I'm Worried I'm A Furry...

So, things got weird in the bedroom last night. My husband and I were snuggled under the covers, and Chris drifted asleep before I did. I lay drowsily content in his arms and was about two seconds away from entering the Land of Nod myself when my husband started softly snoring. The sleepy serenade didn't annoy me. Instead, it sounded gentle and sweet and conveyed nothing but a sense of contentment. I loved it. My man was happy even when freed from the bonds of consciousness, a realm that dictates he at least feign joy in my presence. And then,

I Trained My Husband to Change the Litter, and So Can You!

My husband and I have been married for almost six years, and in that half decade, we've only had 2.5 actual fights. The first serious squabble between me and Chris obviously concerned the thermostat. The second battle focused on his inability to use basic grammar and punctuation. The most recent ruckus involved determining who had to collect the mushy gifts deposited by our cats in their bathroom box. Our first two altercations hit all the high points: crying, screaming, silent treatments, and couch-sleeping. So, when the Feline Feces Feud first began, I quickly surmised that our marriage couldn't handle

Whiskers and Waffles:  My Parents Met a Furry at Brunch

Did y'all know that my husband, Chris, was engaged to a furry before he snagged me? That's right. A furry. Don't know what that is? Well, neither did my parents. I wasn't ever planning on explaining this particular subculture to them, but then Chris and I took them for brunch at this swank hotel restaurant, and we saw this when we walked into the lobby: Obviously, my folks couldn't help but notice a gigantic dalmatian traipsing around, especially when it tried to hug them. They were also mystified by all the other people parading around wearing an array of ears,