Welcome, Please Wipe Your Feet... Wherever.

Here we go, ready to launch the next greatest outlet for frustrated wives in dire need of advice. So, how will I introduce myself? Let's see... I'm Nancy, first-time wife, dog-mom, not a real mother (yet), sleep deprived, gainfully employed and full time husband caretaker, house maintainer, bill payer, dog-poop-picker-upper, grocery shopper, laundry do-er and chef.

Things I really enjoy include: wine under $15 a bottle, a home cooked meal, undisrupted sleep, a clean home, a full tank of gas, crime TV (a la Criminal Minds, NOT Judge Judy) and highly caffeinated beverages.

Things I really do NOT enjoy include: knick knacks, clutter, dust, sticky surfaces, pet hair on everything and mismatched socks. And herein lies the reason we are here today...

My husband Clark, while I just love and adore him, is something like a helpless infant when it comes to survival. If the next Ice Age were to begin tonight I would most certainly survive and he would not. Or, perhaps, I would sacrifice all my resources, skills and whatever-the-fuck-it-takes so he would survive and I would flounder and freeze.

While writing this, and thinking about all of the things that I want to try and stay positive throughout this journey, about I noticed Clark had some schmuck on his jeans. Our conversation went something like this:

"Hey honey, what's on your pants?"

"Uh... mud from the dog."

"Oh... on the couch? It was kind of expensive..."

At which point Clark, husband dearest, stands up, shakes his pants out on the carpet, walks to the bedroom, changes into gym shorts and folds the jeans up and puts them on his dresser to wear tomorrow.

Really?

Really.