My Colin Confession

OK, it's time to get real. Real Talk with Lia Dee. (Maybe I should have gone with that for my blog title? Probably not. Here is why:) I have been keeping a huge secret from everyone for many years. Most of you know I am married. Very happily. But I can say, with much confidence, that very few of you know that I am really married to this man:

Hi, honey! (No need to get up, we're good here.)

I'm sorry that I have been keeping such a big secret, especially from my real-life (read: fake) husband David. For my "real husband" is none other than the foxy, the humble, the intelligent, the British-accented, the lean, the tall, the curly haired, the dreamy, the causal, the dimpled, the understatedly elegant, the masculine: Colin Firth, also known to me, personally, as sugar lips.

To clarify: Sugar lips is my "real husband" because if he were only my "fake husband," then that would mean my current conscious state is my "real world" and that just simply cannot be so because: 1. I am sitting at the NRA 2. There are fat rolls on my stomach 3. I am sitting at the NRA and finally, 4. Celery is my lunch today. Medical clarification: Firth, Firthy, the Firthinator is my "real husband" because I am in denial about the few depressing aspects of my life.

When I need to burn some cals—even though I really want to be stuffing my face with creamy pasta, or steak and seasonal cocktails—I've been forcing myself on walks, lately. So I trudge this big ole' body on up sidewalk, and I slip into my "real world" where sugar lips and I live for half of the year in a villa in the Italian countryside and spend the other half jumping back and forth between the different Greek islands. In case you were wondering, he looks the exact, perfect same way he always does and I look something like Penelope Cruz with normal-size hands and feet, standing on my yacht, holding my toy poodle, Marlee. (I could use my terrible photo-editing skills to show you just what that would look like here, but I'm too scared to take that giant step (down in my spiral).

On my walks, I talk and laugh with my "real husband" who thinks I am witty and adorable and sweet, and I let the wind blow my hair in a "dream world" free-spirited, beautiful way, that, in the "real world" makes me look like a crazy person who is in desperate need of a hair-tie. Talking to myself? Check. Laughing to myself? Check. Hair blowing in all different directions around my face so I can hardly see, as I stumble and huff my way through a less-than-half-mile walk? Check. Are you starting to pick up on my real world/fake would problem (read: delusions)? If you saw me walking like this, talking to myself like this, with a crazed look in my eye, would you call your local police? It's probably likely. But, I'll have you know that Colin and I don't care about that.

Nope. This kind of love is worth it, and anyone who doesn't understand us has never REALLY been in love in REAL life before. So you will just have to live with that, or we will. Either way we will continue to live together.

Before I go, I thought I would share one more photo from my private files. Here it is:

Jump in, the water's fine (and so am I).

I don't know what it is, but lately I am starting to enjoy "exercising" more and more. What a mystery.

Murphy's Law, AKA: Law of my Life

Some people have allergies, some people get sunburned easily, others have unruly cowlicks, but me, I have Murphy's Law. That's right. Good ole' Murphy. According to Wikipedia, Murphy's Law is defined as "an adage or epigram that is typically stated as: 'Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.'"

Sounds peachy as a way of life, huh? Ole' Murph is so annoying we have even considered (Read: I have considered) naming our first child Murphy in hopes that it will off-set this horrid luck. (Murphy Dangelico. Ick) But, alas, it would probably just end up in an epic, LOST-worthy catastrophe of remote desert islands, excessive nickname-calling and a ridiculously short, evil kidnapper with a God-complex.

The ways in which Murphy's Law plagues me include—but are not limited to—the following:

• First year of being married, insane amount of money due on our taxes
• Multiple gray hairs before 25 (Shout out to my mom who, whenever I comment on my grays, says: "You know, your grandfather was completely white by 25." Please note that the number gets closer and closer to my current age each time she mentions it.)
• My job (Growing up in a rented farm house with no farm animals does not a cowgirl make.)
• Tall, big hands AND big feet ('Nuff said. And none of that "at least you're proportional," shite)
• Eight-kids, poor parents (Sorry Mom.) (You know the song "Everybody, everybody, everybody wants to be a cat?" -Aristocats Well, just think of it this way: All my friends are cats. I'm a gargantuan mouse.)
• Car repairs, always at the worst times
• Elbow holes (THIS IS ONE OF THE WORST)
• Fancy and expensive pizza stone breakage
• Excessive sleepiness (I have managed to stay up until 12 exactly once in this new year, at least.)
• Small teeth (See bullet number 4 = cruel combination)
• Honeymoon FAIL (Including: Food poisoning and other undesirable illnesses, excessive buginess, overweight nude sunbathers and lack of AC/fan/a freaking breeze?)
• Queso stain on my only white dress shirt (Cruel and unusual)
• Coupons expiring the day before I want goto use them (ALWAYS)

and finally...the most-current whammy:

• While trying to show a friend (Shout out to SJ!) how to to set-up an out-of-office reply, my email freaks out and sends an out-of-office reply to EVERY SINGLE EMAIL IN MY INBOX. What the? How is that even possible, right? (My boss got 100 emails. The DEPARTMENT HEAD GOT 47.) WHAAT?!

Someone please save me from the evil Murphy. Or just put me out of my misery. (Or just buy me a drink?)

P.S.: And, if, just if, you happen to be wondering what the little evil Murphy Dangelico might look like, Google has an answer for you. And (somehow, in God's name) this is what it came up with:

...I can totally see the resemblance.