10 Lessons Learned in 2010

1.  Hefty cinch-sacks make a mighty fine substitute for a gas cap.

I learned this one on my long road trip across the country this past fall.  However, it would have been even more helpful if I’d been able to figure out a substitute for a missing credit card.

2.  The handy nature of the word “CUSS”

This very handy new word came by way of the comment section of my blog (Thanks Daisha!)  It’s a little gem of a word. 

After blogging yet again about my pernicious penchant for swearing, she suggested that if I was really trying to curb my cursings that I simply replace these boisterious belchings with the word “cuss”.  I’ve tried substitute swear words before but the “darn” and “heck”s would just not satisfy my need to release all that tension out of my mouth. But after giving this handy little “cuss” word a try, I’ve found that it works, really well. The hard “Kuh” sound seems to roll harshly enough off my tongue that it’s just about cured me of the real thing.  Just about.

3.  Never rub your eyes when you’re eating HOT Cheetos.

4.  We are not the Partridge Family

During a recent trip up to Seattle to visit Mark’s mom “G-Ma”, she bought us passes for a place called “Experience Music Project”.  It lets visitors, well, experience music.  And experience it we did, but I’m fairly certain it was not in a way I think the good folks behind the “project” intended.  

The EMP is a place filled with famous instruments played by legendary musicians (most notably, Seattle native Jimi Hendrix), displays of music memorabilia, and interactive music lessons.  Sadly, there’s also sound booths where you can do everything from mix music or try your hand at jamming on drums, guitars, or sing...or form an impromptu band and make a music video.

I didn't even think to take pictures of my kids while we were there.  I was too busy holding my hands over my ears insulating them from the bedlam.  I never worked up the nerve to unplug even one ear long enough to operate a camera.  I just followed my poor talent-impaired kids around...

• Chloe headed strait for the vocals and sung her little off-tune heart out.  
• Mitchell headed to the guitars and surprised us by not being too offensive and informed us he took a guitar class at school (hmmm.  Apparently we weren’t paying too much attention to his school schedule that year).  
• Connor headed strait for the drums-my all-time favorite instrument EXCEPT for when it is done badly. My dad used to play drums in a band, which garnered him a mob of crazed groupies, while Connor groupies consisted of a hand full of reluctant family members all huddling in the corner of the sound booth like we were practicing a grade school earthquake drill.  

It was a frightening day in which I learned once-and-for-all that we Skillmans, will NEVER be the Partridge family.  I don’t think there was ever a day in which I took more aspirin. 

However sad our lackluster musical abilities are, cheer up, I learned something positive too...

5.  You're never too old to find a new talent.

At 49 Mark has discovered something new...running. He’s always been into cycling but a few years back he decided to try running in the winter months because it was just too cold to ride.  Mark’s not really a big distance cycler, instead he prefers to climb up steep roads on his bike.  The downside of that is that when you reach the summit in the wintertime the coast back down is a very breezy and chilly one. So he switched to running and it turns out he’s pretty good at it.  

When summer came he neglected his bike and kept right on jogging and started entering races.  He placed second in his first triathlon.  Over the past year he crosses the finish line with impressive times and now has quite a plethora of awards. Who knew?  He'd never run before.  

Finding a new talent at 49 gives the rest of us waaay younger people hope.  I think Mark likes being the old guy that can outrun kids half his age and I wonder if perhaps his quick-ness is more about feeble feisty-ness.  Whatever it is, I’m pretty impressed...

...not impressed to run with him, but impressed nonetheless.

6.  If you inappropriately mis-label moving boxes when you help your friends move, they may not ask you to help them ever again.

My poor friends may have had a bit of trouble making friends when they relocated to their new home, especially if their new neighbors offered to come and help them unpack the new house. 

Unfortunately for my poor friends The Petersens, they had a move AND a wedding that took place just one day apart.  So while they focused on the wedding, I came out and helped them pack. 

What I did not tell them when I offered to help is that when I get ahold of a moving box and a permanent marker-well, some sort of demon seizes me.  These two things together, boxes and permanent markers, create an uncontrollable temptation.  

When I began packing, it with all the good intentions I could muster.  I even occasionally wrote encouraging notes and little friendly memos and left them inside the taped up boxes.  Then as my memory would fade I began intermittently forgetting what I had just taped up inside the box and couldn’t recall exactly what I was supposed to write on the outside. So I’d start writing “I forgot what’s inside”.  It gave me a case of the giggles.  Not the funny “ha-ha” kind of giggles.  I got the devious kind from whence all trouble-making comes.  From there I moved on to labeling their stereo system as 
“8-Track Tape Player and John Denver collection” and then another box as
“embarrassing items from your medicine cabinet”. 

But this box got me in the biggest trouble, but I couldn’t help myself.

…And now they will never ask me to help them again. 

So sad, because my head is abuzz with a lot more scandalous ideas and I've got a fresh marker ready to go.

7.  If your husband is not a big TV watcher, you may not want him to be in charge of your car rental needs. 

I found this out the hard way.  I had flown down to the Vegas area to help mis-label and move boxes for my aforementioned friends.  When I flew in they picked me up at the airport and the plan was for Mark to fly down a week later and rent a car to drive for the rest of our stay. 

Seven days later, Mark shows up in one of these:

My mouth hung open when he pulled up.  Apparently he doesn’t see very many commercials on TV or he’d of seen this one:

Dear Mark: Surrender the man card buddy, you shouldn’t have needed a commercial to figure out that you don't wanna "get with this".


For the remainder of our visit, I rode around in the passenger seat with dark sunglasses and a hat.  I am now searching high and low for a green track suit for Mark, he's certainly "do da dippity" earned it.

8.  Don’t take Ambien if your long distance flight requires you to change planes midway. 

Especially if the change is made someplace like say, El Salvador, and you may just need to be sharp enough to recall some basic high school Spanish to navigate successfully to the next plane.  However, if you insist on popping one anyway (or possibly two), bring along a really good friend and assign them to be your designated driver flyer.  If they're a really good and loyal friend, they’ll help you transfer to the right airplane and you’ll wake up on a beach somewhere and have absolutely no recollection on how you got there.  But you’ll be happy and well rested.

9.  If you put your cat on a diet, it will get very grouchy.


10.  The most exciting yet debilitating news of your life is the day you find out you're going be a grandparent.
This sort of news is one of the hallmarks of life.  An exciting time.  But no one prepares you for the inevitable realization that happens about five minutes after you get such a phone call.  After the initial rush of jubilee, one very horrific realization overshadows:  

You're officially OLD.

Now, if you happen to already be OLD when you get this sort of news for the first time, it may not come as such a blow but when you just recently stepped into your forties, the moment you hear such news your vision suddenly blurs (or in my case blurs worse), you get short of breath, and a half dozen gray hairs suddenly spring out of your head in utter fright.  


Things that freak me out about being a grandparent:

• Being married to a grampa. Ewww!
• What the cuss are these grandchildren going to call me??  Grannie? Grandma? Oh Heaven help me come up with a more youthful sounding grandparent name.
• Accidentally slipping into grandmotherhood with one of those tell-tale hairdos and suddenly preferring comfy shoes.

Things that will be fabulous about being a grandparent:

• Making my own children jealous by spoiling the baby rotten.
• Buying baby clothes that I'll never have to wash and put away.
• Enjoying a baby without any of the poop.
• Knowing the pain and suffering this must be causing my own parents who have to add a dreaded GREAT in front of their names.  Hehehe.
• Boring friends and strangers with baby pictures!

And while we're on the subject of pictures...here's the first of many...

Tree Killer

Our Christmas Tree shriveled and dried up within three days of putting the thing up.  We watered and watered it but couldn't figure out why it was sucking up so much water and dying anyway.

Then we noticed the dang cat has actually taken a liking to something Christmasy...the tree.  Edward has discovered that it can be indoors yet feel outdoors by standing under the tree...

all day long. 

It's been sitting under the tree 24/7 since we put it up.  Unfortunately for the tree, it began balding and completely died up by the time we realized the cat was drinking all the water from the tree and giving its real water dish the snub.

Kid Scratcher, Lazy Lounger, Christmas Music Hater, and now we can add TREE KILLER to the long list of "Edward Scissorhands" evil misdeeds.

...and now, I'm off to take ornaments off a prematurely balding dead tree.

The NEW Parable of the Talents

At Christmastime our church likes to put on a little informal Christmas concert starring the kids.  They ask all of the children if they'd like to sing a carol or play an instrument or do something musical with their family.  They ask EVERYBODY so that everyone feels included.  The problem is, that the Skillman family, who have no musical talent whatsoever,  really truly don't mind being excluded from this sort of thing.  Really.  But each year these do-gooders always insist we do something so we don't feel left out.

So a few years back, in serious desperation and under great duress, we went searching for a talent.  ANY talent.  After looking high and low, and really really low, I remembered a friend that had chimes cut from metal pipes.  It looked like just the thing for our family to attempt.  It wasn't too serious of an instrument, and really, how hard could it be to bang a bunch of pipes with a few metal rods?

Hard.

First, right off the bat, let me just warn you: if you're a family prone to physical outbursts and unruly bantering, it may not be a good idea to try an instrument that gives each person in your group a metal object with which they could bludgeon another family member with should they get frustrated or annoyed.

It was a solid hour before we managed to get through a short little song without a single mistake.  A long bruised up hour.

Yet, last year our first performance went off without a single glitch. We called it our Christmas miracle.  But...instead of acting like professionals by taking a silent bow and returning reverently to our seats, we were so surprised that we actually pulled it off that we dropped our own jaws in awe and wonder and then started giving each other hearty congratulatory high-fives.  We totally blew our cover and everyone knew we were shocked at our own expert performance.  Not only that, we'd disrupted the reverent tone of the whole event by our high-fiving and excited gyrations like the kind you see in an END-ZONE.  Not real churchy if you know what I mean.  Our stunt pretty much chased the spirit out of the room like some sort of reverse exorcism.

This year they actually asked us back again.  (There seem to be no limits to the kindness of Christians). So out came the #@!% bells and another round of horrific chime practicing and metal bludgeoning commenced.

Last Sunday was the big day and our performance turned out...uh...unique.  This year Mark forgot a couple of notes and luckily Connor, who in practices could NEVER get it right, suddenly got the hang of it and would casually tap his dad's bells when he'd forget.  It got to be pretty comical.  Mark would miss a note, Connor would hit his dad's pipe for him and then Mark would audibly say "Oh!".

ting, ting, "Oh!" ting, ting,"Oh!"

As you can imagine, we were quite the spectacle. However, the good part about being so bad was that there were no congratulatory high fives or lewd victory dances at the end of this year's meager performance.

Perhaps this is the year that will get us uninvited from these types of things.  All indications point to our family getting shunned next year because the gal in charge came up to Mark afterwards and said, "Maybe you should bury that talent."

Apparently, our family has single-handedly maxed out Christian kindness AND changed the biblical thinking on whether or not one should hide their talents.

I Think My Cat is Jewish

The house has been marinating in Christmas music and our cat "Edward Scissorhands" has been acting mighty peculiar lately.  Normally it lounges around content to spend the entire day napping somewhere INSIDE the house.  I don't really know when grouchy Edward made the transition from outdoor mouser to indolent indoorsman but it rarely goes outside anymore.

However, I recently found something that will make him pine for the great outdoors...Christmas music.  Once I hit play, the thing will actually awake from a deep slumber and head strait for the door where it will sit, making holiday protestations with it's ears flared back, until someone lets it out.

It'll stay there for a good hour, and if nobody lets it out it will go to the nearest chair conveniently located by an exit and remain there like it's taking part in some sort of non-violent sit-in, keeping it's ears flattened until the music stops or it gets patrolled.

Oy Vey! I think my cat could be Jewish.
 

Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

Fa la la,  la la la,  la! la! la!

This lively Welsh carol,  even though it pre-dates our family, quite accurately describes our foul-weather fashion sense. There's nothing like a day in the woods in festive hats and snow gear--most of which hasn't been updated since the 80's.  Our family seems to have a knack for putting the wonder in Winter WonderLAND.

But when we don the gear, it can only mean one thing--Time for our annual Christmas Tree Hunt. This yearly trek into the woods almost always spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e, which, come to think of it, is the main reason why we don't just buy one off the lot.  Lot trees don't seem to provide enough hazardous foolhardy adventures.  This year was no exception.

Our pilgrimage to the exact spot where we've always found our tree was a little challenging this year due to one very gigantic snow barrier...

Which was accompanied by one very ominous sign:

Before I go any further, I would like to point out a few important differences between boys and girls:
first, Girls can read complex sentences that contain nouns, adjectives, verbs, and most importantly, ill foreboding.  Also, a girl finds it very easy to extrapolate content and come to a sound conclusion based on her reading and thus would have easily and clearly deduced that the road was...well,  closed!  A girl wouldn't even need to be given a valid reason for the closure, she would just turn back and head farther up the road, no questions asked.

Boys on the other hand like to know why? and how come?  And while it is true that most boys can read, they usually prefer reading only small words and very short sentences.

This is why most truck makers use tiny words on products that they want to sell to boys.  For example:

See what I mean? Two numbers, a verb, and a noun.  Oh and an X, boys love x's.

Another highly unpublished truth is that when boys are in the woods, they suddenly become very bad at math.  On this occasion the boys deduced that:

one giant snow barrier + one 4x4 off road truck = the sign was clearly not meant for them.

And I'm sure you can guess what happened next.  Yep, first they decided to four-wheel AROUND the barrier:

My brother handed the boys shovels and the teenagers all attacked the snow at the side of the road.  After lots and lots of digging the truck made it far enough in when they suddenly realized that the side of the road is where the DITCH is located.

This is when they thought maybe they should try just going strait through.

Here's how that plan worked out:  

Did you notice the stellar traction of the 4x4 off-road's front passenger tire?  And while this sort of thing might seem concerning to a female, the boys here are are in total bliss.

Another fact about testosterone, one that boys think is a big secret among men, is that they love getting stuck in the woods. They just don't think we girls know that.  Apparently some freakish wilderness bonding takes place during the process of freeing yourself from Mother Nature's daunting grip.

Not to mention the joy and pleasure men derive from watching their wives give em' a push:

My brother enjoyed the pinnacle of precarious predicaments by having an all out stellar day entertaining himself with the hallmarks of "Unstuck-ing". Not only did he get his wife to push his truck, he got to watch his brother-in-law  (Mark) dig his tires free of the snow.

 ...the teenage boys do more shoveling and hand digging...

All while watching from the comfort of his heated 4x4 Off Road truck.

Meanwhile the little girls, realizing this was as far as their fathers would manage to get them into the woods, used the roadside ditch to entertain themselves:

Sledding into a thicket of trees, that's what memories are made of.

Once the boys had gotten the snow out of their system AND tires, and the girls had sledded to their hearts content, we headed farther up the road--as the sign predicted we would--and got back to the job at hand, finding the Christmas tree.

And while the boys think we think the occasion is all about getting a tree, we girls know it's all just a ruse for the husbands and sons to go play in the woods and force their wives and children to don garish snow apparel.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

This year I've been pretty good.  Unless of course you ask my kids. They'll tell you I've sworn a few times, listened to music a little too loud--even though I warn them not to, and that while they were away at school I snuck in and ate most of the chocolate fun-size bars from their Halloween candy bags.  But in my defense I think the swearing was probably caused by a rogue child, the music was loud in an effort to drown out and counteract theirs, and despite stealing chocolate from my children I think it made me a calmer mother.

So if these things can be overlooked AND if you can take in account the good things I've done this year like:

• Showing remarkable restraint by NOT posting sordid comments on others Facebook pages
• Used way more recyclable grocery bags (impressive eh?)
• Forcing my family to eat more leftovers so we are not so wasteful (plus it saved me time in the kitchen!) AND...
• Not killing my children after they ruined my car

Then here is my 

Christmas Wish List:

First, I would like Connor's feet to grow.  It's a simple request really and it would make my life so much easier.  Right now we have the same size feet and that is a big problem.  He steals my flip flops and takes them off all over the house AND yard and I can't seem to ever find them.  Not only that, he wears my motorcycle boots and it drives me crazy.  

I own two pair.  He starts off wearing one set and somehow they get all filled up with sand.  Once the toe end is chuck full of sand and they seem to "no longer fit" he just switches to wearing my other pair.  I'm tired of shoe sharing...and with my son no less.  If his feet grew a bit my troubles would be over.

Next, I'm really hoping you can pull some North Pole strings and see if you could please tell my local store to bring back Shower Power.  

Honestly, what happened to my favorite cleaner?  My shower has lost its sparkle and I'm going mad.  I've tried other things but nothing works.  Tried KaBoom...it KaFizzled.  Tilex, nothing.  I can't stand a scummy shower.  Please force these cleaning cartels to bring this back to a store near me.  Everyone deserves to enjoy a Christmas free from the tyranny of soap scum.



Also, I would really like My neck back. Last year it was my eyesight, this year it's my neck.  I'm afraid I'm gonna be spending most of my wishes in the years to come on body parts that are aging, which does not bode well at all.  But this year, while taking some self photos during a long road trip I was horrified to see my poor neck.  What happened to it?  And why didn't people warn me about this sort of madness?

Here's the first photo that set off my aging alarm!  Look at my neck!

Never mind that my sister and I may look haggard and like a couple of bugs in our sunglasses...This was taken on a road trip halfway across the country.  So give us a pass of the overall beauty we're sadly lacking in the photo.  But me? And my neck?  What the heck it that about??

Seriously alarming.  So I started taking the rest of my pictures like this...

This is not a good way to live, all neck nervous.  Please Santa, I would like my young neck back.



I would also really like to See the Space Shuttle launch.  Apparently someone got the bright idea to end the shuttle program before I got to see a real live launch.  This is a serious problem since I put this on my bucket list.  And as you can imagine, that's gonna make it awfully hard to check off if they aren't launching them anymore.

Now, just so you know, I've made a formidable attempt to get this done without asking you for any help.  Go ahead, just ask any of your "we-know-when-you're-awake" Elves and they'll tell you I got pretty darn close to checking this off my list.  T minus 10 close to be exact.  But the weather was really bad in Turkey AND Spain so they scuttled the launch in FLORIDA.  All I got out of the deal was a really long bus ride back to the Cape Canaveral parking lot and this lovely patch.  What the heck do I sew that on to??
  
Seriously, lets imagine for a moment that I went all "scoutmaster" and sewed the thing on to my jacket or something.  What exactly would I say to someone who asked me what my space shuttle patch was for? A scuttled launch?  Not the stuff dreams and bucket lists are made of.  So if there's any way you could speak with the people at NASA, would you ask them to try and get these last couple of launches to go off right on schedule just for me? I've got a bucket list that needs a checkmark.

I would also like to pre-order some better weather for spring baseball.  I froze last year.  And when you're forced to keep the stats and your bad at it,  and your fingers are totally frozen, well, it doesn't make for good record keeping.  Just ask the last couple of umpires that needed me to give them a very accurate game update.  A little more spring sunshine would help my attitude and my accuracy.

And one last request...
If you've got some extra time I'd love it if you'd send your elves to come and clean out the barn.  Really, it needs it.  I'll even leave you homemade cookies instead of the store bought kind if you can pull this off.


Thanks Santa!

Late for War

It's a good thing American independence wasn't dependent on me. We'd all still be speaking with a British accent and have bad teeth. I've recently come to appreciate the fact that our Founding Fathers had WAY better timing than I do.

I learned this lamentable fact when my sister-in-law Wendy planned a re-inacting of the Battle of Bunker Hill for a large scale homeschool demonstration.  She called us to see if Connor and Chloe could show up and fight a mini-war against her kids.  We were supposed to put on all our RED clothes and storm up the hill towards their house where the Shumway kids would all be authentically dressed up as a bunch of rag-tag revolutionaries defending their freedom with a bunch of farm implements from Grandpa Clark's barn.

Much like the Bunker Hill Battle itself:

When I called on a Tuesday to make sure we were all set to storm the battlefield I was informed the whole coup d'etat had already taken place...last week!

Here's what we missed:

 (I'm not sure the kid in green got the memo.)

It was mighty embarrassing when I had to gather my little band of red-dressed marauders and tell them I had led them astray.  I had disappointed my troops at home and thought for a moment they would send me to the gallows.  I was just glad there wasn't REAL freedom at stake, or we'd all be in trouble.  Unfortunately in the memory books here at home, I will go down in history as a wayward General who was late for war.

A House Divided

A mini scandal broke out at the Skillman house about 15 years into our marriage.  It's an Oregonian kinda scandal but I'm sure this sorta thing happens all over the country.

The tragedy occurred when Mark and I both discovered we were fans of opposing college teams.  Obviously, if it took 15 years to discover this discrepancy, we weren't die-hard fans to begin with, but nonetheless, it was very an alarming discovery.  Beavers and Ducks just don't mix.

Here in Oregon, as far as college football goes, you're either a Duck fan or a Beaver fan.  And even though Mark and I never even went to either University, just being an Oregonian forces you to have an opinion on these sort of matters.  I always just assumed any sensible well educated person would naturally be a Duck while Mark on the other hand decided it was better to be a Beaver.  We discovered this small marital glitch a few years back when someone asked us who we were rooting for during the Oregon Civil War, Mark and I simultaneously AND arduously declared opposite sides.  It was shocking.  Or at least mini-shocking.

In all honesty, Mark and I are really not die-hard football fans.  Our interest peaks around play-off time but that's sadly about it.  But, despite the lack of steady interest, we can get pretty heated when the Duck/Beaver discussion gets going.

I think this is because at heart, what we're really fans of, is competition.  Choosing up sides, declaring an enemy, and, most importantly, humiliating a loser.  This is the sort of unsportsmanlike conduct is, for a lack of a better word, sportsmanlike.  It's the sort of way you would never act when it comes to real life, but when you imbed this such ill-gotten behavior into sports, well, this peaks our interest!

So when our family was invited to go to a Civil War party at the Sharps house we had to go.   I was excited about going knowing that my dear yet highly misguided husband was very likely going to be the lone Beaver in the room while Mark, he just wanted to go in hopes of being the one and only person that left the party happy should the Beavers win (fat chance).

So of course we prepared for the big game by supporting our team colors.  Here Mark has successfully convinced Chloe to be a Beaver fan by luring her with Orange Cheetos and Black Oreos.  A classic case of Beaver Bribery which, quite possibly, is the only way to lure someone to willingly become a B-word.

The Superior Duck fans brought all green and yellow snacks for the game.  And while we prefer Cheetos and Oreos over Funyuns, we swore off eating anything vile orange for the day.

Because Mark calls U of O a "hippy school", Connor decided to proudly wear a dread lock hat for the day just to annoy his dad.        [A proud moment for a mother.]

I even took off my wedding ring for the day.  This is not the time to be married to a Beaver fan.  Chloe gave me some hairbands to replace it with. Which, goes to prove her Beaver loyalties are only based on Oreos.

When we arrived at the Sharps house they had designated fan parking.  Ducks park to the left...

...And Beaver fans to the right...

Mark parked to the right of the Duck sign so I promptly got out and moved the Beaver sign over.  This officially put us smack in between.

I will pause now for a moment so you can get your abacus out to help you count the plethora of cars parked in the Beaver Zone...oh nevermind, looks like you're done counting already.

We encountered an unexpected yet serious problem when we brought in our snacks.  Here, scandelously pictured, is Ellie.  Her shirt declares her Duck loyalties while her snack choice was clearly on the Beaver side.  I warned her not to eat anything orange or black until AFTER the game.

And, as I predicted, she jinxed the Ducks who got off to a shoddy start.

Thanks to the Sharp family's electronic bonanza, we were able to segregate fans.  The Duck fans watched in the Sharps theater...

...while we segregated the Beaver fans to the living room.  Lucky for Mark a few Beaver fans decided to show up.

Then we discovered a reward system for the leading team.  A chair massage, which, you got to sit in if your team was currently leading the game.

Mark sat here quite a bit at the beginning.  Mostly because of Ellie whom I caught AGAIN trying to be snack sneaky.

I warned her of the serious dangers and forbid her from ANY snacks if she didn't stop.

Once Ellie swore off Beaver snacks things started looking up for the Ducks.  This gave the Duck fans the rights to the massage chair...

...And gave Danny something to celebrate.  He's the expert duck caller.  [Incidentally, Beaver fans do not like it when Duck fans parade through their assigned fan space after their team has failed to block a touchdown.  Especially if said parade is lead by a crazed duck caller.]

And like a curious foreshadowing, the yellow and green M&M's began to be eaten at a faster rate than the Orange and Black.  This was when I knew the "hippy school" was going to enjoy some great karma.

A Resounding Victory!

And while winning the game was great, Mark's team losing was the real exhilaration.  Not to mention the relief I felt at not having to drive all the way home from Grants Pass as the underdog. That makes for a very uncomfortable drive home, just ask Mark.

That night after Mark went to bed, I snuck in and put a sticker on his bathroom mirror so that when he woke up in the morning he wouldn't forget one very important thing...

He's a loser.

Then I put my wedding ring back on, mini marriage crisis over.