Roses are red. I have been blue.

There's nothing a couple dozen roses can't cure.


Well, I mean, I'm sure there are some things roses can't cure, but I'm feeling a lot better anyway.

By the way, anyone want to send me a new table runner? I'm looking at that picture and thinking, "Step out of the nineties, now, Honey." Yes. I call myself Honey. What of it?

So last night, I talked to my mom on the phone for quite a while. It was one of those conversations that covers a multitude of things, from my nephew kicking my other nephew in the balls, to how frail my grandmother has become. But I learned about something that has been going on in my family for months. I can't talk about it, but it taps into every insecurity and fear I have.

So okay. Wah, wah. My life's not perfect. I can deal with that. But as always I turned to my husband to help me deal with these feelings, and he just happened to be in the middle of a nervous breakdown. He was actually so upset (none of it has to do with me) that he had to leave the house. And he didn't do it gracefully.

Hence last night's pity post. Alone, alone, alone. What a pity party.

It had sort of slipped my mind that his steroid dosage was increased. That's got to be a huge part of it. It's like he's having violent PMS.

But let me tell you one thing about my husband. He is better at apologizing than anybody I have ever met. We had a big talk, and delved into his feelings and my family stuff. And I do feel better, but the family stuff is still there. My pity parties are usually pretty short lived, though. Roses help.

And so do you guys. I love you. I'm really far behind on answering my e-mails and responding to some comments, but don't think that every word you guys have written hasn't touched my heart or made me laugh. Thank you.

Coming soon, in honor of our anniversary, an embarrassing story about a bachelor party.