Sarcomical

Oh, you mean THAT friend...how silly of me.

Whilst intensely watching a football game at our home last night with his brother, Mr. S. was, for reasons far too convoluted to explain yet quite innocent I assure you, trying in vain to come up with the word 'burlesque'.

"You know...no no no, not a strip club, what is that word?"

"Hooters?" his brother chimed unhelpfully.

"No! Not like that, you know, it's not...you know, there's a stage..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

*frustrated arrgh* "No, yes you do! Our...friend has some, he owns one, you know that guy...Chuck! You know Chuck, he owns them! uh...come on!"

"Who the hell is Chuck?"

"CHUCK!!! ahh, Chuck, oh crap what's his name...we know him, our friend...I mean that guy...Chuck...Chuck..." *beseeching eyes*

"I did not know we HAD a friend named Chuck, where am I supposed to go with this?"

"CHUCK! FROM THE SHOW! I know you know this...CHUCK!"

"Oh my God, are you talking about Chuck BASS?!?"

*beat of silence*

I DIE. I DIE WITH TEARS SEEPING FROM MY EYEBALLS. I DIE LAUGHING SO HARD I HAVE DEPLETED ALL OXYGEN FROM MY CELLS.

While I am laying there dead, the husband has to explain to his brother that Chuck Bass is from Gossip Girl, that he watches Gossip Girl, and apparently a fictional character who owns a burlesque club and posesses questionable moral qualities is our friend.

I will put the hurt on you (a bedtime nightmare)...

The other night, as we were getting to bed and the dogs were assuming their regular positions (Lucy & Ricky on top of the bed, Shiloh under it), I crossed the room from my closet and saw something that troubled me greatly. One of the middle support casters under the bed was leaning crooked.

There is a good chance you are possibly already saying, So what? What a stupid thing to worry about. It's not like they are actually bearing the brunt of holding up your bed or anything; it's not like the entire unit is going to collapse; it's not like your bed will split in two...your bed sits on a wooden frame, those frakking wheels might as well be ornamental.

This is basically what my husband was trying to tell me.

However, what I heard was, That caster is the only thing keeping this bed one piece; it is the only thing standing between you and wood-splintered carnage. This bed is going to crr-reak in the middle of the night, and before you realize what is happening you will crush your dog with the very weight of your own selfish, too-busy-to-stop-and-fix-the-vitally-important-caster lumps of flesh. You will crush him and he will die and also you will have to move because how could you continue to live in a house where you killed your dog with your stupidity and carelessness and OH also your body weight? Now, GET UNDER THERE AND FIX IT YOU LOSER!

And so, because I could not be swayed with reason OR cookie bribes, I got down on the floor, sat facing the errant metal leg, braced myself on the carpet, and pushed it back into place with my foot. Aha, sweet safety.

EXCEPT.

Being down on the floor allowed me the opportunity to see the more precarious and more threatening BACK caster. It was practically making a right triangle with the floor. This was unacceptable. THE HORROR MUST BE PREVENTED! Of course, this meant I got down on my stomach and shimmied toward the middle of the underbelly. Now, mind you our bed is quite heavy, being an oversized King, and I could not get myself enough leverage to pull or push this leg back into place. Could you go lift that side of the bed up a little? I implored from under my one-foot prison.

This did not help.

And now, I was battling not only the goddamned caster but also my inner Freakoutometer, which was threatening to bubble and smoke as the floor seemed to begin pushing me tighter and tighter against the roof of my tiny compartment. Be cool, I thought. Just be cool. And I WAS cool. I managed to spin myself around underneath the bed and get myself in a position where I could brace my feet and puuuullllll. Voila! Straight as an arrow. And now...to simply get out. I started to wiggle backward and try to un-twist half-inch by half-inch, like some rewinding earthworm.

This was where my husband for some reason decided it would be a good time to ask over and over Can you get out? Can you get out? Can you get out? and I consequently told him to shut up!!! shut up!!! are you kidding me shut up!!! before I lost all memory of how to breathe correctly.

Yet somehow, as I clawed my way toward light and life, I was able to form this thought:
When I get out of here I am going to kick you in the kneecaps.

11 Years Old...

We celebrated our anniversary of being married 11 years and dating about 14 1/2 downtown this year, and after a shockingly ravenous meal of multiple varieties of meats (scurried about via 'Meat Gauchos' carrying giant skewers of sizzling non-veggie-ness), at Brazilian Steakhouse Fogo de Chao, we paused to pretend with The Sexy. It was dangerous for all who passed by our radius. As you can clearly tell.

(More photos and awesomeness to come from the past few days...*including MY BIRTHDAY ahem ahem*. Oh, I assure you.)

Texty Voyeurism: How to handle yourself in a storm

*at approximately 1:30am last week while The Husband was out of town

Me:  (local weatherman) just came on live to say maybe hail. winds up to 50mph.
Him:  Be careful
Me:  uh...careful doing what?
Him:  Whatever you do when it hails and winds at fifty
Me:  oh you mean stand out in the front yard and dance on the lightpole?
Him:  Exactly
Me: okay well, maybe won't wear sequined bikini then

a sample of the companionship & mental stimulation you single folks are missing...

ME (from my office): "great, my sweater stinks"

HIM (talking back, from his office): "why, what did you do to it?"

ME: "nothing, it just smells like stinky sweater"

HIM: "then take it off"

ME: "but...i'm COLD"

Monkey Breakfasts

How many people are greeted in the morning with their breakfast arranged to look like a somewhat frightening interpretation of a primate?

I sense that, though I may not be able to claim solitary ownership of such an honor, I am at least in a minority among women AND men.

Even taking silly breakfast plates out of the equation, I am what is and should be considered fortunate in the partner department. True, we've had our share of typical relationship waves, and because of how young we were when we were married (22 & 23), we've had to spar and strain through each others' evolution into almost completely different organisms in our 10 years together (14 if you count the dating, but who really sees it all during dating, anyway?). I mean, hell. I feel like a virtually-unrecognizable person from when I even began this blog 4 1/2 years ago. (Seriously. I cringe at the thought of going deep into the archives.)

My point is that we have developed a massively deep love and appreciation for one another. We know each other incredibly well. We have a secret sense of humor between us. Our conversations, and even some of our 'arguments' often take a Seinfeldian (-slash- SNL -slash- Barney Stinsonesque) turn. I swear it's true, as annoyingly made up as it sounds. We understand each other. We know we're best friends and we've realized we can balance that with a romantic relationship. We're growing up together.

And we've had to deal with some of life's ass-kickings together.

As regulars around here are aware, 2008 (otherwise known as The Year that Shall Not Be Mentioned), was a difficult one for us. I felt emotionally bitch-slapped by my family and it was hard to process. It threw me into a downard spin and just kept on twirling. We both felt betrayed, and for months, the situation escalated. Just as we had decided to say Screw it, we need to stop caring and live our life, we got some results back from a physical and blood tests which technically diagnosed him with a disease that affects the body's ability to regulate blood sugar. Yes, I could just call that what it is and what you are thinking, but you see, we have decided after these 3 months not to label him that way in our conversation, because we believe in a) the power of words and b) the fact that we will be able to aggressively normalize the condition and that eventually he will be, while still eating carefully and being vigilant in health, free of affects or signs of it. We have altered much of our lifestyle to approach this new reality.

When we first found out, we were still so emotionally raw from the 3 or 4 months prior that I'll admit, it was a severely low moment. We cried, together and separately. We took turns being angry, a few misdirected moments toward each other but more pointedly with the way our lives had just been changed. I mostly felt incredible fear at the mere thought of anything threatening to make me lose him EVER, no matter how far away. We all know, if we have partners, that there will be a day down the road...but still, in our stage of life it feels so very far ahead in a misty, distant future. However, my dear not-teenaged readers, we are getting closer to moments during which our sweet cloudy dream of endless living with the person we love is going to be challenged, and we begin to REALLY feel our humanity. And how much we can not possibly squeeze enough out of loving each other.

My heart...it still softens when I remember one of the first things he sadly said to me shortly after he told me the results:

"...but, I won't be able to make you pancakes for breakfast anymore!"

I love that boy.

Now, he has made extremely good progress toward maximizing his health and goddamit, he's also completely shrunk out of all of his clothes (boys suck) and has many more muscles for me to run my hands over, so don't worry. The path ahead looks VERY good. Finding this out when we did has ensured I will have him for MANY extra years and our eating & workout changes are working in my favor as well. Also, I have informed him that women in my family have a history of making it into their 90's, and I'd like to go first. So...you know.

My point is, I'd like to be having Monkey Breakfasts for a really long time. This guy...he's good.

You're a Text Voyeur: Leathers

Following is a thrilling text convo (exactly as typed) between me & The Husband about an hour ago, who is currently on a Boy Weekend with his brothers, dad and uncle involving food, football and stupidness:

Him:  What are you up to. is your boyfriend over
Me:  he just left he had to go recycle his beer cans.
Him:  Sweet
Me:  when he comes back we're going to go online to order my leathers for when i ride on his motorcycle.
Him:  Good to know. pink ones i hope matching lucy's collar
Me: no red. red with a black lightning bolt down my back.

The Animal Crossing Conspiracy

So, the impact of the new game has been felt in our home already over the weekend.

The Husband created his own character and was moved into my town. And he started doing things. Things that pissed me off. Things like stealing flowers from where I planted them, shaking all of the money out of the trees, and buying the good stuff at the store before I could even look at it. And he's bragging about how he figured out that if you pound the rock with your shovel a few times, sometimes a bunch of money flies out.

I told him he needs to move the hell out of my town. But he can't. The game won't let him. Also, it's single-player only, so we have to take turns. I don't share well.

I said today, hey, if this ends of being the beginning of the end of our marriage, just remember you're the one who brought it into our home.

...I also said I bet the terrorists invented this game.

technorati tags: NaBloPoMo

Stolen

After a year or so layered with family estrangement & fighting, two (TWO) gut-punch medical revelations, a suicidal almost-brand-damn-new car, a stolen wallet & credit cards from our driveway you stupid punks (maybe aforementioned car killed itself in shame?), a depressing financial cul-de-sac, and a general layer of Meh spread on top of the entire crap sandwich...you could possibly understand that I couldn't help but laugh for just one second (maybe seven) when The Husband came back from his business trip a few days ago and let me know that GUESS WHAT I ACCIDENTALLY LEFT MY BLACKBERRY PLUGGED IN AT THE HOTEL AND THEN THEY STOLE IT.

Of course, we were assured that "our people are typically VERY good at turning things in like this". Uh-huh. Right. How SHOCKING it is that someone with little money and a low-paying job in a not-great area would see such a shiny silver pretty thing, unplug it from the wall, TURN IT OFF SO NO ONE CAN CALL IT, and take it home to kiss and caress and love while they figure out whether to sell it or try to scam their way into getting a number put on it. WHAT A SURPRISE.

Oh, maybe they are getting a pretty box with a big red bow to put it in before they turn it in to the front desk? You know, to make the reunion even that. much. more. special. Because they want to do the decent thing, but they want to do it with Flair. Yes. Of course.

You know, when I was about 8 or 9 years old, I went to a birthday party at the roller rink and my parents gave me a $10 bill for snacks. Do you have ANY IDEA how much candy or pizza or gross heating-carousel hot dogs could have been purchased with that?!? I set the money down next to me as I laced up my little skates, and made the mistake of absentmindedly walking away without it. Less than five minutes later, I ran back and it was gone. This asshole always-visiting-the-principal boy who was in my class had been right there, and people saw him walk around with the money (probably buying a giant piece of cheap, greasy pizza), but he denied it and no one could prove it. I cried into the shoulder of the parent chaperone. Would it have been that hard to turn it in and not stick it in your pocket? I felt violated and angry and cheated, and couldn't understand why anyone would take something that wasn't theirs and not have the decency to care that it belonged to someone else.

I would like to go back and kick that jerk in the balls.

...Same to YOU, Country Inn & Suites cleaning skank lady.

Also? Am SO READY for 2009. Please. 2008 can suck it.

technorati tags: NaBloPoMo

Why The Husband & I Don't Shower Together...

Listen. I know that the magical land of movies and television often likes to lead you to believe that couples often shower together, and that it's lots of fun, or is a symbolic act of grownup cohabitation. I mean, don't you remember Aiden & Carrie's "let's elope in Hawaii; let's get Maui'd" shower moment? Or the many times you've seen someone in a movie playfully surprise their partner by sneaking into their shower, like that's supposed to be the Sexiest Surprise Ever?

LIES.

Under such illusions, many new-ish couples try to make a go of this practice. Hey, even The Husband and I gave it a try several times throughout the first few years of our marriage. And granted, a few times it was somewhat fun...but not equal to the work that had to be put into it. There are a lot of reasons why we've pretty much let that one die over our 10+ years together.

Honestly, unless you're Brangelina, you're not going to really find a joint shower enjoyable after a) 27 years old OR b) 3 years of marriage. Seriously. And Brangelina, we are not. We may still be kind of cute, but we're not going to be posing in magazines half-naked for the opposite sex's enjoyment anytime soon. And while a couple should be comfortable together, you eventually get to a point where you're comfortable already, dammit and just want to spend some time alone without having to look at All of That or having someone look at All of Yours.

There's also a temperature issue. Here's the fact: men bitch about hot water. Me? I turn into a shivering mass of flesh under water that doesn't create steam. (p.s. shivering blue flesh is not Super Hot) In addition, have you seen my husband? He's 6'6", and in order for him to be under the water, I end up in the corner air-drying (and again, freezing my ass off).

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, when you shower together there is entirely too much pressure to Be Sexy. I have to be honest, I go in the shower to RELAX and meditate on my day, not try to look hot while I shave my armpits. If you're going to freeze, be put on display, see things that you don't necesarily want to watch and have to share your bodywash...and then don't *ahem* or at least make out a little? You feel like you've somehow failed. And pah-lease, don't be deluded enough to think you can even DO that successfully and enjoyably in the shower...what with all of the slipping, and the lack of support, and the frustrating angles... NO. Don't do it. 

I'll take a solo shower, please. Or even better, a solo bubble bath.

Also? I should probably have prefaced this post by telling my mom not to read it. Hmm.

technorati tags: NaBloPoMo

Some Things Friday #64: Feeling Depressed About Love Edition

Some Things I Love:

1. Exploring
   
2. Affection
   
3. Laughter
   
4. Intimacy
   
5. Playfulness

Some Things I Hate:

1. Living to work, but forgetting to live
   
2. Angry emails
   
3. The silent treatment
   
4. Assumptions
   
5. Lack of awareness

Some Things I Just Don't Get:

1. Resistance to joy
   
2. Settling for numbness
   
3. Forgetting the value of a happy memory
   
4. Ignoring life's possibilities
   
5. Not having the desire to make it better