early and reading our Kindles together until we fell asleep (barf, I know).

But then something came along to ruin this domestic bliss. And that something is the iPad.

Lately, I'll more likely than not be found curled on the couch with my iPad, gleefully tapping away at its shiny screen until the wee hours. What am I doing, you (and Mike) may ask? Oh, you know, the usual. Going to various retailer websites and playing the, "I'm independently wealthy and can buy anything I want" game. (This game involves perusing said retailer's site for hours and putting all the things I would like into my shopping cart....with NO regard for price!! Shocking, I know. Let me be clear, I don't actually buy anything. That is not part of the game. Simply looking at my full cart with things I can't afford is somehow pleasure enough. I may have a problem. )

I can also be found perusing various blogs. Some about house tweaking, others about celebrities. I'll check all my bank and credit card accounts, mint.com and loans. Just to be sure they are all still there. I'll check the news. I'll check Facebook about a million times just in case someone posts something interesting (spoiler alert, no one does).  I'll also check email incessantly just in case I get some good spam. Then I'll move to sites like RueLaLa.com, Gilt.com, and OneKingsLane.com to look at all the things I really shouldn't buy.

But the majority of my time is spent reading magazines. I subscribe to this wondrous and magical thing called Next Issue. Next Issue is an app that allows me to read virtually every magazine worth reading (and many that are not - I'm looking at you, Wood magazine) for one monthly fee. Something like 60+ magazines. All at my fingertips. It almost makes my head explode. I've died and gone to magazine heaven.

Long story short, I spend a lot of time on my iPad. And it is getting harder and harder to turn in early when I still have 55 magazines left to read. This makes Mike sad, not only because he likes us falling asleep together, but more importantly, when he goes to bed before me there is no one there to catch his Kindle when he falls asleep with it against his face. This is my designated job (seriously, I have to do it. I wrote it into my vows.)

But after too many nights with my iPad and with Oscar distraught because he can't handle when the two of us are in separate rooms, I start to miss my husband. Because that time before bed when we disconnect from the world and read together is that kind of elusive quality time that you don't appreciate until you start to miss it. And I miss it. So tonight, I'm putting away the iPad.

Earning The Title of 'Our Place'

Bridget and I went on a date Thursday night. We do that every month or so -- pick a restaurant (sometimes a reliable standby, sometimes a new place), order wonderful food, drink delicious beer and wine, and then vow never to eat again because we're too full. (Somehow Bridget always has room for BerryLine or whatever that weird frozen yogurt place is called. It's like crack to women for some reason.)

We're fortunate to live in Cambridge, where unique and creative restaurants are literally around every corner. French, Italian, Thai, Chinese, American ... you name it, we have it. But of all the places we've been, none compare to West Side Lounge, this amazing, little eatery on Mass Ave. Every time we walk in the door, we have the best intentions to try something new, something a little bit different. Invariably, she gets salmon and I get parmesan-crusted cod, which honestly makes my mouth water as I type it. It's that damn good. Hers, from what I hear, is fairly surreal, too.

We had our engagement dinner here, we've Yelped about it, we've taken friends and family there. It is, officially, "Our Place."

This concept of "Our Place" made me think. Every couple has at least one. But what gives something that enviable title? What is it about West Side Lounge that I (and we) like it so much that I'll defend it like my mother? (Just kidding, mom. But seriously, the food is really good. You know. You've been there.)

Is it the food? That's definitely part of it. The food is amazing -- from appetizers to desserts. There's always a feeling of comfort and joy when the first bite of tender, flaky fish hits the tongue.

Is it the price? Yup, a little bit. We live near Boston, so nothing on the menu is $4.95, but a dinner for two here is a much better value than 90% of the places we go.

Is it the service? That's part of it, too. The people, without fail, have been great every time. The waiters and waitresses wait long enough, but never keep you waiting. They're friendly, smile a lot, and say helpful things, like, "Be careful. That plate is hot."

Is it that other places stink? Sure, that's a reason, too. We've had our share of forgettable experiences. Then again, that's what you get when you order calamari at an Irish bar. (Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

In the end, I think it's the memories. Don't get me wrong. It's all of the reasons above, too, but it's looking across the table at my wife and remembering one of our first dates. It's remembering my hands shaking as I tried to drink champagne 10 minutes after we got engaged. It's remembering Thursday night.

Very few places will ever be in that "Our Place" category. They really have to earn it. So when they do, when you get to that comfortable and happy place, go there often.

In fact, when's the last time you went?

Tales of Travel

If you asked Bridget to name her biggest concern about about our marriage the day before it happened, she would have skipped the typical ones. She wouldn't have mentioned finances, living situations, or personality clashes. She wouldn't have talked about conflicting schedules, eating habits, or even future children.

Her choice? Travel.

Bridget loves to travel. How much? More than you like ice cream, Christmas, and puppies -- combined. She's the only person I know who went to Australia and India (different trips) in the same year. And that was just the fall. If she had $1,000 left to her name, she'd spend $995 on a trip and $5 on white rice and parmesan cheese at the airport.

As for me, well, travel wasn't really my thing. I've visited about 20 U.S. states in my life, but that was mostly for business. Before this year, my international travel consisted of Canada (Niagara Falls for a few days) and Mexico (Spring Break). Worldly, I was not.

But lo and behold, several months later, we've been to Ireland, France, and, most recently, Mexico. (It's safe to say my better half has opened my eyes a bit.) We also went on a fantastic domestic trip to San Francisco and Breckenridge, Colorado. It's been quite the year and we consider ourselves incredibly lucky to have enjoyed all these adventures.

As we flew back from Cancun on Thursday, I found myself wondering which one I liked best. If I could have gone on only one trip this year, which one would it have been? So here's my list, from worst to first. If you're planning a trip or considering a visit to any of these places, I hope it's helpful:

4. California and Colorado. Don't get me wrong; this trip was amazing, but we have to start somewhere. San Francisco, with its steep hills, fresh air, and delicious food is just about the greatest city on Earth. We took in a Giants game, ate seafood, and met Kenny Bania. And in Breckenridge, we went to a beautiful wedding and were awestruck by the incredible beauty of the mountains and the town center. So why is this No. 4 on the list? We both had to work in California and we'd been both places before.
Best part: Sitting on a riverbank on a perfect day in Breckenridge. Surreal.
Worst part: Staying in a La Quinta just outside Denver. Bridget refused to take off her shoes the entire night.

3. Paris. "Number 3? Really?" Look, Paris is gorgeous. Between the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame, Versailles, and Montmartre, I was blown away. Couple that with some adventures -- both biking and boating -- with some good friends from work and we had an absolute blast for 10 days. (The food, the wine, and the people were great, too. Yes, French people were very nice.) But the weather wasn't great, the hotel rooms were tiny, and healthy food options were tough to find.
Best part: Locking up our love on the Seine.
Worst part: Avoiding the cold and the rain.

2. Cancun. For our "official" honeymoon, we stayed at Secrets Maroma Beach, an all-inclusive resort about 30 minutes south of Cancun. Simply put, it was paradise. The most difficult decision we made each day was what time to leave the beach to head to the pool. As if that wasn't hard enough, we then had to decide when to switch from fruity drinks to beer or wine. And then (the nerve!), we had to pick a restaurant for dinner. The food was way better than I expected and the staff was incredibly friendly. The only negatives: At the end, we felt lazy, and food and drinks no longer had value, which felt weird.
Best part(s): Enjoying a couples massage and doing absolutely nothing for five days.
Worst part: Feeling pressured to buy things -- excursions, time shares (optional presentation), and upgraded dinners.

1. Ireland. I cut my teeth on international travel and, of all the destinations, it's the one I want to return to most. Yes, it was somewhat expensive and yes, my knuckles are still fairly white from driving around tight corners on the wrong side of the road. But the country is stunningly gorgeous -- rolling green hills, castles galore, and history seemingly around every corner. We spent time in a handful of cities and towns (including lively Galway) and there are a dozen more I want to see.
Best part(s): Seeing the Cliffs of Moher and staying at the suite at the Ritz Carlton in Enniskery. We'll never stay in a nicer room. Ever.
Worst part: Eating a hamburger in a pub. Hamburgers aren't the same in Ireland. I learned this the hard way.

Flower Power

Often bright. Typically colorful. Usually aromatic.

And always effective.

Flowers, for whatever reason, are the secret to a woman's heart, affection, and, most importantly, forgiveness. I can't say I understand it. To me, it's sort of silly. The process is typically the same:

• You present the flowers.
• You get a hug and a kiss.
• The flowers just sit there for a week or two.
• You throw the flowers in the trash.

Wouldn't women rather have something more practical like an iTunes gift card or a fantasy football team? Something that brings joy for more than a fortnight? 

I bought Bridget some flowers the other day. You can see them right over there. They obviously weren't very expensive, but they made Bridget really happy. I suppose it's because there wasn't really any reason for me to buy them. I was at work and decided to walk home on my lunch break with some flowers. After all, it's the thought -- those moments of complete surprise -- that really stand out in the long run. She had this big, old smile on her face when I walked in. And she has a really pretty smile, so that was nice. But it made me think two things:

1. Why flowers? What the hell is the big deal with flowers? Naturally, I went to Google to find out. I found a study that explained flowers make women more receptive to romance. In a nutshell, the study (from France, of course), said women were more likely to accept an invitation to a date if flowers were in the room. Eh. Good, I suppose, but that didn't really get at the root of my question. What was it about flowers that made women so happy? I found another study -- filled with three experiments -- that showed flowers really do make people happy. Yet another study, this one at Rutgers, said there were three possible theoretical explanations: a simple learned association, flowers could be part of an evolutionary response promoting food search, or flowers are specially evolved human sensory mood enhancers. (Put on the lingerie and turn out the lights!) Although not very romantic, it seems there's a lot out there to explain this flower phenomenon.

On to the second thought that crossed my mind ...

2. Why don't I buy flowers more often? I suppose every woman probably asks this of her mate. It only costs somewhere between 10 and 50 bucks, and the warm feeling lasts for weeks. Just buy me some more damn flowers, right?! Well, the thing is, that would really cheapen the whole thing. It would become expected. So, I'm sorry, dear Bridget, you won't be getting flowers every week. But from time to time, they'll show up at your doorstep. It'll (almost) always be a surprise. Because I think is that's spontaneity, that sporadic show of emotion, that makes flowers such a powerful force. It's either that or the food search thing ...

My Husband, the Roommate

My wonderful husband’s recent post about chores got me thinking. Thinking about just how important this division of responsibility is to the health of our relationship, and to my overall happiness.

When I met Mike, I was in a place where I was really enjoying being alone and independent for the first time in my adult life. And I very clearly remember thinking that the only way I would be in another relationship is if that relationship made my life easier instead of more complicated. Because my life as a single lady was proving to be really terrific. There is something so delightfully liberating about only having to worrying about your own mess, literally and figuratively.

But then I met Mike. And the thing about Mike is that he is just a really great partner. And this manifests itself in some very boring but very important ways. Chores, for example. When you are falling in love with someone I think it is rare that you fall in love with the way they take out the trash. And when you are making a checklist for the qualities to look for in your future spouse, it is likely that “funny” and “attractive” rank higher than “great toilet scrubber”. But for me, these things really matter. And the fact that Mike cleans the house and makes dinner and takes Oscar out for his final pee of the night is perhaps more important to my happiness than I care to admit.

I don’t think that I appreciated this when Mike and I first started dating. In fact, I thought he was kind of a weirdo because he insisted on cleaning up before, instead of after, dinner. Like, “Let’s let this pasta get cold while I scrub this pot real quick.” And the fact that there was no clutter in his apartment kind of freaked me out. But, luckily, it turns out that Mike is not the serial killer I feared he was, but is just a very neat person. And that works for us. Well, truthfully, it works better for me than for him because I tend to be messier and he is in a constant low level of stress because of the socks I leave in the living room. But I digress.

What I’m trying to get at here is that I’m finding that our marriage functions on two levels. There is the foundational love level. The, “We have the same hopes and dreams and we are crazy about each other and want to spend the rest of our happily ever after together” level. But then there is what I will call the “roommate” level. This is the, “You make my life easier because you just took out the trash” level.  And since Mike and I spend an extraordinary amount of time together in a 750 square foot apartment with a very furry and very needy dog, this is the level that we operate on a lot of the time. And if things aren’t working on this level, it all falls apart. It’s not the most romantic thing in the world, but it is real life.

I’m not going to sit here and say we’ve got this thing down. I mean, there’s obviously the sock issue, which could still prove to be our undoing (I swear I’m working on it, Honey). But the basic building blocks are there. And more importantly, we’ve worked out a division of responsibility that feels fair and reasonable for both of us. Yours may be different. But the important thing is that your life feels easier instead of harder when you are with your partner. Because yesterday, when I was lying on the couch nursing a hangover from the fabulous wedding we went to the night before, I was thanking my lucky stars that I ended up with a man who gladly did the grocery shopping and made dinner so I didn’t have to. In return, I promise to listen to an endless amount of fantasy football grousing. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Sometimes I Say Dumb Things

Bridget and I got in an argument on Saturday. It wasn't a big argument. Most, if not all, aren't. But this argument, when it comes right down to it, had one major cause:

I said something at the wrong time.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I didn't call her a name, ask her if she'd gained five pounds, or insult her mashed potatoes. I simply asked her to move her dirty socks from the living room floor to the laundry. (I may have actually said, "Hey, do we always leave socks on the floor now? Is that our new thing?") Sounds harmless enough, right? As I learned, it's not what I said, it's when I said it.

Now, let me step back for a second and talk about my communication skills. To be honest, I think they're quite good. I tend to be open, honest, and direct. If I like something, I'll tell you. If I don't like something, I'll tell you. Twice. As a writer/editor by profession, I have to be fairly skilled at stringing together sentences and  knowing where to put, commas. (That was a joke.) I've also put in a lot of work on my presentation skills since I'm lucky enough to work somewhere that encourages this personal development.

In a nutshell, I'd give myself a solid B+/A- when it comes communication in my life. But with Bridget on Saturday, you can just put a nice, big "F" on the top of my report card. Why?

Well, let's break it down:
1. Bridget had been up since 4 a.m. (girl stuff) and wasn't feeling her best. (So you think I'd be very cautious with what I said, right?)
2. I had just come in from a run and had some energy. ("Let's go! Let's get things done! Woooo!")
3. I think every problem is black and white. There's a problem and there's a solution. (Hint: That's not true.)
4. I'm an idiot sometimes.(See No. 1.)

Now, could Bridget have been a little sensitive? Sure. She gets that way sometimes. But the little argument taught me a big lesson: Before I open my mouth (which I do often), I should think for, oh, at least 2-3 seconds. Is Bridget not feeling well? Will the sun come up tomorrow if those socks are still on the floor? Can I just pick up the damn socks?

Sadly, I'm quite certain this will happen again. I'll misread a situation and ask Bridget if she wants to have a salad instead of a juicy burger or if she meant to put on so much eye makeup. Empathy, unfortunately, doesn't come as naturally to me as sarcasm does. But I can keep trying and, when necessary, apologizing.  Most dudes are good at that ..

Choosing Chores

First off, this picture is stupid. And this couple is full of crap. No one gets excited (!!!!) about chores. No one smiles when they do chores. And no one uses those perfect "chore clothes" like bandanas, cuffed jeans, or well-worn waffle shirts. So I really dislike this couple.

I don't, however, dislike chores.

This may seem odd (particularly to the fairer sex that may be reading), but I have always felt good about getting things done. I used to turn around when I was mowing the lawn because I could see what I'd accomplished. Same goes for washing a dish or vacuuming a floor. Food scraps are disappearing and dirt is being sucked. There's progress.

Now, it's not that I look forward to doing these things, but I think my willingness to do them makes Bridget's heart smile. Often, as I'm doing something to better the apartment, she says, "Who's the best husband?" (And I'm fairly certain she's referring to me.) I truly believe the breakdown of chores is one of the most important parts of a relationship -- marriage or roommates. No one wants to live with Pig-Pen. No one wants to live in a sty.

So here's our breakdown, which I think has contributed to a very successful 5.5 months of marriage:

Mike: Take out the trash, pretend to know how to fix things, cook (most of the time), vacuum, and grocery shop

Bridget: Do the laundry, put furniture together, cook (the rest of the time), pay the bills, and clean the bathroom

There is, of course, some overlap (she often comes grocery shopping and I often fold towels), and I didn't include stuff like dusting, unloading the dishwasher, or cleaning the floors, which are usually coin flips. But this breakdown plays to our strengths and, for the most part, keeps us both busy, content, and free of aggressive dust clouds.

So what do you think? Who is getting off easy? And, more importantly, how do the chores break down in your humble abode?

My Fantasy Football Widow

Let me start by saying, "Sorry, Bridget." Every year, it's the same. We spend the months of spring coming out of our cocoon, spending time Kindling in Harvard Yard and shuffling off to some vacation destination. During downtime, we spend our free time watching entertaining television -- stuff like the "The Newsroom" and "Happy Endings." (Please don't knock "Happy Endings" until you try it.) Then summer comes and we fill our schedule with more trips, exercise, weddings, romantic dinners, and care-free love. Sweet, right? Awww. They are so in love.

Then two words happen: fantasy football.

Now, I wouldn't call Bridget a fantasy football widow, but ... actually, yes I would. That's exactly what she is. Like so many loving, understanding partners, she stands quietly by as I pore over statistics and stress about whether to start Jordy Nelson or Eric Decker. (Seriously. If you're knowledgable, who should I use in Week 1?) And the thing about football is that it takes a while. It takes a while every Sunday and it takes a while every year. Provided my fantasy teams (I have two) don't stink, I'll be making lineup decisions up until Christmas.

I should pause and say something here: "Sorry, Bridget."

I started playing fantasy football 10 years ago. As a sportswriter in New Hampshire, I joined the league at our newspaper. I left the newspaper, but never left the league. And now, a decade into it, I head up to Keene once a year to see old friends, make my picks, and pretend this year will be different. (Spoiler: It never is. I stink.) I've been in several other leagues and now act as commissioner of my work league down here in Cambridge. And I absolutely love both of them. I love the trash talk. I love "owning" a whole new group of players every year. I love reading Matthew Berry's Love/Hate columns.

Now, it's not that I don't love Bridget when the season kicks off. I do -- very much -- but it's safe to say my priorities change a bit. Want to go out for dinner? I would, but the Saints kick off in 20 minutes and I have Brees. Want to take Oscar for a walk? I mean, I do, but I kind of need to watch Sidney Rice for the next three hours because I'm down by five points and he just needs to catch one damn touchdown.

So, again: "Sorry, Bridget."

Bridget, as always, does her best to like my hobbies or at least suffer what I'm doing. She'll sit next to me while I watch useless pre-game shows and does a great job of cooking up some delicious meals every Sunday around 2 p.m. But I know deep in her heart, she wishes her husband wasn't so into fantasy football. She wishes it was just a hobby and not an obsession. But, well, she kind of signed up for this when she said, "I do."

Someday, something may change. But for now, this is the best I've got, darling: "Sorry, Bridget."

Wanderlust

It was apparent fairly early on in my relationship with Mike that people began to realize that he was, well, different. That things were fairly serious. And that he was, quite possiblly, a permanent fixture my life.

And I remember very clearly having a chat with my mother in her kitchen, mugs of tea warming our cupped hands, and her asking, "So, do you think Mike is The One?"

I smiled, blushed, nodded, and went on at some length about how wonderful he was (I'll spare you the details).

But after a pause, I looked up and admitted that there was one thing that was a leetle bit of a concern. Kath looked at me with a furrowed brow, "Yes, dear? What is it?" She clutched her mug a little more tightly, waiting for me to reveal that he liked to wear women's underwear, or he was filing for bankruptcy, or he tortured small animals for pleasure.

"Well, Mom, he doesn't TRAVEL." She looked at me, perplexed, and nodded for me to go on.

"He's never left NORTH AMERICA," I explained. No response from my mother.

"I mean, he doesn't even have a PASSPORT!" I continued, convinced I was finally communicating the direness of the situation.

In her face, I saw utter bewilderment. And perhaps a little exasperation. It seems that maybe after 30+ years of marriage you start to think there are bigger fish to fry than disagreements about where to spend your next vacation.

But for me, the issue of travel seemed very real. When Mike and I first started dating, I don't think he had ever taken a vacation. Certainly not one that required the boarding of a plane. And as a result, he had weeks of vacation time socked away. I found this completely appalling. Why wouldn't one take a vacation? Why would you choose to go to work instead of go to a tropical island, or an exciting new country, or even just a cabin in the woods? What was wrong with this man?

But as differences go, I quickly realized that I could deal with this one. And in the first year of our relationship I took off and did some pretty intense solo traveling. And I came to terms with the possibility that my big trips may be behind me.

Then Mike proposed, and as a last hail mary pass, I decided to book a trip to Ireland for his Christmas present. In my twisted little brain I just couldn't envision getting married before Mike had acquired a passport.

To my utter surprise and delight, Mike loved it. I cannot express to you how happy it made me to sit next to him as he drove our tiny, tiny little rental car, on the wrong side of the road, through the narrow country lanes of Ireland. He frolicked with sheep. He drank Guinness. He bought aran sweaters.

And on the trip I realized that Mike and I are still growing. That we still have much to teach each other. And that there is no one I would rather be on this journey with.

Oh, and also, that maybe I should keep my inane concerns to myself so as not to anger family members.    (Sorry, Mom.)

The Value of An Expensive Meal

There was a time not too long ago when I thought Outback Steakhouse meant splurging. (You mean a steak AND a bloomin' onion? Crikey!) I felt this way because I knew Outback was more expensive than cooking burgers on the grill or running down the street for a footlong from Subway.

I also felt this way because I really didn't know any better. Then I met this girl named Bridget.

Bridget has a lot of ideas -- some of which even stick. (Others like, "Hunny, let's sign up for this three-legged marathon race!" aren't so good.) One of her best brain surges, no doubt, has been the one that has us going out for an expensive-ish dinner once every month or so. As usual, it takes me a while to warm up to these ideas. My defenses in relation to eating out at swankier places were fairly predictable:

• "$40 for a single piece of meat? Does the waiter chew the damn thing for me, too?"
• "Shouldn't we spend the money on something like sports tickets instead?"
• "Yeah, but we'd be full after a meal at Pizza Hut, too!" 

Still, my darling wife persisted and we've started to enjoy an occasional pricey meal or two. And, well, she was right. Just this past weekend, we took advantage of Restaurant Week here in Boston and ate an absolutely delicious meal at a place called Rialto in Cambridge. From the ridiculously tasty bread, to the tender mussels, to the melt-in-your-mouth tenderloin, to the gooey marshmallow thing I ate for dessert, it was off-the-charts good. (In fact, I reviewed it on Yelp, which I do now.) 

After the meal, as we walked home, I got to thinking about why the experience was so good. I couldn't pinpoint one thing, realizing that the ingredients, the food itself, the service, and the ambiance all contributed to the feeling. But really, it was more than that. It was more about the experience itself. It was about the anticipation, the dressing up, the knowing how lucky we are to have some disposable cash. It was everything. 

If we did it every weekend, of course, it would lose its appeal. (As I read recently in a book about memories, "Monotony collapses time; novelty unfolds it.") But we don't do it every weekend and we occasionally miss a month because we're on one of our 11 honeymoons. But when we do go, I find the value to be far greater than the $100-$200 that leaves our account.

Besides, how many fried onions can one man eat? 

Our First Wedding Since Our Wedding

This past weekend, Bridget and I had the pleasure of attending a wedding in Breckenridge, Colorado. Bridget's childhood friend, Rebecca, and Bryan -- now known as the Applegates -- got hitched and, as you can see from the photo above, it was gorgeous. Like, absurdly gorgeous.

It was also the first wedding Bridget and I attended since we were married in March and, to my surprise, it was a whole different experience.

Every wedding is different, you say. Well, of course. Some are big. Some are small. Some are lame. Some are fun. (This one was.) Some are on the beach. Some are in a church. Right. Weddings are different. But this one was different because we had been through the experience. This time, it was sort of like having a backstage pass. Bridget and I could celebrate -- and sympathize -- like we never had before.

Three examples:
1. We saw Bryan right before the big moment. He was slowly sipping on a beer and trying to avoid seeing his soon-to-be bride. "You nervous?" Bridget asked. "Yeah, a little," he said. "Can you tell?" We could because he neglected to breathe as he spoke. Immediately, my mind went back to the moment before I saw Bridget when I was somewhere in between vomiting, passing out, and crying. I knew exactly how Bryan felt.

2. It briefly started raining during the outdoor ceremony. Now, obviously, no one likes rain during an outdoor wedding, but Bridget and I were the first ones to notice. We stared nervously at each other. "What if the sky opens up?" "Should we go get umbrellas?" "Do you think there's going to be a mudslide?" It sprinkled for a total of 30 seconds, but if you've been through a wedding, you know how important the weather is that day -- and how much you obsess over it.

3. They had trouble with their gift bags, too. The next day, while Bridget and I hiked a trail (pictured to the right) above Breckenridge (which, by the way, is the greatest town ever created), Becca called to say thank you. They chatted about pictures, eyelashes, and all sorts of girl things. And then they chatted about how the hotels made some mistakes with the gift bags. Bridget pointed out that we had the same issue and, immediately, my mind when back to that day when you were so concerned about every ... little ... detail ... going ... exactly ... the ... right ... way. Sure, it doesn't matter in the long run, but when a guest comes all that way and doesn't get their bottle of water, you're angry.

The wedding went off without a hitch -- as most do -- and beer, wine, and sighs of relief flowed freely into the night. But for a night, we were taken back to the amazing highs and the tiny lows. We have two more weddings this fall (congrats Kate and Kate, and Tim and Amanda) and we look forward to attending both. Along with attending, we'll be loudly celebrating and quietly commiserating, too.

To those couples and anyone else getting married this year, good luck with the damn gift bags.

The Birthday Evolution

I turn 32 this week. It's not significant in any way. There's nothing I'll be able to do on Wednesday that I can't do on Tuesday. No new shots at a bar, no significant discounts on rental cars in a lot. Nothing. Heck, it's not even a nice, round number like 25 or 30.

My 32nd birthday is important, though, because I think it may be one of the last that comes with an expensive gift from my wife.

Is this because she's cheap? My wife may be many things (addicted to magazines, a watcher of bad television, and stubborn on occasion, for example), but she is not cheap. One of her first blog posts sums this up. It may be the last time I get an expensive gift because of the birthday evolution I'm fairly certain every married couple goes through.

Let me explain.

When couples that end up marrying first start dating (for Bridget and I, this was June of 2010), birthdays are a big deal. Depending on how long you've been together, you ponder what would be appropriate. And you ask everyone you know. "Do I buy her jewelry? If I do, what is that saying?" Or, "Should I buy him that really nice camera or just get him a shirt? I don't want to come on too strong!" Ah, memories. Simply put, you aren't afraid to spend a lot because you're thinking this is THE one.

Then, as the dating goes on, the birthday train rolls on. Electronics here, trips there. And somewhere along the way, you realize that the person is definitely THE one. That realization puts even more pressure on birthday gifts as you want to make sure your offering appropriately symbolizes how you really feel. This led, in our case, to things like iPads and diamonds. Those are expensive.

Then you get married and, for many people, start thinking about money in terms of "us" instead of "me" and "you." (Bridget and I are in this phase now.) That's when things really start to change on the birthday front. You start thinking about buying houses, having kids, and taking family vacations. Instead of iPads and expensive cameras, I suspect, we'll put most of our money toward things for the house or non-stop (and much more convenient) flights for the family to somewhere. Birthdays, of course, will still be important, but a drawing of a dog from your 4-year-old kid will be worth far more than the priciest shirt from some boutique I've never even heard of.

This year, Bridget got me a really nice pair of headphones and is taking me out for an expensive dinner in San Francisco. She's very generous and I'm really thankful for both of them. But as we were driving home from a nice birthday dinner with my family last night, Bridget looked at me and said, "You know, we really don't need anything." She's right, I thought. Although the wonderful and expensive gifts have been nice, it's the other stuff -- thinking about the future and our lives together -- that is important.

And it made me realize I'm really happy to be turning 32.

The Fiscal Diet

As I've mentioned in past posts, I’ve started training for a half marathon. And as with all my harebrained schemes, I first like to invest in various accessories to properly equip myself. “Retail before action” is my motto.

So I recently decided that I REALLY needed more capri pants for running. There was no way I could commence running in this heat (oh, the incessant heat!) without purchasing some new running capris. These capris were an essential element of my running wardrobe, and I was in desperate need of them.  Things appeared grim until I could acquire new capri pants.

I explained this pressing need to Mike. He appeared confused. “But sweetie, don’t you already have enough pants?” he asked, helpfully. Certainly not! He was surely mistaken. And how dare he question my need for new workout gear.

Then, during an expedition to my closet, I uncovered a treasure trove of workout pants. It turns out that I already owned eight pairs of capri running pants. Eight! Not including long running pants or running shorts, of course. Those I also had in spades.

This discovery was a bit sobering. And it was at this time that I began to wonder if I had a problem.

Maybe I should have recognized there was an issue when I was greeted by a new shipment from Amazon/Zappos/Gap/RueLaLa/Banana Republic/Endless every week. Or maybe I should have realized things were getting out of hand when I could no longer stuff any more clothes into the spare bedroom I’d turned into my closet. Or when I would discover various items of clothing lodged deep within my dresser drawers, with the tags still attached.  Or even the umpteenth time I bought an article of clothing, only to bring it home and realize I already owned the same exact item.

My name is Bridget and I’m a shopaholic.

So I’ve put myself on a fiscal diet. Specifically, I’ve decided not to buy any “things” for next few months. I’m on month two of said diet, and I’ve discovered something a bit unexpected. Now that I’ve decided I’m not going to buy anything, I feel, well, relieved. I don’t have to read the five million emails I get daily about new discounts and sales. I don’t have to spend hours trolling the internet for deals on things I don’t need. I don’t have to buy another ugly tank top that I’d never wear just because it is 70% off.

And as for all that money I’m saving by not buying things I don’t need? Well, don’t worry. I’ve already spent that on a honeymoon to Mexico. Because if there is one thing I CAN justify spending money on, it is white sand beaches and cocktails with my husband. And ten years from now when we look back at this time in our lives, I guarantee Mike and I will have better memories of our travels than we do of my capri pants. At least I will. Mike really likes capris.

The Second Annual Summer Concert Series

Eddie Vedder

In just more than four months of marriage, I've realized many things. Here are five quick lessons: Sometimes just say "yes" even if you mean "no." Don't argue about $4 soap. She'll never like golf as much as I do. No matter how stupid I think E! is, it will be on sometimes. And, it's okay to be wrong.

Above all else, though, I've realized it's really, really important to have things in common. (I often wondered about this when I was younger. Is it really important to like many of the same things? Yes, young Mike, yes it is.)

And, fortunately, Bridget and I have one very important thing in common: Musical taste. (In case you were curious, a study actually found that music predicts sexual attraction.) Having the same taste in tunes makes it much easier to be on long drives together, hang out in the same room, and spend money on concerts.

During the summer we fell in love, last summer, in fact, we went to 10 different live shows:

1. Paul Simon
2. Eddie Vedder
3. Joe Purdy
4. Florence and the Machine
5. James Taylor
6. The Damnwells
7. Bon Iver
8. Led Zeppelin 2
9. Ben Harper
10. Explosions in the Sky

Bridget liked Bon Iver the most; I chose Eddie Vedder.

The Head and the Heart

This summer, music continues to be a huge part of our relationship. We've already seen Joe Purdy, The Head and the Heart, and Josh Ritter and Brandi Carlile. The setlist continues this summer and fall:

• The Lumineers
• Bon Iver
• Ben Harper

And even though some of the shows won't be fantastic (Ben Harper was lousy last summer, for example), it's much, much more enjoyable watching them with someone you love. Awww...

The Joy of Becoming an Old Couple

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment. It might have been a year ago. Could have been a few months ago. Maybe it was Thursday night or Friday night.

No matter when it happened, it's true: Bridget and I are officially an old couple.

Why did I call out Thursday night? Bridget and I went to go see The Head and The Heart in Boston on Thursday. (You may not know the band, but they are definitely worth checking out at the link above.) It was, in a word, a young crowd. As we waited in line outside The Royale, it was abundantly clear that we were two of the few people that could drink during the show. We may also have been two of the few people born before 1990. This was, for a moment, depressing.

Why did I mention Friday night? After getting home from a long week of work, where were Bridget and I at 7 p.m. on Friday? A bar? A lively Cambridge restaurant? On the road for a weekend of craziness and debauchery? No. Try napping in bed with Oscar so we could make it out to a friend's place for a couple hours later. Again, for a split second, this was depressing.

Then at work this week, I was chatting with a few of my colleagues. One, an intern from Northeastern, talked about how she'd gone out at midnight the weekend before. Out at midnight? Don't you mean home by 11:30? Other younger, cooler colleagues nodded their heads and talked about how Boston bars should serve alcohol until 2 a.m. and close at 3, rather than just closing up shop at 2. What's the difference? I was in bed three hours ago anyway! De - press - ing.

Now, people who know me are probably not surprised by any of this. In fact, many of them have probably stopped reading, thinking, "Well, no shit, Briddon. You've always been an old man." And, to a degree, it's true. I've always believed those sage words from Ben Franklin: "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." In short, I'd rather be up at 6 a.m. than midnight.

Bridget doesn't necessarily subscribe to this same magazine of life. When I first met her, she was a bit of a rabble-rouser. She stayed out late, went out for dinner, like, three times a week (!), and slept in on weekend mornings. Heck, I think she even went dancing every once in a while. Dancing!

The casual observer, then, might say that I changed Bridget, that I aged her. But I don't think this is completely true. I think, and here's the drum roll to the big line, couples make each other old. I also think this is a good thing. It's not even a little bit depressing.

Instead of going out every chance we get, we pick and choose our spots and make them count. We don't typically deal with hangovers, which means we fill our weekend days with stuff like working out, early mornings at Fresh Pond, and nice dinners. And, to be honest, it's way more fun than going out until 2 a.m. It makes us feel more accomplished, more intelligent, and healthier. It makes us feel, well, better.

Plus, be honest: Who has the energy to be young anymore? It sounds exhausting ...

Oscar the Incorrigible

This past weekend, our furry friend Oscar turned 6. We celebrated with kindling in Harvard Yard (our favorite) and lots of treats (Oscar's favorite). 

We are definitely one of those childless couples who dote on our dog. Oscar is our fur baby, and I'm not going to lie, we are crazy about him. We probably spend 75% of our time talking to him, or about him, or wondering what he's up to. 

The funny thing is, despite his current status as dog lover, when Oscar and I first met Mike he didn't even like dogs. And he especially didn't know what to make of Oscar. Oscar tried to play nice and bring his rope toy to Mike for him to throw, but Mike didn't really appreciate the slobbery, stinky piece of rope being repeatedly dropped on his lap. And when Oscar wanted to play tug, Mike got a little nervous (there may have been a slight nip based entirely on a misunderstanding about who was tugging first). He wasn't sure how to talk to Oscar, how to give him commands that he would actually understand. Like on one of our first trips to Fresh Pond, Mike couldn't understand why Oscar wasn't following his instructions to,"Stay Right!", or "Go Left! Left!" And picking up dog poop? Well, let's just say that was way beyond his comfort zone. 

Luckily, Oscar has a way of growing on people. Maybe its the way he tilts his head when he's trying real hard to understand what you're saying. Or it could be the way his little stump of a tail wags furiously when he's happy. Or maybe it's just that he's sweet, and he's cuddly, and he makes you feel loved. 

Whatever the reason, when I left for a trip to Australia, Mike and Oscar truly bonded. And seeing that bond, well, it made me happier than I ever expected. Because when I started dating Mike, it was the first time in my life that I was consciously looking for a partner, a husband, and a father to my future children. He had proved himself to be an amazing boyfriend, but seeing him take care of Oscar made me realize what an incredible father he would be one day. He was responsible. He was loving. He was sensitive to all of Oscar's needs. And most telling of all, he was incredibly patient with him. 

You see, what I failed to mention is that Oscar, while sweet and amazing and wonderful, is also a bit of a head case. With us, in the apartment, he is quiet as a mouse. But take him on a walk and run into another dog, and, well, he loses it. Oscar is scared of dogs and so he completely flips out when he sees them. He has the bark of dog 5 times his size. Think Cujo. I expected Mike to become frustrated and angry with our ill-behaved pup. But instead, he had infinite patience. 

I was already in love. But it was Oscar who made me realize Mike was "the one".

The Birth of the Family Meeting

Okay, the picture is somewhat deceiving. We don't have little monkeys yet. Also, we're not monkeys. But this little clan huddling together -- mostly likely talking about the Affordable Care Act or the taste of flies -- made me think of our new family meeting.

You might be asking: Why the hell do you guys have a family meeting? Can't you just, like, talk like normal people?

The answer: First off, relax. There's no need for profanity or attitude. We're all friends here. The truth is Bridget and I talk all the time, but a week ago, we started to realize we weren't really getting anywhere with some of our bigger conversations -- stuff like vacation destinations, money, and kids. Over and over, we'd just rehash the same conversation about "You know, we should do this. No, wait. We should go here!" We were like a drunk windsock with ADD. Perhaps you and your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other do the same thing.

Thus, we came up with the family meeting.

The five rules are simple:
1. Each family meeting must be planned in advance.
2. Each family meeting must be an actual meeting at a table.
3. Each family meeting can focus on only one topic.
4. Each family meeting must not exceed 30 minutes.
5. Each family meeting must have an outcome.

Before our first family meeting, we weren't sure all this was such a good idea. Meetings, traditionally, particularly in a workplace setting, are a giant waste of time. They take too long. There are too many of them. They aren't productive. In fact, there's even a book called Death by Meeting. 

But so far, in three meetings, we've been fruitful. We've decided where and how to invest our money in the next few months, where to travel this fall (not Hawaii -- booo!), and when to start trying to have kids. (Oddly, the middle debate was the most heated.)

The meetings haven't been perfect, but we've done our best to stick to the rules. And, more importantly, they've helped us communicate more effectively -- especially about little monkeys.

BSHLB - 13.1 Miles to Go

I thought that it may be time to give an update on BSHLB (Best Shape of Her Life Bridget).

Well, luckily, you haven't missed much. I've been slowly trying to cut down on my ice cream intake (freeze-pops are healthy, right?) and increase the amount of veggies that I've been consuming (this was not difficult as previous consumption was at approximately zero). I've also started to move more. As in, actually working out.

Working out is a bit of a chore for me. Because I am, by nature, a woman of leisure. I've always thought I was born in the wrong era. I would be much better suited for Victorian sensibilities.

Strolling? Absolutely. I love a good stroll. Croquet anyone? Sure thing. Lawn tennis? Right up my alley. And all this while wearing a bustle and breaking for tea and small sandwiches every 20 minutes. Pure heaven.

Unfortunately, this is not the place in time in which I've found myself. Instead of strapping on ye olde corset, I'm expected to exert myself physically to maintain my girlish figure. This is unfortunate. Not only for me, but for all those that must witness my very pathetic attempts at physical activity. I am, in all athletic endeavors, a total spaz.

So this is why I turn to running as my go-to mode of fitness. I can put one foot in front of the other. I can do this without any scary equipment or balls flying at me. And I can do this at my own pace... i.e. extremely, almost incomprehensibly slowly. In fact, at my speed, I guess you don't call it running. You call it jogging. I believe it is jogging or yogging. It might be a soft "J". I'm not sure.

In order to ensure I continue my adventures in jogging, I signed up for the BAA Half Marathon today. And I have a running plan to prepare my withered muscles for the 13.1 miles in October. With one week down, I'm feeling pretty good about things. And the best part? I've somehow convinced Mike to sign up with me. So if things go really badly on that fateful day in October, he can carry me over the finish line.

The Photo-to-Canvas Era

Like most couples, Bridget and I love Groupon. Or LivingSocial. Or Gilt. Or whatever the hell new one just came out 40 seconds ago. These online coupons provide us with great deals to new restaurants, innovative (and sometimes stupid) products, and vacations. What's not to love, right?

Well, to Bridget's chagrin, these online coupons also love to offer photo-to-canvas deals. And for whatever reason, I absolutely love them.

What is a photo-to-canvas deal? It's simple, really. You pay a set amount (usually $40-$50), send in one of your favorite photos, and get a fantastic piece of wall art a couple weeks later. I think it's fantastic, anyway. And as you can see from this picture, I sort of went on a bender recently:

In order, from left to right, that's Cape Cod, California, and Maine. Also, there's two more in the bedroom.

So, to say I like these things is an understatement. On a related note, to say I don't know the first thing about design or interior decoration is an understatement. I know way, way less than the first thing. If it were up to me, we'd paint the walls Syracuse orange, hang up sports jerseys and pennants, and put collapsible basketball hoops on every door. (So many dunks!)

But it's not up to me. Mostly, it's up to her because I don't really care all that much -- so long as we don't have pink things everywhere. And to further get across the point that it's not up to me, I was recently given a stern talking to by Mrs. Briddon: "Okay, hun. That's enough. We're done with these canvas things."

The nerve, right? Right? And that's why I've taken this picture and written this post. Who knows how long the wall will look like it does above? (My guess is not all that long ...) But I'll always have a record of it -- and fond memories of the Photo-to-Canvas Era.

License to Wed ...

No, this is not a post about that likely insufferable movie (I've never seen it) starring Mandy Moore and the dude from The Office. This is about the need to rethink the wedding licensing process. Frankly, it stinks.

Let me take a quick step back and explain how I stumbled on this topic. I was golfing (very, very slowly) a couple weeks ago behind someone who had never stepped on a course before. This was obvious because she (not being sexist; I've seen men do it, too) took too long to swing and, when she connected, the ball sputtered 20 feet to her right. On the ground. Into the woods. I remarked to my friend, Mike, "This is crap. You should need a damn license. You should be able to hit a ball 75 yards five out of 10 times to earn a license and get on a real course." (I'm actually quite serious about this.)

And, in between painstakingly slow shots, it got me thinking ... you need a license to drive, a license to operate heavy machinery, and a license to get married. The first two require you to show off some skills before you get the rubber stamp. Getting a marriage license, on the other hand, requires about $40 and putting your hand in the air while promising that the person by your side isn't a blood relative. Not so tough. Unless you live in the South. (Kidding, kidding. But not really ...)

So, I have an idea: I'm suggesting five tasks couples need to complete before they get the piece of paper that allows them to say, "I do." Here goes:

1. Couples should know each other's middle names. Think about it. Other than your family (and sometimes including your family), how many middle names do you know? Your college roommate? The person you sit next to at work? Carly Rae Jepsen? (Shoot, bad example ...)

2. Couples should be stuck together in an elevator for an hour. Can you really stand each other? Let's find out.

3. Each partner should have to cook one meal, including dessert. Everyone should cook. It's only fair.

4. Couples should shovel snow together at least once. The reason? See No. 3.

5. Each partner should be sick in bed for at least two days. This is the big one. I, for one, am a giant, whiny, pain in the ass when I'm not feeling well. I don't want to leave the house. I don't like anyone. And I'm 100% sure that I'll never feel better again.

Should there be more tasks? Probably. But at least these five can get us started. Maybe they can even vary by state. (The south would come up with some hilarious ones!) Either way, I'm quite certain these five tasks will tell you more about your future mate than admitting she (or he) isn't your sibling.

Of Stationary Entertainers and Maternity Leave

So I was on the internet this evening, doing some innocent research about how much infant childcare is (Note: I am not pregnant. Really. Not. Pregnant.), and I almost spit out my expensive barista-prepared beverage when I looked at some going rates in Cambridge.

$2500 a month? Every month? How do people afford this? And what if, god forbid, you want more than one child? OR, what if you want to have a child and still be able to pay your rent? How do people DO this? I all of the sudden had the urge to run around to every adult with a small child and ask them...SERIOUSLY, HOW? HOW do you DO this? 

Because it isn’t just the $2500/month in childcare. There is also all the other “stuff” that you have to buy so you are properly equipped to have a child. I uncovered a handy baby checklist on a helpful website.

There are over 150 "must-have" items on this list. One hundred and fifty.  Including 5 different strollers: Travel system, traditional stroller, lightweight stroller, all-terrain stroller, and double stroller. Not to mention the stroller accessories! Rain cover, weather protection boot, stroller sunshade, netting, organizer, cup holder, snack holder, and of course, stroller toys (are these different from regular toys? How? Why?!). Why does a baby need 6 different types of entertainers/swings? What exactly is a “stationary entertainer”? Why do a need both a full-size swing AND a travel swing?

And don’t even get me started on maternity leave. Did you know that of 178 countries worldwide, all guarantee some type of paid maternity leave EXCEPT the United States, Swaziland, and Papua New Guinea?

I repeat: US. Swaziland. Papua New Guinea.

And look at this graphic:

How is this ok? Instead of the generous leave afforded to women in other countries so they can, you know, nurse and bond with their infants, in the US we have the privilege of taking 12 weeks - unpaid - leave and not losing our jobs. I suddenly had the urge to retreat to my old stomping grounds of Montreal (50 weeks, eh?).

OK. So I added it up. 12 weeks with no paycheck. $2500/month in childcare expenses when I go back to work. Approximately $2.3 million dollars in multiple strollers and stroller accessories. I can’t even start thinking about what college will cost in 2032. Panic sets in. I turn to Mike. I let him know that we can no longer entertain the idea of having children because it is just too damn expensive. His response?

"Baby, we will be just fine. I believe in us."

And that, of course, is the correct response. We will be just fine. We will figure out a way to do it. Millions of people do. And I have no doubt that all the expense and the sacrifice will be totally worth it when we do decide to have that little money pit bundle of joy.

In the meantime, I've put myself on a fiscal diet. More about that in a later post.

But to all those moms and dads out there... For reals, how do you do it? And do you think the rising cost of raising a child is sustainable?

Kindling in Harvard Yard, or How We Really Met

Earlier this week, on the 4th, in fact, I was chatting with Bridget's good friend, Laura. We sat out on our deck, sipped beer, listened to Bruce Springsteen (well, we should have been) and talked about meeting and falling in love. Not us, of course. Just the idea. (Bridget was inside booking our latest vacation.)

Laura told me the story about her parents and how they fell in love. In a nutshell (and forgive me if I'm butchering this at all, Laura), her parents, both starry-eyed singles at the time, were both on a cruise somewhere in Europe. It was the last night of the trip and, as luck would have it, there was one bottle of champagne left on the ship. They both reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, "Well, we might as well drink this together." A  Transatlantic, long distance relationship ensued and decades later, they are still together today. Wonderful, right? Sweet, wholesome, and warm.

It got me thinking about the beginnings of me and Bridget and, well, it's not very good. It's actually fairly clunky. This stinks because people -- and our children will, at some point -- ask, "How did you guys meet?"And up to this point, we tell some variation of this:

Bridget and I worked together, but didn't really know each other. Then she worked remotely for a bit, got a new job, and lived in Baltimore for a few years. So you could say, we'd heard of each other, but that was it. In 2010, we started chatting at our mutual friend Kate's birthday party in Salem and realized we got along pretty well. Then, taking full advantage of the romance of technology, we started Facebook chatting, texting, and dating. Romantic, right? Not so much. Clunky. Pretty lame paragraph if you ask me.

And I've decided it's time to officially change it. To what, you ask? To Kindling in Harvard Yard!

As we started dating in the summer of 2010, we realized we both liked to be outside and we both liked to read. Our weekend afternoons quickly became filled with slow, slightly awkward walks down Oxford St. with our Kindles in our hands. We'd sit for hours and split the time between reading, talking, and people watching. (Our book choices were and are always quite different -- she recently polished off 50 Shades of Grey in about 45 minutes and I just finished a great baseball read called The Bullpen Gospels.) Today, we share many hobbies -- running, blogging, drinking good wine, eating good food, to name a few -- but Kindling in Harvard Yard is still our favorite. And really, as I thought more about it, that stands out as how we really met and how we fell in love.

So the next time someone asks -- or the first time I tell my son or daughter about it -- I'm going to take a page out of Laura's parents' book. (Pun not intended. Okay, maybe it a was a little ...). Here goes:

"You see, son, we were both walking around Harvard Yard one sunny, Saturday afternoon. Then, out of the corner of our eyes, we saw a single Kindle resting on a purple chair. We both thought it was ours, so we reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, 'Well, we might as well read this together.' And the rest is history ..."

Yeah, I like that much better.

The Art of Arguing

Looking back on our first month of blog posts, I'm realizing most of them are of full of wine and roses. Laughs about big fans. Jokes about bangs. Serious talks with dogs. And, well, that makes sense because Bridget and I are quite content. We are very happy we found each other and three months into this marriage thing, things are pretty damn good.

But, like everyone else, we argue.

We argue about little things (that cup you left on the table has been there for, like, two days!), we argue about medium things (well, fine, maybe I will go by myself!), and we argue about bigger things (yeah, let's spend our money on that ... are you serious?). We argue because that's what happens when you spend a lot of time with one person. You get on each other's nerves. Little things turn into big things. Conversations filled with jokes become conversations with folded arms.

And for us, it's heightened because neither of us is very good at being wrong. I wouldn't say Bridget is like a mule. I'd say she's like a mule stuck in mud with her hooves nailed to the ground. Me? I'm the exact same way, but you can add quicksand to the imagery. In other words, we are both stubborn -- very, very stubborn.

But since we both appreciate this reality, we're getting much better at arguing. We're better at diffusing the situation and saying, "Hey, you know what? I'm wrong. My bad. Let's be in love."

And one other very important rule has helped us argue the right way. The rule? Argue in the moment. Never bring up something from the past. It's not fair. 

For example, if we're arguing about Bridget and her cup-leaving tendencies, I can't say, "This is, like, the fourth time this month. You left the plate on the nightstand last week. You left a fork on the toilet 10 days ago. And you left a spoon in the cactus 13 days ago." Nope. Not fair. So, instead, "Hey, darling. Can you take care of this cup? It's been here for quite a while."

Is this technique fool-proof and perfect? Of course not. But it's served us well in the first 2+ years of our lives together and the first three months (BTW, Happy Anniversary, Bridget!) of our marriage.

Have a rule of arguing that you follow? Feel free to comment below ...

What Bridget Does When Mike Plays Kickball

Summers are generally fairly busy for us. It is the magical time in New England when the weather is bearable, there is daylight until 8pm, and Bostonians pretend to like each other. It makes up for those 15 months of miserable winter. 

Mike likes to spend a lot of this free time engaged in some type of athletic pursuit. Tonight, he is playing kickball (turns out I use the term “athletic” loosely). So on most Thursday nights this summer it is just me and Oscar, kicking back, shooting the breeze. I’m heating up a nice frozen meal. Oscar is playing with his rope. Life is good. And while we both miss Mike immensely, Oscar and I tend to look forward to these nights alone. 

Ok, I can’t speak for Oscar. He’s actually probably miserable right now. But I do know that for me, Thursday nights are a little slice of heaven. Why, you ask? Because it is the one night of the week that I get to watch terrible TV with reckless abandon. 

You see, Mike has no tolerance for reality TV of any sort. He is physically incapable of sitting through an episode of Real Housewives. But not only that, he is also physically incapable of being in the same apartment with me when I watch Real Housewives. 

Because Mike just doesn’t understand why I would waste hours of my precious day losing brain cells. He just can’t help himself from asking things like, “Sweetie, why do you watch this crap?” Or, “Princess, what could you possibly enjoy about these terrible women and their awful lives?” Or he simply looks at me with that look in his eye. The one that says, “I have very seriously misjudged this woman’s intelligence.” He tries to understand. He really does. But it takes a special type of person to really appreciate terrible TV. You could say I am extra special. 

So you can understand why for me to really enjoy bad TV, I have to be alone. It’s like binging. On these precious Thursday nights at home by myself I get to catch up with all my friends. My girl Bethenny, the crazy ladies from RHONY, the even crazier ladies of RHOC, and Kim and Kroy and Kim’s meth-head mom making sure they aren’t Tardy for the Wedding (seriously, worst show title ever). Don’t even get me started on those Kardashians. I could watch them for days. There is something about Kim’s plastic face that just fascinates me.

Basically, if it is on Bravo or E!, I’ll indulge in it. Pregnant in Heels? Check. Interior Therapy with Jeff Lewis? I’m on it. Miss Advised? Don’t mind if I do. Mrs. Eastwood & Company? Well, no. I have to draw the line somewhere. That show is unwatchable. 

Bad TV is my guilty pleasure. And I prefer to indulge in this pleasure in the company of my accepting pooch, Oscar. So this Thursday night I’m looking forward to hitting the couch, turning off my brain, and indulging in a freeze pop or twenty. 

Just don’t tell Mike. He things I’m listening to NPR and reading Book Four of Robert A. Caro’s The Years of Lyndon Johnson while solving a sudoku puzzle and doing pushups.