A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Trophy Wife-ing

My trophy wife data comes from observing a good handful of Las Vegas women who have forgotten they’re not Kardashians…

A COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO BECOMING A TROPHY WIFE

Regardless of your social media platform of choice, avoid taking selfies without Snapchat filters. Use only the dog or flower crown filter lest you should reveal your age (and pores).

If your Starbucks order is not to your liking, or if the drive-thru employee put the order label over the cup’s logo AGAIN, thus ruining above mentioned selfie with your drink, address the issue. Let your complaints fly off of your lips with the same sharpness as the needle that has just injected them. If that sounds harsh, you’re better suited to hang out with the soccer moms, not the trophy wives.

Make an effort not to furrow your brows in your Starbucks scolding. Never show signs of emotion, specifically on your face. Trophy wives everywhere look to Victoria Beckham for inspiration. Not only will this impassiveness keep you mysterious, it will also prevent you from draining your Tom Ford fund on Botox. A few more laugh lines and you’ll be shopping at The Rack.

Although some may interpret this unexpressive attitude as heartlessness, it’s better than being considered sweet. Trophy wives should never like anything sweet, unless it’s the agave-based dressing on sugar-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, organic kale. Anything made without this sugar substitute will later be carved off by a surgeon.

In the rare and unfortunate event that this should happen, clothe yourself in as much Lululemon as possible to distract eyes from any healing scars. Better yet, accessorize your Lululemon with jewelry, preferably something with a giant designer logo. Sparkly Chanel logos are best. This is a typical trophy wife defensive maneuver used to blind those that seek proof of plasticity.

Plus, nothing says, “I work out hard,” like Lululemon and Bvlgari jewels.

Below, trophy wife fail. Fail fail fail.

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Beware the Ides of March…Madness: A BINGO board for YOU to look like you care

My husband has played basketball his whole life. To say he is a fan is to say Mormons use cream of chicken soup.

Understatement.

My experience with basketball is…nothing. Well, except for the time I was on an intramural team in college, but that’s a different story.

Now, look. I enjoyed making March Madness brackets during seasons past, but I still most definitely did not watch all the games. However, for my husband’s sake, I tried to be interested in basketball. The jig was up after about a year of marriage, and that constant squeaking of shoes just gets me. This could stem from my childhood of being a hamster owner and listening to it run in a squeaky wheel all night, but either way, after a certain amount of time, I hate squeaking of basketball shoes and hamsters equally.

Still, it would be nice of me to sit with Brian and pretend to like a game, but I would be mad at myself for wasting time…and what the heck would I do? Laundry? Work on my Kegels?

I’d love to make a social event out of it, but then I’d definitely not be watching.

So, friends of both genders who watch games against their wills, I have created a BINGO board for you with some game watching activities. They include items like “over contoured girl,” and “lip reading a bad word.” I can’t help you with your Spring Break bod’, but I can help you impress your special someone with basketball attentiveness.

Click on it here…I believe you can print it… but you can also play through your phone. Each time it’s clicked, a new board is generated, so everyone’s will be different. I’m half joking/half serious, but tag me if you really do it so I can tell Brian why I was making BINGO boards during nap time instead of laundry.

And, boys…if your lady is watching the screen, I’d say there is a 93% chance it’s not because she is absorbed in the game. She may just be reconsidering the Target items she left behind, she is making a grocery list in her head, or she is avoiding all the snacks because she restarted BBG (bikini body guide). Summer soon, you know?

(Brian doesn’t agree with my statistic and says way more girls watch than I think. If only he were so lucky as to have married one of them.)

Thank goodness I redeem myself during football season.

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A New Mom’s Letter to Her Babysitter

We don’t get date nights often enough, and I semi-blame the whole “finding a babysitter” fiasco.

Now that we are on our second child, our instructions to babysitters have become much more lax. Ultimately, we just want our kids safe and happy. A few years ago, however, my new mom hormones were TURNT UP. WAY UP. Had I written an actual note (a la my mom in 1992), it would have looked exactly like this:

Dear babysitter,

Thanks for coming over! Help yourself to any food (notice we bought the name brand graham crackers this week), and make yourself at home. My kids should be sleeping, so just hang out! Watch TV!

Except, try to avoid turning the TV volume higher than 12, because that will wake up my kids, but it’s okay if you have to because you don’t lip read as well as I’ve been forced to learn. If you would like to actually hear your show, you can just put them back to sleep after they wake up. They’ll lay down for you super easily.

All you have to do is this!

You’ll need to heat up a little milk (roughly between 4-6 oz) for my little one, for 45 seconds. He is particular. Shake the bottle. Test the temperature. He also likes his grey blankie to snuggle with, but make sure it’s not on his face. My other son can just get up and watch TV, but only one show and not for too long, and if you don’t understand what he is saying, try the Dinosaur movie, but fast forward the part where the dad dies. Along those lines, if he says something that sounds like “daddy,” it could mean daddy, Mickey, or blankie (full phonetically spelled translation guide on the side of the fridge).

But whatever! Just have fun! 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 !!!!!

Consult the attached pamphlet for numbers of my–

Pediatrician
Poison Control
My number
Restaurant’s number
Next door neighbor’s number
911’s number
Insurance agent information
Homeland Security
CPR instructions
Animal control
Living trust
Speediest SWAT responders (Don’t hesitate to call!)
Current shot records
Life insurance documentation
Last will and testament

We will be back in forty five minutes! Thanks!

–Ashton

PS Fire extinguisher is under the kitchen sink.

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HBD Brian / Sure Hope I’m Pregnant for Swimsuit Season / Those Two are Unrelated

What would President’s Day be without spending a few Jacksons? Or Franklins? Or even Washingtons?

I perused President’s Day sales online last night, and snagged a couple swimsuits. This led me to firing swimsuit-shopping-in-February inspired questions that Brian never knows how to best respond to. In order:

“Oh my gosh. I ordered swimsuits. Ugh, I feel so fat. Do I look bigger?”
“When am I going to finally take those hardcore classes I have a pass to?”Wait, have you seen my Food Network Magazine? It was just right here.”

He treated them as rhetorical questions, although I was concerned about the magazine. I found it this morning. Don’t want to misplace the special pasta edition.

Thank goodness those swimsuits en route are black.

My in-laws visited over the weekend, and even though it was Brian’s birthday, I felt like I got a break! A new MIL appreciation comes with having kids. She grocery shopped, played with my kids, and helped with laundry, all while I was working. I even slept until nine one morning!

Leila and Mark helped us celebrate with a fun dinner. Let this not be overlooked: at some point on Brian’s birthday, his festivities included doing a massive pile of laundry, and I came home to fresh, folded clothes.

That’s very telling of Brian. Laid back, practical, and nice. Really, really nice. He will quietly do ANYTHING for our family (or friends), and his selflessness is underrated.

I had no idea how right for me that twenty three year old boy was when I met him, and even though it took me two years to recognize it (and change his name from “Brian Creepy” in my phone), I can’t believe I caught him! With a lot of false advertising (like shaved legs and clean hair), and the help of Morgan and Stuart Peterson, I caught him.

Happy belated birthday, Brian. You’re our bestie.

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Feb 15: Valentine’s Day Split Personalities Explained

At the risk of offending self proclaimed feminists, I will go ahead and say that February 15 is the day that we girls collectively explain our optimistically erratic Valentine’s Day behavior.

I’ll go first.

This Valentine’s Day, I told Brian I didn’t care what we did to celebrate.

He interpreted that as I didn’t care what we did to celebrate.

Yes, I’ll admit it. I’m THAT girl. The girl that says, “I don’t care!” and genuinely mean it about 80% of the time. The other 20% of the time, it’s up to my husband to decipher what I really mean.

Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, etc are always in that other 20%. By, “I don’t care, whatever!” I mean, “I don’t care butyoubetterreadbetweenthelinesandmakeplansorcomehomewithsomethingbut really, whatever!”

Then, there are other girls, who are fine with their guy surprising them with Trader Joe’s flowers, until they’ve scrolled through social media for seven hours. A bouquet pales in comparison to the Ferrari that babiesburlapandbigamy had in her driveway, and Carolyn35 had her pool drained and filled with her favorite chocolate and a swan floatie. Even Brittany from high school had a gluten free cake served in freezable portions to accommodate her Weight Watcher’s diet!

Suddenly, those Trader Joe’s flowers make you wonder if your man even LIKES you.

Your single friend’s Galentine’s was more elaborately planned than your night, so now, you’re sitting at Outback with your date, nary a bloomin’ onion, furiously unimpressed. “Yeah, no, nothing’s wrong. This is great.”

I know better than to peruse social media on Valentine’s Day, and although I still tossed Brian my usual, suspiciously impartial attitude this year, we had SUCH a fun day.

We began the day with heart pancakes that looked like demented Mickeys. No one ate them, but I took a picture.

Gus went to his darling friend Ivy’s Valentine’s party, and it sounded like he was a little confused about his first ever play date without me. One day, he will be thrilled I left him alone with all these girls, and he will be even happier to know I squirted him with his daddy’s cologne on the way out for good measure. Thanks, Taylor and Ivy!

Brian maneuvered through my “I don’t care!” lies with wisdom of a seasoned (battle scarred?) husband. (For the record, I don’t hope for much, just SOME ACKNOWLEDGEMENT, which was established after my 2009 birthday.) (Ashley Furness was my date that night and let me know husbands don’t know what you want unless you tell them, which was news to me…and has only sunk in 80%.)

We stayed in this Valentine’s Day, and Brian cooked an amazing “adults only” dinner after babies went to bed. If you’ve never had a Brian meal, you’re invited over. I have a hard time eating meat since pregnancies, but Brian’s steaks are ridiculous. He made his own dressing for this pear arugula salad he made but wouldn’t eat, and I almost drank it.

Our dining was momentarily accompanied by background music of overtired Gus’s night terrors. After snuggling him for a while, I returned to my OG Valentine, enjoyed conversation, and went to bed early.

Food and sleep speak to my heart.

So, boys, let this serve more as an explanation than an apology, because history repeats itself, especially so long as your significant other has social media accounts and watches The Bachelor. Sleep well tonight knowing you have another twelve months to either figure out if your lady is a 20%-er like me, or save $75/month to get her Louboutins next year.

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Big day, friends. Big day.

A coupla things.

First of all, I’ve decided that I really enjoy writing in my closet. It could either be because there are minimal distractions, or because there is a really comfortable pile of laundry that I lean on. It’s like a Love Sac, you guys. It just forms right to you. Reason #28 why I’m never finishing laundry. #closetwriter

Secondly (which should be the real first, as it trumps my pants and socks swaddling me right now), everyone is feeling better! Gus’s ear is all recovered and normal, as I would sure hope it would be after $200 ear drops. Even though they’re hard to keep up with, I love my boys’ little personalities and energy back full throttle!

In other news, we bought a new car today! Well, not new. Used. New to our driveway. My favorite part of our new purchase is knowing how hard Brian’s worked the past eight years. That “working independently” route is a bumpy one. My being a financial contributor in our family makes me appreciate his work so much more. It’s tricky to balance the stress of both your home and job! I’m not a car person, but I’m kind of obsessed with Brian’s new purchase now, and so proud of him. It won’t feel like this car is really, officially OURS until one of my kids throws up in it, though, so I’ll let you know when that happens.

Brian has been shopping around for a little while, but I’m always sentimental about seeing past cars go. Brian has owned the same car the entire time I’ve known him. That’s the car that picked me up in for our first date! It drove me to my college graduation ceremonies, cosmetology school, and to the hospital to have both my babies. It’s the car I squealed in right after Brian proposed, and where I sat to call my out-of-state parents and telling them all about it. I don’t know, I have an emotional attachment issue. I’ll see you on Hoarders.

This evening, I thought we might celebrate our new addition by going out to dinner, but then I realized we probably spent all our money. Plus, Brian was busy. I don’t see him often these days!

That seems like a really stupid thing to type as I’m laying here in a pile of his clothes.

Wait, is this a diary entry? Is that what this blog is? An online diary? Just wondering, now that I’ve announced it on Facebook to an awkward pool of past boy-things and people who aren’t really my friends anymore…

The seven year old me, locking my Lisa Frank diary, would be mortified.

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I Either Smell like Aunt Linda or a Stripper

Ever since my family’s Park City girl’s trip a few months ago, I’ve been really into perfumes. That’s because my Aunt Linda, who is beautiful and always smells the way the glitter emoji looks, shared her latest dreamy scent with me. Here she is.

Now, I, too, smell like sparkles, even when trying to get everyone EQUAL cups and EQUAL drinks at lunch.

Have you read fragrance vocabulary? Whoa. Poetic people must always smell like my Aunt Linda.

“Its warm incense undertone lends it a dusky, somber quality, while the top notes reminiscent of freshly cut wood offer an interesting bright counterpoint. Although a beautiful and complex material, it is heavy and opaque, with a tendency to easily overwhelm other facets of the fragrance.”

That’s cool. My house has overwhelming top notes resembling a Costco box of diapers, with subtle notes of soiled ones, magnified by accords of bloated Honey Nut Cheerios that evaded the garbage disposal. The sweetness may give a robust floral fragrance.

I should bottle that up and call it, “Wednesday Mornings.”

In addition to Aunt Linda’s amazing perfume, I’ve been eyeing Prada Candy for a while. I’ve been second guessing it ever since I’ve had more than one stripper client rave about it, which seemed appropriate after reading it’s advertised description:

Prada CANDY is instantly seductive—pure pleasure wrapped in impulsive charm.

Definitely getting a different vibe than my “Wednesday Morning.”

Prada Candy, you’re a welcome addition to my mom-perfume curation.

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Brian’s keeping me on my toes.

I’ve been surprised by my husband lately.

Brian, who I always assume is on his phone for something Fantasy sports or ESPN related, was recently scrolling through his phone and musing, “There seem to be a lot of dessert recipes with coconut oil these days.”

He also surprised me by caring deeply about his sunglasses that went…missing. Just between us, I sat on them. I didn’t know they were Brian’s nice pair by the shards of plastic remnants, nor can I be expected to be a dainty sitter in the midst of fudge season. Three months ago, they may have been repairable, or at least not completely obliterated by my mid-holiday bod.

Tonight, he surprised me again. I tend to like to “do stuff,” as opposed to sit through a movie (my mind is an untameable grocery list machine when I know we’re almost out of milk) (and we’re always almost out of milk), so Brian took me and my brother Keaton out to an archery range.

I’d never shot an arrow before, but I’m comfortable with you calling me Katniss now.

Or, you can call me bloated, because I pounded the best cheeseburger at THE best place on the Strip, Bobby’s Burger Palace. (Watch your sunglasses.)


The only other burger I’ve kissed that’s not In n Out, AND I was too full to pick at Brian or Keaton’s food. MILESTONE NIGHT!

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My Dance Date 2k16 / Would I Sue Brian If He Broke Our Contract?

Most people’s prenuptial agreements protect finances.

I didn’t have a staggering net worth or massive inheritance to consider, but I did have my sanity to defend. At twenty two, I was wise enough to know a woman’s opinion holds more merit when she is engaged than it ever will at any other point in her marriage.

It was during that golden time that I made Brian sign a spiral bound paper (college ruled), initialing in blood that we would never live in the Dakotas, I could have a cat, and he would squish spiders.

Like I said, important, important things.

I’m not sure if the agreement will be upheld in court as a legal document, but it is signed and dated.

One item of business discussed during engagement (although it was not signed upon), was to have a BIG date once a year: high school dance style. I’m not talking about going to dinner at Chipotle. I mean, a real, planned, get dressed up and go all out date. Going to high school in Las Vegas, I enjoyed some elaborate dance dates…but wouldn’t it be so much more appreciated to do it all again, married, leaving your house of kids to dress up for the guy you’d actually been hoping would ask you?

It took seven years to execute B + A Prom Date, but we made it happen last week.

Cue spray tan.

I got my nails done.

I timed fresh hair just right.

I bought a pretty dress, complete with the annoyances of trying on 57 before finding one that covered everything it needed to.

I got my makeup done.

Wait, did I shave my legs? Oh, well.

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The Snapchat files
The Snapchat files

We had appetizers at Wolfgang Puck, where I felt inclined to solemnly place a small silver dish at the end of the table with a red rose lying on it…

The hostess had some shaky hands. That's all I know.
The hostess had some shaky hands. That’s all I know.

I surprised Brian with a helicopter tour of Las Vegas.

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 It sounds cooler if I don’t tell you it was bought on Groupon.

It sounds cooler if I don’t tell you it was bought on Groupon.

We had a late dinner at Serendipity instead of a show, which I didn’t think we could stay awake to watch. Good call, because we were struggling by dinner.
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Although there was no alcohol involved, I still felt hungover the next morning from too little sleep, so I felt I got the full, stereotypical high school dance experience. Satisfying.

Brian and I had the best time. The night was exciting and fresh, and I laughed hard enough to require a potty break. I don’t tell you any of this to glorify our night…I am telling you this so that you’ll do that same.

If it sounds fun to you, have a “Prom Night.” If it sounds ridiculous, it is.

I’ve always been drawn to ridiculous.

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Wife Vs Mom

Wife life and mom life.

The juxtaposition of these two identities hasn’t been particularly graceful for me, as the two roles seem to be an either/or, oil/water situation.

As a childless wife, I dutifully fulfilled my responsibilities. I shaved my legs. I washed my hair (more) often. I put effort into my overall appearance, and Brian was my whole, entire world. His happiness was my utmost priority. I would like to highlight how I nobly bit the bullet and sometimes sat with him to watch basketball games…for at least a year. We enjoyed plenty of alone time together, fun dates with other couples, and I went out of my way to be friendly with wives who’s Pinterest recipe stories didn’t particularly jazz me, just so Brian’s friendships with the husbands continue uninterrupted.

Basically, I still doodling his name all over until we had babies.

Those babies pretty much clicked “select all” and “delete” on the previous entire paragraph.

Now, I wake up like sounding like the girl on The Grudge, but looking like the girl from The Ring:
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Literally, I woke up like this,
especially after nights like this.

Motherhood has made me speak 9 octaves higher. Three or four days a week, I only see Brian in passing, and one of us leaves while the other is still in bed. Do we count celebratory high fiving that kids are asleep as physical intimacy? (It’s a meaningful high five.) After mustering up enough energy for chasing two babies and our jobs, we are not especially inclined to make an effort to leave the house. Would I have to button my pants for that? I have a hard time keeping that all consuming mom part of me from spilling over to my husband, and find myself accidentally mothering Brian, who ACTUALLY already HAS a mom.

So, this is how it ends. This is how every girl turns into the wife she swears she’ll never be.

I have no real resolution for this, other than never adding optometry coverage to our insurance. A decline in Brian’s vision might serve him well in the mornings.

However. How. Ever. Aside from the physical attraction concept, there may be hope. I’m trying to figure out how marriage relationships evolve with kids, how to stay flexible, how to nurture a friendship at the basis of our relationship, and remain a unified front against this world, because I really, genuinely like my husband.

Brian should have known it would be all downhill when he dated a girl that preferred to apply makeup in the comfort of the bathroom sink. 6-9-2009 5-48-03 AM_0013

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