Nate, this post might mention you. Kinda, sorta.

There’s a meme going around blog world about husbands and I thought it might be kind of fun to answer the questions. And besides, sometimes it’s fun to drop a subtle hint around Nate that there is a very slight chance that he might just possibly be mentioned in my blog. Like when I stand in front of the TV wearing saran wrap and a gold cape and Christmas lights while hollering “YOU’RE ON MY BLOG, YOU’RE ON MY BLOG.” Two months from now, he might vaguely recall that I mentioned something about him and my blog and what was that all about? Then I’ll get mad at him because he never listens to me. Then he’ll repeat “yes, I do” about ten times, right before he asks me for my blog address again because he doesn’t remember where I tattooed it on his body the last time this happened.

For all of you who have no idea what a meme is … in the blogging world, it’s a series of questions that are posted on a blog and other bloggers readΒ  them and post their own answers on their own blog. Sometimes you can “tag” others to answer them, but I don’t do that because that reminds me too much of a chain letter and chain letters make the hair on my neck stand up.

I can’t believe I just admitted to the world wide web that I have hair on my neck. And that I can make it stand up at will.

So, I don’t tag, but I’m more than happy to be the recipient of a meme because sometimes they make for an interesting blog post. Or not. I guess I’ll leave that to you to decide. So feel free to conclude that this blog post stinks like a bile duct and then pay no attention to the screaming, hysterical woman on the other side of your monitor who is too busy knitting herself a huge inferiority complex to respond to you in a coherent manner. She’ll get back to you.

In the meantime, here we go:

What is his name?

You would think this would be an easy one, right? According to his birth certificate, he was born William Nathan Chamberlain. But somewhere between bringing him home from the hospital and waiting for his umbilical cord to fall off, his parents decided that he didn’t look like a William after all, he looked more like a Nathan. So they decided to call him Nate but they didn’t have time to file an amended birth certificate because they were too busy waiting for his umbilical cord to fall off and by the time it finally did, they had forgotten all about his birth certificate, having been too grossed out by the whole cord thing.

All of his legal documentation to date has him as Nathan William Chamberlain so apparently, the government and all of its agencies can’t read. But that’s OK. I’m not complaining. I’m just glad he wasn’t named Andrew because then I’d have to call him Andy and then there’d be two of us and then when I’m busy berating myself out loud, he’d be constantly interrupting me, asking why I keep calling him an idiot and telling him to get a grip on reality. I hate to be interrupted.

How long have you been married?

If you ask Nate, he’ll say forever. If you ask me, I’ll say nine years.

How long did you date?

We dated for almost two years before we got married. He’d call me at my office every morning before work started and we’d have numerous exchanges of Hi, I love you, I miss you, I can’t wait to see you. Once a week, we’d meet for lunch at Barristers Bar and Restaurant for chicken fajitas. We always had the same drunk waiter. Then he’d walk me back to my office and we’d act all nonchalant as I’d close my office door and then we’d (((whisper))) ***make out*** (((whisper))) and then I’d open my door and he’d leave and everyone around me would pretend that they had no idea what we were doing in my office for the past thirty seconds.

How old is he?

He will be forty next month. Welcome to my decade, sweetie! Come on in, the water’s tepid!

Who eats more sweets?

He doesn’t eat sweets. He doesn’t eat dessert. He isn’t normal. There. I said it out loud.

Who said I love you first?

He did. And I remember that sensation of having a ginormous pit in my stomach and the desire to run screaming in the opposite direction because being in love was absolutely, without a doubt, the last thing I needed or wanted. I was a single mother going through a divorce and had no time to fall in love and care about anyone except myself and my daughter, Zoe. But did I listen to the warning bells and sirens going bonkers in my head? Absolutely not and I said I love you right back and the rest is marital bliss history. OK fine. It’s just plain history but sometimes it is marital bliss history, like when I’m not in the middle of a hormonal surge or Nate is nowhere near the remote.

Who is taller?

Nate is 6’2″. I am 5’2″. This poses no problem except when we’re walking and I have to take four strides for every one of his. I will no longer walk with him and demand to be driven everywhere.

Who can sing better?

Neither of us can sing but only one of us refuses to acknowledge this. I’ll let you guess who, but I’ll give you a hint: it’s not me.

Who does the laundry?


I do.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?

If by “right” you mean the opposite of left, that would be me. If by “right” you mean the opposite of wrong, that would also be me. If by “right” you mean all over the place, hogging all the sheets and pillows, and then spreading out all limbs across 90% of the mattress real estate, thus leaving your spouse to hang on for dear life to two inches of free space on the very outer edge of the bed lest she fall to her death … that would be Nate.

Who mows the lawn?

Nate is happy to mow the lawn because that is his escape, allowing him to zone out and get away from it all. When Helena was suffering from colic, he zoned out and got away from it all an average of four times a day and I was <this> close to filing a missing persons report on him but then I saw people using our lawn as a putting green and I knew he wasn’t far. I don’t think Nate would ever let me mow the lawn unless he’s incapacitated with a ruptured spleen and even then, he’d fight me for it because he knows that no one can mow a lawn like he does, least of all me. If I were to mow the lawn, there would be no concentric circles, no parallel lines, no 90ΒΊ angles. No one would mistake our lawn for the outfield at Yankee Stadium. Instead, it would look like a drunken maniac hopped up on coke had run up and down and all around our grass with a machete.

Who cooks dinner?

I do. Otherwise, I’d be typing this from pre-op because we’d all be prepped for bypass surgery, having consumed Nate’s Famous Hamburger and Noodles made with 80% lean ground hamburger, egg noodles and a cup of salt, every single day for the last nine years.

Who pays the bills?

Nate does. He insists on doing it, despite the fact that he has a tendency to look upon a due date as a mere suggestion. I can’t talk about it without breaking into hives. Who’s got some cortizone?

Who drives?

Nate does and I try to close my eyes and pretend we’re not trying to break the sound barrier.

Who is more stubborn?

Nate insists it’s me. I insist it’s Nate. He won’t budge. Either will I. You decide.

Who kissed who first?

Nate leaned in and planted one on me in the parking garage of my building after dinner one night. It’s one of my favorite memories and I still get a thrill when I think about it. I’m not even going to joke about this one. You’re welcome, Nate.

Who asked who out first?

Long story short, I did. Short story long, I got reamed out by both my supervisor and my co-worker (who happened to be Nate’s aunt) for my effort. If you want to read the long and short story, click HERE. This was my very first blog post ever, back when my blog was in its infancy. Sniff, sniff. They grow up so fast, don’t they?

Who proposed?

Nate did, on the deck of his house, before it became our first home. And even though it was seven weeks to the wedding and we were on our way to mail out our wedding invites, it still took my breath away, to be formally proposed to like that. I love it when he takes my breath away.

Who has more siblings?

We each have two. He’s the oldest of his, I’m the youngest of mine. Yet another example of how we are so different.

We both suffer from middle child syndrome, even though neither one of us is a middle child. Yet another example of how we are freakishly alike.

Who wears the pants?

I like to let Nate think that he does. He likes to let me think that I do. Helena likes everyone to think that she does. Zoe doesn’t have an opinion one way or the other, unless it means she gets a Verizon phone with unlimited texting as part of the deal.


Whew! I’m done. Are you still there or did you lapse into a coma when I wasn’t looking? HELLLLOOOOOO?

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18 thoughts on “Nate, this post might mention you. Kinda, sorta.”

  1. Avatar

    Awe this is sweet πŸ™‚ I’m going to thunderjack it and post it on my blog.

    I love reading your blogs, I always laugh and end up snarfing my coffee up my nose–which burns fyi. πŸ˜€ Have a great monday!


  2. Avatar

    LOL!! Well when I knew you were going to do your blog post on something about dh’s I figured it’d be good πŸ™‚ Too bad I abandoned my blog!! hmm…maybe not! I can’t remember most of what or who did what 1st! That’s what happens when you’ve been with them over 1/2 your life! lol

  3. Avatar

    This is brilliant. I hope your husband likes it. If he reads it. If you lead him to the computer, type your blog address in, and make him sit down and actually read it. Like I have to do with my husband.

    Kinda takes away from the moment, if you ask me. I know, you didn’t ask, but I’m just saying.

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