The husband and I don't go out to eat very often. For a few reasons: 1. We like cooking together 2. Cooking at home saves money 3. We have a hard time deciding where to go 4. It seems to be hard to choose a healthy dish to eat when dining out (and the husband and I like to eat healthy) So, since we don't go out too often, it makes it fun and more exciting when we do decide to dine out. Funny things happen to us when we eat out, though. Funny things that make eating at certain places more memorable and bring a smile to my face when I think about it.
It is always a bit of a task trying to decide where to go to eat. We usually start by checking our gift cards to see where we can go eat for free (because really, who doesn't love a free meal?). If we find a gift card yo a restaurant that sounds appetizing, we then have to think about where it is located in realtion to the new home. (Because living here for a year does not mean that I remember where anything is besides the grocery stores.) Then we have to decide upon a time that we want to go. And really, even reading back over this it sounds ridiculous. As you can tell, we aren't a "fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants" couple. We like to plan and then execute.
A couple years ago, we got a gift card to Chili's. And a special occassion came up and we decided to go out to eat. It was a weekday and we went for an early dinner, so the place was on the empty side. Which doesn't bother me at all. That just means we get extra attention. The host was a guy, probably between 17 and 20. He was very nice and friendly.
Host - How many?
Husband - Two.
Host - Okay, right this way.
Husband - Thank you.
Host - So how are you guys today?
Husband - Good thank you.
Host - How is the weather outside? Nice?
Husband - Yes, actually not too hot but warm.
Host - Great. Here's your table and your waiter will be right with you.
He hands us our menus and walks away so we can get an idea of what we might want to order. We busied ourselves with trying to decide what to eat when our waiter came up.
Waiter - Hi, my name is John, I'll be your waiter for today.
At the sound of his voice, the husband and I looked up. And we were completely confused. The waiter looked like he was between 17 and 20, very nice and friendly. He was acting like he had never seen us before, but he looked so familiar.
Husband - Aren't you... the. same.... Aren't you the same guy who just... seated us?
Waiter - Yea. It was a joke.
Husband - Oh.
At this point, I completely lost it. I had to look away or I would have burst out loud laughing hysterically. I felt bad because this poor guy was completely embarrassed. I'm sure was bored and was just trying to spice up his work time by having a little fun. But it was entirely weird. And so funny. The husband and I still think back on this experience and still laugh about it. I don't know how we do it, but we always seem to attract the crazies.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A Complaint to My Neighbors
When the husband and I got engaged, the husband had it all planned out. He is very much a list person. One of those that makes a list for virtually everything and then checks it off as he completes his tasks. Although he did not have an actual list, I know that he had a virtual list in his mind of things that must happen in his life before other things were allowed to occur. For example, he made it a point to have a permanant, full time job in place before looking for a house to buy. Also, he bought a home before proposing to me so that when we got married I would be fully provided for. I love this aspect of my husband. He is a planner and for that reason we are able to live in a brand new neighborhood.
Part of the perks of being a brand-new-home-homeowner is that everything is new. The house, the appliances, the carpet, the grass outside and the pool. Did I mention the grass is new? Now, don't get me wrong, our neighborhood is mostly comprised of homes and not so much grass, but there are grassy areas for kids to frolic in and for dogs to sniff at. However, we have noticed a growing problem in our growing community.
Almost everyone who lives here owns a dog. While this is not necessarily a bad thing, it definitely has it's downsides. And for me, those downsides far outweigh the upsides. Which is why the husband and I don't own a dog. That, and we don't feel that we have enough room for a dog. The husband and I have noticed a few things about the said brand new grassy areas since the community dog population has grown. One of which is that the grass is now dying in more than a couple of areas around the neighborhood. I understand that dogs need to relieve themselves, but please for the love of everyone who wants to enjoy nice, brand new grass, vary the locations on which you allow your furry creatures to pee-pee. It's so sad that our green grass now has patchy dead areas.
We have not only noticed that dog owners are actively allowing their pets to kill our neighborhood grass, but we also find that a lot of those said dog owners refuse to pick up their dog droppings. Yes, their dog poo is all over our small grassy areas meant for everyone to enjoy. And instead of everyone being able to enjoy them, only the dogs who don't care that they are about to step in stinky masses dare to venture onto the grass. This problem has only grown in the past few months. More and more people find it perfectly acceptable to leave their dogs leavings behind. Without so much as a look back.
And then there are those who pick up their dog's poo, tie it up in a bag and then toss the bag into the bushes. This really confuses me. I for one, can completely relate to not wanting to pick up hot, steamy dog poo. (Another reason I don't particularly want a dog.) But what I cannot fathom is why anyone would pick up the poo and then throw it in the bushes. What is the point of this? If I ever see someone do this, I will personally ask them why that is better than leaving it in the first place. Now we have bags and dog poo and dying grass. All over our new neighborhood.
Part of the perks of being a brand-new-home-homeowner is that everything is new. The house, the appliances, the carpet, the grass outside and the pool. Did I mention the grass is new? Now, don't get me wrong, our neighborhood is mostly comprised of homes and not so much grass, but there are grassy areas for kids to frolic in and for dogs to sniff at. However, we have noticed a growing problem in our growing community.
Almost everyone who lives here owns a dog. While this is not necessarily a bad thing, it definitely has it's downsides. And for me, those downsides far outweigh the upsides. Which is why the husband and I don't own a dog. That, and we don't feel that we have enough room for a dog. The husband and I have noticed a few things about the said brand new grassy areas since the community dog population has grown. One of which is that the grass is now dying in more than a couple of areas around the neighborhood. I understand that dogs need to relieve themselves, but please for the love of everyone who wants to enjoy nice, brand new grass, vary the locations on which you allow your furry creatures to pee-pee. It's so sad that our green grass now has patchy dead areas.
We have not only noticed that dog owners are actively allowing their pets to kill our neighborhood grass, but we also find that a lot of those said dog owners refuse to pick up their dog droppings. Yes, their dog poo is all over our small grassy areas meant for everyone to enjoy. And instead of everyone being able to enjoy them, only the dogs who don't care that they are about to step in stinky masses dare to venture onto the grass. This problem has only grown in the past few months. More and more people find it perfectly acceptable to leave their dogs leavings behind. Without so much as a look back.
And then there are those who pick up their dog's poo, tie it up in a bag and then toss the bag into the bushes. This really confuses me. I for one, can completely relate to not wanting to pick up hot, steamy dog poo. (Another reason I don't particularly want a dog.) But what I cannot fathom is why anyone would pick up the poo and then throw it in the bushes. What is the point of this? If I ever see someone do this, I will personally ask them why that is better than leaving it in the first place. Now we have bags and dog poo and dying grass. All over our new neighborhood.
So, the association decided it would be a good idea to put in a bunch of these
all over the neighborhood. I for one think this is a fabulous idea. They not only have the little baggies that every dog owner needs in order to pick up the poo, but it also has a trash can attached so that they can then dispose of their dog waste in an actual trash can. But, this has not helped our issues. And apparently, other neighbors are tired of this phenomenon as well because on coming home one afternoon, the husband and I spotted this sign.
As you can see, there are two piles of dog poo on either side of the sign, and the sign itself has a doggie poo-poo bag attached to the side of it. What's worse is that directly across the small side street in our neighborhood is one of those trash-can-with-doggie-poo-bags-attached signs (pictured above... what does one call those things anyway?).
I loved this sign so much that everytime we drove by it I would ask the husband if he thought "Our Sign" was still there. Yes, I lovingly referred to it as "Our Sign" because I think it is that awesome and I secretly wish I had had the nerve to create such a masterpiece.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Spatulas and Spiders
Before the husband and I met, I didn't cook. At all. I had no desire and my mom would do it for me. Where was the need? It became apparent shortly after we started dating, however, that the husband wanted a wife that would cook. He loves cooking and thinking of new things to add to existing dishes or creating eniterly new dishes.
When I didn't instantly jump at the idea of being able to be in the kitchen, he was a little sneaky about getting me in there. He would casually ask me to stir this or that while he cut something else. This eventually turned into him giving me complete tasks that I could handle on my own. Like cooking pasta while he cooked the chicken and sauce.
Then one day he called and told me he had a surprise for me. I was excited, but no matter how much I pressed, he wouldn't tell me what it was. When I saw him later that day he handed me my present. Let me preface this by saying that I hate opening gifts in front of people. Not because I am selfless and don't like getting gift. I love presents. I love getting things that make me feel special. I hate opening gifts in front of an audience because I cannot hide my emotions. Whatever I am feeling is always plastered all over my face. There is never a question as to how I am feeling, all one has to do is look at my face and they will know instantly. I can only imagine what my face looked like as I opened my gift: a cookbook. And that was the beginning of the end.
I now am getting to the point where I like to cook. Sometimes. It does really help that the husband loves to cook and will always get in the kitchen with me. We cook side by side a few times a week. It's nice. The other day I was cooking and the husband was helping. We had just finished with the stir fry vegetables and chicken. As the husband was holding out the plate, I started to scoop until I stopped.
I started backing away as fast as I could without running and trying to spit out that there was something I was backing away from. I couldn't quite communicate what I saw because I was hyperventilating. The husband was a little freaked. He thought something was really wrong and was asking me what was wrong. He must have asked 10 times before I was able to answer. When I finally caught my breath I told him there was a spider that had dropped down from its web and was floating dangerously close to the food.
He couldn't see it at first because the spider was black. But when he finally did see it he grabbed the spatula I was holding in my hand to smash it against our counter. But before he did smash it he flipped it over and found the red hourglass. Yep. There was a black widow that tried to have dinner with us. I immediately grabbed disinfectant and cleaned the spatula and the counter. When thanking the husband for coming to my rescue I also asked that next time he not use our spatula to smash it.
And now I have a recipe to share. This has become one of the husband's and my favorite recipes. It is a chicken and vegetable pizza on whole wheat garlic and herb dough.
Ingredients: (The vegetables change every time we make it based on what we have. This time we included:)
2 Boneless Skinless Chicken Breasts, cubed
1 Roma Tomato
Onion
2 Tablespoons Minced Garlic
2 Tablespoons Butter
8 oz. Provolone Cheese Shredded
Pizza Dough (We like the garlic and herb dough from Trader Joe's)
Broccoli
Fennel
Bell Pepper
Carrots
*The amounts of vegetables we use varies, but it is usually between 1/2 cup to 1 cup of each
Cut up vegetables of your choice. Set them aside and cook the cubed chicken. Set the chicken aside and saute the vegetables (all except tomato) in minced garlic and butter until they are cooked to your liking. The husband and I like them slightly crunchy. Add the chicken to the veggies for the last minute to add the butter and garlice flavor.
While the vegetables are sauteing, roll the pizza dough out to desired size and shape. Heat the oven to 350 and cook the dough for about 10 minutes.
Take the dough out and add the sauteed veggies and chicken. Be sure to spread the butter and garlic over the veggies on the dough as well.
Add the provolone cheese.
Top with tomatoes.
Bake for another 20-30 minutes, until the dough is slightly crispy on the edges and the cheese is bubbly. And enjoy!
When I didn't instantly jump at the idea of being able to be in the kitchen, he was a little sneaky about getting me in there. He would casually ask me to stir this or that while he cut something else. This eventually turned into him giving me complete tasks that I could handle on my own. Like cooking pasta while he cooked the chicken and sauce.
Then one day he called and told me he had a surprise for me. I was excited, but no matter how much I pressed, he wouldn't tell me what it was. When I saw him later that day he handed me my present. Let me preface this by saying that I hate opening gifts in front of people. Not because I am selfless and don't like getting gift. I love presents. I love getting things that make me feel special. I hate opening gifts in front of an audience because I cannot hide my emotions. Whatever I am feeling is always plastered all over my face. There is never a question as to how I am feeling, all one has to do is look at my face and they will know instantly. I can only imagine what my face looked like as I opened my gift: a cookbook. And that was the beginning of the end.
I now am getting to the point where I like to cook. Sometimes. It does really help that the husband loves to cook and will always get in the kitchen with me. We cook side by side a few times a week. It's nice. The other day I was cooking and the husband was helping. We had just finished with the stir fry vegetables and chicken. As the husband was holding out the plate, I started to scoop until I stopped.
I started backing away as fast as I could without running and trying to spit out that there was something I was backing away from. I couldn't quite communicate what I saw because I was hyperventilating. The husband was a little freaked. He thought something was really wrong and was asking me what was wrong. He must have asked 10 times before I was able to answer. When I finally caught my breath I told him there was a spider that had dropped down from its web and was floating dangerously close to the food.
He couldn't see it at first because the spider was black. But when he finally did see it he grabbed the spatula I was holding in my hand to smash it against our counter. But before he did smash it he flipped it over and found the red hourglass. Yep. There was a black widow that tried to have dinner with us. I immediately grabbed disinfectant and cleaned the spatula and the counter. When thanking the husband for coming to my rescue I also asked that next time he not use our spatula to smash it.
And now I have a recipe to share. This has become one of the husband's and my favorite recipes. It is a chicken and vegetable pizza on whole wheat garlic and herb dough.
Ingredients: (The vegetables change every time we make it based on what we have. This time we included:)
2 Boneless Skinless Chicken Breasts, cubed
1 Roma Tomato
Onion
2 Tablespoons Minced Garlic
2 Tablespoons Butter
8 oz. Provolone Cheese Shredded
Pizza Dough (We like the garlic and herb dough from Trader Joe's)
Broccoli
Fennel
Bell Pepper
Carrots
*The amounts of vegetables we use varies, but it is usually between 1/2 cup to 1 cup of each
Cut up vegetables of your choice. Set them aside and cook the cubed chicken. Set the chicken aside and saute the vegetables (all except tomato) in minced garlic and butter until they are cooked to your liking. The husband and I like them slightly crunchy. Add the chicken to the veggies for the last minute to add the butter and garlice flavor.
While the vegetables are sauteing, roll the pizza dough out to desired size and shape. Heat the oven to 350 and cook the dough for about 10 minutes.
Take the dough out and add the sauteed veggies and chicken. Be sure to spread the butter and garlic over the veggies on the dough as well.
Add the provolone cheese.
Top with tomatoes.
Bake for another 20-30 minutes, until the dough is slightly crispy on the edges and the cheese is bubbly. And enjoy!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
So It Wasn't My Finest Moment...
I am not a bug person. I have, however, gotten better over the years. Instead of screaming at the top of my lungs and sprinting as fast and as far as I can from whatever insect that is trying to invade my space, I slowly back away and almost kind-sorta hyperventilate while still trying to alert the nearest somebody that there is a bug of some sort that needs to be destroyed. Immediately.
And I've been even better than that lately. As you will recall, the husband loves to keep the front door open. And since we have terrible cell phone service in our home (and no, we do not have a land line, do people still get those these days?), he is confined to our front patio while talking on the phone. And since he is on the patio, the front door must be open. It's a rule he has.
One night he was chatting away on said cell phone in said patio and a huge, behemoth of a moth comes barreling into our home through our said open front door. Perfect. And what does the husband do? When he knows I am terrified of any such creature? He comes in to tell me that a moth just came in the house and closes the front door. He trapped me inside the house, with no other way forme the moth to escape and continued his conversation on the patio. With the door closed.
After a few moments of me backing as far away from the moth as possible, I had a thought. It's just a moth. A stupid moth that just wants to be near the lights. And that's when I grabbed the husband's magazine. I wasn't about to use any possession of mine. Moth guts on my things? No. Thank. You. So I wad up the magazine as best as I can and slowly approach the moth. By this time he has landed on the top of the wall near the ceiling. I drag a chair over to the spot and carefully climb up, making sure to keep an eye on the moth at all times. Afterall, there is no telling what this moth is capable of.
Finally on top of the chair, I ease my way to a fully extended standing position so that I can reach the moth. Scared as I was, I took a swing at the moth with the magazine. And miss. The moth did not appreciate the attempted swing and in defense swoops down and tries to dive bomb me. I, in the mean time, have jumped off the chair and dashed as far away as possible while screaming in terror. I am now being chased by the most malicious moth I have ever encountered and the husband is still on the patio talking. Did I mention the door was closed?
The same scenario happened again in the bathroom. As I finally worked up enough nerve to smash the moth, I only got a portion of him. (I've never been good at baseball, go figures I'm also terrible at swinging a magazine.) So instead, I have a wounded moth chasing after me. And this time I can't find where he went.
The husband got off the phone around the time that I was searching for the partially wounded moth. And did he help me search for it? Of course not. He found it much more entertaining to tell me how he saw my attempts at killing the moth through the front window and how he was laughing and retelling my story to his friend that he was talking to on the phone. He also insisted on reinacting my peril by standing on the chair and then jumping down screaming and waving his hands in the air. I have such an understanding husband.
Eventually he did help me search for the moth. And we didn't find him that night. We finally did find him on our counter top a few days later. Dead. I immediately got out the antibacterial disinfectant and sprayed that spot down. At least I killed him right?
And I've been even better than that lately. As you will recall, the husband loves to keep the front door open. And since we have terrible cell phone service in our home (and no, we do not have a land line, do people still get those these days?), he is confined to our front patio while talking on the phone. And since he is on the patio, the front door must be open. It's a rule he has.
One night he was chatting away on said cell phone in said patio and a huge, behemoth of a moth comes barreling into our home through our said open front door. Perfect. And what does the husband do? When he knows I am terrified of any such creature? He comes in to tell me that a moth just came in the house and closes the front door. He trapped me inside the house, with no other way for
After a few moments of me backing as far away from the moth as possible, I had a thought. It's just a moth. A stupid moth that just wants to be near the lights. And that's when I grabbed the husband's magazine. I wasn't about to use any possession of mine. Moth guts on my things? No. Thank. You. So I wad up the magazine as best as I can and slowly approach the moth. By this time he has landed on the top of the wall near the ceiling. I drag a chair over to the spot and carefully climb up, making sure to keep an eye on the moth at all times. Afterall, there is no telling what this moth is capable of.
Finally on top of the chair, I ease my way to a fully extended standing position so that I can reach the moth. Scared as I was, I took a swing at the moth with the magazine. And miss. The moth did not appreciate the attempted swing and in defense swoops down and tries to dive bomb me. I, in the mean time, have jumped off the chair and dashed as far away as possible while screaming in terror. I am now being chased by the most malicious moth I have ever encountered and the husband is still on the patio talking. Did I mention the door was closed?
The same scenario happened again in the bathroom. As I finally worked up enough nerve to smash the moth, I only got a portion of him. (I've never been good at baseball, go figures I'm also terrible at swinging a magazine.) So instead, I have a wounded moth chasing after me. And this time I can't find where he went.
The husband got off the phone around the time that I was searching for the partially wounded moth. And did he help me search for it? Of course not. He found it much more entertaining to tell me how he saw my attempts at killing the moth through the front window and how he was laughing and retelling my story to his friend that he was talking to on the phone. He also insisted on reinacting my peril by standing on the chair and then jumping down screaming and waving his hands in the air. I have such an understanding husband.
Eventually he did help me search for the moth. And we didn't find him that night. We finally did find him on our counter top a few days later. Dead. I immediately got out the antibacterial disinfectant and sprayed that spot down. At least I killed him right?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
ZZZZ.....
I've mentioned before that the husband and I are pretty much polar opposites. We have a lot of opposite tendencies. For example, he would rather simultaneously cook and clean so that after eating dinner there are only a few more dishes left to wash. I hold the mentality that it is less work if I do all the dishes all at once and he would rather do them a little at a time. The same is true with the housework. I would rather spend one day cleaning the entire house, while the husband prefers to do a little each day. We clearly have a different way of looking at things.
And it doesn't just stop with the housework. It is particularly true with sleep. The husband is one of those people that can live off of only a few hours of sleep each night. He actually prefers to get up early so that he doesn't miss out on any part of the day. I of course have a different view point. I love my sleep. I could sleep until 11 or 12 everyday if given the opportunity. And actually, when we met in college I did sleep in until 11 or 12 whenever I could.
I always knew the husband was a morning person. He had no problem telling me that he thought I slept too much. Really, can there be such a thing?? And then he made it one of his missions to 'help' me out. When we were still dating, he would call me on the weekends to get me up and going. It started with a sweet "Hey babe, where are you? When are you coming over?" call at 10 or so. I would get out of bed feeling all loved and ooey inside. It wasn't long before he was calling me earlier and earlier and the conversation was less mushy gushy and more "When are you getting out of bed? It's already 8." I wasn't enjoying this transition into an earlier and earlier morning.
But I did eventually get to the point where I would be up and about at 8 or so on my own. And then we got married. And then it got worse. As I've said, the husband likes to get up early everyday. And by early I mean 5:30. 5:30!!! Even on Saturdays and Sundays! He now marches into the bedroom anywhere between 7 and 8 (usually 7) touting "Wakey Wakey, Eggs and Bakey!" I am unclear about the meaning of this, because we never have bacon in the house and we don't usually eat eggs in the morning. When asked he just replied that it's a morning food and it rhymes. Such a guy. After rousing me with his morning rhyme, he informs me that I, since I am so good at making coffee, should play barrista and make some coffee for us. Since I want coffee too, I oblige. And most of the time I don't mind.
There are those mornings, however, when he isn't so sweet at waking me up. As I've said before, I am not a morning person. I do not wake up easily and when I first wake up I need some time to actually get out of bed and get going. I am grumpy too. Very grumpy. (see below)
As if this weren't torturous enough, he also terrorizes me as we go to bed. All I want to do by the time 9pm rolls around is go to sleep. Since I now wake up around 7, 9pm is a perfectly acceptable time to go to bed. In my mind, at least. According to the husband, 9 is way too early. So what does he do? When we get in bed he does everything he can to keep me awake.
He will sometimes run up the stairs only to turn around and jump out at me to scare me. Then, when I'm not scared because of how often this happens, he runs into the bedroom and pounces on the bed like a panther. He cirlces on his hands and knees and hisses at me. If I try to get in bed, he instantly jumps on me and starts tickling, or wresting with me or biting me. Love bites he calls it. All the while I'm whining at him to "Stop babe. Pleeeease. I just want to go to sleep. I'm tiiiiiired!" Which he only finds more amusing. And if I crack a smile at all, even in the least, he takes it as a challenge. He keeps at it until I finally get really mad and then he finally gets really mad. I can tell when he's mad because he always turns away from me to lay on his side.
And then I feel bad. I mean, he was just playing around afterall. So I cuddle up to him and mock him for being mad. At which point he turns back towards me and starts at it again. Oy! Clearly, I can't win.
So not only do I deal with him waking me up early, I also deal with him keeping me up at night. And in the morning when I complain that I'm tired he still claims it's because I sleep too much. I'm still not convinced that there is such a thing.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Holes
The husband walked downstairs this morning and informed me that he had experienced a minor setback in his wardrobe selection.
Husband: I went to put on my khaki pants this morning, you know the ones I wear almost all the time, and there was a hole!
Me: (completely distracted and a little, ok a lot, disinterested) Oh. That sucks.
Husband: Yea, but its not just a little hole. It's a big hole. And right next to the big hole, the fabric is wearing thin and starting to form a second hole.
Me: Oh. Well where is it?
Husband: It's in the crotch area. Which is weird because it's not like my pants are tight. They are loose. And all I do is walk back and forth in the classroom, I'm not climbing or jumping around. So for it to wear like that is weird.
Me: Huh... Well nobody probably even noticed. Since it's in between your legs they would only be able to see it if you are sitting down right in front of them.
Husband: So what I hear you saying is, oh that sucks, you're a retard with a hole in your pants.
Me: Yea, basically.
And we both went on with getting ready for the day. He asked me a few times throughout the day if I had looked at the holes in his pants. What did he think? I got ready in the morning, had no time to spare until we left together and rode to work. When did I have time to inspect his holey pants? Exasperated, I finally took a peak. I immediately burst into laughter.
I couldn't believe that he had worn a hole that large into the crotch of his pants and he didn't even notice.
Now, you may be thinking that he told me the hole was big. Yes he did. But he often exxagerates. He tells me very frequently that women around the world wept when we married because he was no longer single. So forgive me if I did not take him seriously when he told me the hole was huge. But alas it was and I am flabbergasted as to how he accomplished this. Looks like I will be out looking for a replacement khaki pair of work pants this weekend.
Husband: I went to put on my khaki pants this morning, you know the ones I wear almost all the time, and there was a hole!
Me: (completely distracted and a little, ok a lot, disinterested) Oh. That sucks.
Husband: Yea, but its not just a little hole. It's a big hole. And right next to the big hole, the fabric is wearing thin and starting to form a second hole.
Me: Oh. Well where is it?
Husband: It's in the crotch area. Which is weird because it's not like my pants are tight. They are loose. And all I do is walk back and forth in the classroom, I'm not climbing or jumping around. So for it to wear like that is weird.
Me: Huh... Well nobody probably even noticed. Since it's in between your legs they would only be able to see it if you are sitting down right in front of them.
Husband: So what I hear you saying is, oh that sucks, you're a retard with a hole in your pants.
Me: Yea, basically.
And we both went on with getting ready for the day. He asked me a few times throughout the day if I had looked at the holes in his pants. What did he think? I got ready in the morning, had no time to spare until we left together and rode to work. When did I have time to inspect his holey pants? Exasperated, I finally took a peak. I immediately burst into laughter.
I couldn't believe that he had worn a hole that large into the crotch of his pants and he didn't even notice.
Now, you may be thinking that he told me the hole was big. Yes he did. But he often exxagerates. He tells me very frequently that women around the world wept when we married because he was no longer single. So forgive me if I did not take him seriously when he told me the hole was huge. But alas it was and I am flabbergasted as to how he accomplished this. Looks like I will be out looking for a replacement khaki pair of work pants this weekend.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Rings 'n Things
The husband and I started dating 5 years ago. (I'm feeling older as I write this.) We were both in college and had no expectations whatsoever as to what this relationship would bring. I was only 19 afterall and he 24. Like every other woman on the planet, however, I soon started longing to hear a measly 3 word phrase that would launch our relationship into the next level. I remember that we had been dating a year and still had not heard him utter these words and so I started to push. I wanted confirmation that we were both on the same page. That he really did have deeper feelings for me which could maybe develop into a relationship geared toward marriage. So I started acting like any other woman on the planet would act and started asking if he loved me, if he was in this relationship because he thought he might possibly be able to see us married sometime down the line.
This was never recieved well, of course. And I don't blame him at all. Had I had some boyfriend pressuring me and demanding me to express my love for him I don't think I would have responded half as well as the husband did. He always told me the truth and it was always the same: I wouldn't still be in this relationship if I wasn't happy and didn't think it could go somewhere. He's always been very logical like this. Why tell me he loves me, instead show me by planning fantastic 21st birthday wine tastings and flowers unexpectedly. That is how he showed me, and still continues to show me, that he loves me.
That and he has these crazy rules about relationships. He told me when we first started seeing each other that he has rules he abides by when he is dating someone. First of all, you never become exclusive before dating a month. That way you can get a good feel for the person and see if they are cooky. Also, you never buy a girl jewelry unless you want to marry her. He told me other rules, but these are the two that really stood out in my mind. To me he was saying, if I like you, in one month we will be exclusively dating. (And no matter how much I whined, he waited until exactly one month to ask if I was comfortable with dating him and only him.) I also had it flagged forever in my memory that if he ever bought me jewelry, he intended to marry me.
So, one day two years into the relationship and still not a sign of a single piece of jewelry, the husband and I had been working out at the gym. In the car ride home he said he had something for me in his pocket. I was more than ready for a ring, the ring, and got a little excited.
Me: You have something for me? What?
Him: It's in my pocket. Here. I found this on the gym floor and thought it might be worth something.
He pulls out a ring. That he literally found on the gym floor. And I don't know how he could have thought it might be worth something. It looked like it had come from a crackerjacks box. And I told him.
Me: What is this? You actually think this is worth anyhting??? It looks like it came from a crackerjacks box! (I was mad with disappointment and was a little mean.)
Him: Well I don't know. Those kinda look like diamonds! My dad found a diamond ring on the floor once and gave it to my mom and she wasn't offended. She still has it.
Me: Yeah, because those are real diamonds! I don't want this piece of crap!
Like I said, I was mean. I threw it down in his car and left it at that.
But, like I said, he only intended on buying me jewelry if he wanted to marry me, so I panicked. The thought that was suddenly stuck in my mind was "What if he never buys me any jewelry? I might as well take what I can get!"
So I later snuck it back. When he noticed it on my finger, I told him I had thought better of the situation, that since he wasn't going to buy me any jewelry, I might as well take this piece of junk and make the best of it.
Which he thought was hilarious. And I thought was very sad. And a little funny.
Little did I know, that at almost exactly 3 years of dating, the husband would propose. And in the most romantic and clever way that I have ever heard:
He mysteriously told me that he would be picking me up at 5:30 in the morning on May 17, 2008. Now, if you have read my profile you know that I do not like mornings and I am a big grump if I am woken too early and/or have not gotten enough sleep. So when he said 5:30 I was not excited. He also wouldn't tell me where we were going.
We ended up driving to Temecula, wine country, to Wilson Creek Winery. I still had no idea what we were doing here. There were quite a few people there and we had to go check in. When we did I heard something about a pilot and got a little nervous.
Me: What are we doing? Did he say something about a pilot???
Husband: No. It's a surprise. He didn't say pilot. You're crazy.
We ended up getting into a van with 2 other couples, and I was correct he had said pilot. We were going up in a hot air balloon. Over wine country. Can you say romance?
This was never recieved well, of course. And I don't blame him at all. Had I had some boyfriend pressuring me and demanding me to express my love for him I don't think I would have responded half as well as the husband did. He always told me the truth and it was always the same: I wouldn't still be in this relationship if I wasn't happy and didn't think it could go somewhere. He's always been very logical like this. Why tell me he loves me, instead show me by planning fantastic 21st birthday wine tastings and flowers unexpectedly. That is how he showed me, and still continues to show me, that he loves me.
That and he has these crazy rules about relationships. He told me when we first started seeing each other that he has rules he abides by when he is dating someone. First of all, you never become exclusive before dating a month. That way you can get a good feel for the person and see if they are cooky. Also, you never buy a girl jewelry unless you want to marry her. He told me other rules, but these are the two that really stood out in my mind. To me he was saying, if I like you, in one month we will be exclusively dating. (And no matter how much I whined, he waited until exactly one month to ask if I was comfortable with dating him and only him.) I also had it flagged forever in my memory that if he ever bought me jewelry, he intended to marry me.
So, one day two years into the relationship and still not a sign of a single piece of jewelry, the husband and I had been working out at the gym. In the car ride home he said he had something for me in his pocket. I was more than ready for a ring, the ring, and got a little excited.
Me: You have something for me? What?
Him: It's in my pocket. Here. I found this on the gym floor and thought it might be worth something.
He pulls out a ring. That he literally found on the gym floor. And I don't know how he could have thought it might be worth something. It looked like it had come from a crackerjacks box. And I told him.
Me: What is this? You actually think this is worth anyhting??? It looks like it came from a crackerjacks box! (I was mad with disappointment and was a little mean.)
Him: Well I don't know. Those kinda look like diamonds! My dad found a diamond ring on the floor once and gave it to my mom and she wasn't offended. She still has it.
Me: Yeah, because those are real diamonds! I don't want this piece of crap!
Like I said, I was mean. I threw it down in his car and left it at that.
But, like I said, he only intended on buying me jewelry if he wanted to marry me, so I panicked. The thought that was suddenly stuck in my mind was "What if he never buys me any jewelry? I might as well take what I can get!"
So I later snuck it back. When he noticed it on my finger, I told him I had thought better of the situation, that since he wasn't going to buy me any jewelry, I might as well take this piece of junk and make the best of it.
Which he thought was hilarious. And I thought was very sad. And a little funny.
Little did I know, that at almost exactly 3 years of dating, the husband would propose. And in the most romantic and clever way that I have ever heard:
He mysteriously told me that he would be picking me up at 5:30 in the morning on May 17, 2008. Now, if you have read my profile you know that I do not like mornings and I am a big grump if I am woken too early and/or have not gotten enough sleep. So when he said 5:30 I was not excited. He also wouldn't tell me where we were going.
We ended up driving to Temecula, wine country, to Wilson Creek Winery. I still had no idea what we were doing here. There were quite a few people there and we had to go check in. When we did I heard something about a pilot and got a little nervous.
Me: What are we doing? Did he say something about a pilot???
Husband: No. It's a surprise. He didn't say pilot. You're crazy.
We ended up getting into a van with 2 other couples, and I was correct he had said pilot. We were going up in a hot air balloon. Over wine country. Can you say romance?
We even posed for a few pictures before we went up, and the staff was more than willing to snap some photos for us.
Before we had boarded this basket, the sign had read "Happy Anniversary" so I had no clue that we were posing in front of a propsal sign!
We went soaring along. It was peaceful and romantic and so calm in the balloon. I remember trying to lean over and look down and the husband was super concerned and wouldn't let me lean too far over. Eventually, the husband handed me a polaroid of us posing in front of the "Will You Marry Me?" sign in the basket. And got down on one knee.
I was shocked. And so excited that he finally decided to buy me jewelry! I no longer wear my crackerjacks box ring because I have this beauty to wear.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Three Shorts Part III
Ever since I can remember my mother has told me that all men are alike. More specifically, "Men are all the same, they just come in different packages." I never really gave this any second thoughts, I mean because really, are our parents ever right about these types of things? Definitely not when you are a young teenage girl who knows everything in the world and whose parents couldn't possibly know what things are like today. But, amazingly, now that I am married, I know exactly what she is talking about.
My husband is no exception to these unwritten rules that all women are aware of. He doesn't care too much for frills or ruffles, he likes to chew with his mouth open and belch (and then blow it in my face), he is the biggest baby when he is sick, and whenever he gets together with his friends he becomes a 10 year old who likes to wrestle.
He and all his friends are into watching the fighting sports like UFC and we get together every couple of months to hang out and watch the fights. The women take this opportunity to catch up, cook and play with the babies. The guys take this opportunity to eat greasy potato chips, drink lots of beer and intensly stare at and analyze the fights. When the fights are over and their stomachs are full of greasy beer, they decide it is a great idea to try and be UFC fighters themselves. This results in not-quite-sober headlocks and 'rear-naked chokes' (I swear I didn't make this up). It usually ends because one of the women steps in and reprimands the men for acting like boys.
When we don't have the opportunity to all get together for fights, I oblige and watch them with the husband. I think the husband pretends that he is with the boys and the junk food because he always tries to get me to engage in combat during the commercials. I have learned long ago that while I am tough and stronger than most women, I am no match for my husband. (Did you see those muscles in the past post?) However, one time, I had a weak moment.
Although I don't quite remember, let's just say that I had been drinking and being so, my judgement was not what it should have been. The husband and I had just finished watching a UFC fight and the husband started picking on me. He was hyped up from watching all the sweaty, bloody fighters and the crowd screaming in anguish and excitement all at once. He started coming at me. You know, trying to provoke me into starting a fake fight so when I ended up getting hurt he could say that I was the one who started it. I took the bait and got his head into what I thought was a great headlock between my legs.
He stood there, staring at me and asked "Do you want me to show you how I can get out of this?"
"Sure. Go ahead and try." (I was cocky because my legs are stroooong. There have been a few occassions where I have been able to pin the husband down with my legs.)
He did some kind of quick wiggle-squirm-twist and was out before I knew what was going on. This marked the beginning of our battle. I tried to jump on his back. He dodged. He managed to pin me down. Then I would wiggle my way out and try to get him with my legs again. Laughter, screams and breathless pleas to stop in between the laughs were ignored.
Then the husband asked "Do you want to see how you're supposed to really pin someone with their legs?"
I was leery. During these play fights on various previous occassions, the husband has punched me, slapped me and kicked me. (All by accident of course. It's not like my husband beats me.) This didn't give me very much comfort in the fact that he would only show me and not hurt me in the process. But, as I said before, my judgement was not what it should have been. So I said "Ok. But don't hurt me!"
The husband positioned himself and told me where to stand and how. All of a sudden his leg was wrapped around my neck and one arm, held in place by his other leg and his hand was squeezing the grip tighter and tighter. At first it was funny. But then my arm was starting to cut into my neck and it was getting a little difficult to breathe. I could feel myself turning red from heat and because of a lack of oxygen to my brain. I couldn't talk too well, let alone breathe. All the while the husband is laughing. I finally gather up all the breath I can and manage a squeak of a scream to "Seriously stop, it hurts!"
When the husband lets go he is still laughing. And my head starts throbbing. Then I'm dizzy and need to sit down. I can't even stand up to get myself some water. Not to mention the bright red marks all around my neck. I had to sit down for 20 minutes before I felt okay to get up and walk around. And does the husband feel bad? Not in the least. To him, he has just won another UFC victory. I, on the other hand, vowed to never again engage in any sort of physical wrestling ever again.
My husband is no exception to these unwritten rules that all women are aware of. He doesn't care too much for frills or ruffles, he likes to chew with his mouth open and belch (and then blow it in my face), he is the biggest baby when he is sick, and whenever he gets together with his friends he becomes a 10 year old who likes to wrestle.
He and all his friends are into watching the fighting sports like UFC and we get together every couple of months to hang out and watch the fights. The women take this opportunity to catch up, cook and play with the babies. The guys take this opportunity to eat greasy potato chips, drink lots of beer and intensly stare at and analyze the fights. When the fights are over and their stomachs are full of greasy beer, they decide it is a great idea to try and be UFC fighters themselves. This results in not-quite-sober headlocks and 'rear-naked chokes' (I swear I didn't make this up). It usually ends because one of the women steps in and reprimands the men for acting like boys.
When we don't have the opportunity to all get together for fights, I oblige and watch them with the husband. I think the husband pretends that he is with the boys and the junk food because he always tries to get me to engage in combat during the commercials. I have learned long ago that while I am tough and stronger than most women, I am no match for my husband. (Did you see those muscles in the past post?) However, one time, I had a weak moment.
Although I don't quite remember, let's just say that I had been drinking and being so, my judgement was not what it should have been. The husband and I had just finished watching a UFC fight and the husband started picking on me. He was hyped up from watching all the sweaty, bloody fighters and the crowd screaming in anguish and excitement all at once. He started coming at me. You know, trying to provoke me into starting a fake fight so when I ended up getting hurt he could say that I was the one who started it. I took the bait and got his head into what I thought was a great headlock between my legs.
He stood there, staring at me and asked "Do you want me to show you how I can get out of this?"
"Sure. Go ahead and try." (I was cocky because my legs are stroooong. There have been a few occassions where I have been able to pin the husband down with my legs.)
He did some kind of quick wiggle-squirm-twist and was out before I knew what was going on. This marked the beginning of our battle. I tried to jump on his back. He dodged. He managed to pin me down. Then I would wiggle my way out and try to get him with my legs again. Laughter, screams and breathless pleas to stop in between the laughs were ignored.
Then the husband asked "Do you want to see how you're supposed to really pin someone with their legs?"
I was leery. During these play fights on various previous occassions, the husband has punched me, slapped me and kicked me. (All by accident of course. It's not like my husband beats me.) This didn't give me very much comfort in the fact that he would only show me and not hurt me in the process. But, as I said before, my judgement was not what it should have been. So I said "Ok. But don't hurt me!"
The husband positioned himself and told me where to stand and how. All of a sudden his leg was wrapped around my neck and one arm, held in place by his other leg and his hand was squeezing the grip tighter and tighter. At first it was funny. But then my arm was starting to cut into my neck and it was getting a little difficult to breathe. I could feel myself turning red from heat and because of a lack of oxygen to my brain. I couldn't talk too well, let alone breathe. All the while the husband is laughing. I finally gather up all the breath I can and manage a squeak of a scream to "Seriously stop, it hurts!"
When the husband lets go he is still laughing. And my head starts throbbing. Then I'm dizzy and need to sit down. I can't even stand up to get myself some water. Not to mention the bright red marks all around my neck. I had to sit down for 20 minutes before I felt okay to get up and walk around. And does the husband feel bad? Not in the least. To him, he has just won another UFC victory. I, on the other hand, vowed to never again engage in any sort of physical wrestling ever again.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Three Shorts Part II
Parking structures are confusing. I like the idea of them. Shading my car for me so I don't have to sit in a 100 degree box, or shielding my car from rain and therefore allowing me a dry walk to the mall. However, I only use them if we have had some form of prior aquaintance. If, let's say, the husband has used it and I see that it isn't one of those twisty turvy ones, then I'm good. I will be likely to use that one on a different occassion. But, if I haven't been in it before, I do not venture into it because I get lost. I never know which way to turn to get to my desired destination. I inevitably turn the wrong way and find myself disoriented, at the exit when I want to go up, or driving up when all I want to do is drive down. That being said.
One night the husband and I decided to go out. This in itself is a rarity, since both the husband and myself are more of homebodies. We generally spend our evenings cooking together, eating together, then watching a movie together. Sometimes we throw some delicious homemade strawberry daiquiris into the mix. But we're pretty content just sitting with each other and being. But this night we went out.
The husband always drives and I am his navigator. If he makes a wrong turn, he turns to me and complains that it is clearly my job to make sure he doesn't miss the exit or turn the wrong way. Even for the simplest of tasks such as driving to the grocery store that we frequent every week, the husband need my directions to take him there. I thought it would get better when he bought a car with a built-in GPS. No. On the contrary, the husband now requests that I sound like the GPS. For example, if we are one exit away from our destination, he wants me to "ding ding" at him so he knows he needs to exit next. I obviously do not oblige this request of his, but I always find it enertaining that he wishes I sound like his GPS lady whom he has named Judith, because he thinks this name depicts a nasty, mean woman.
On this particular night I directed him to a popular outdoor mall where we could enjoy a romantic meal together. When we got there it was packed. There was no parking in our normal parking structure, the one we frequently used. We were forced to drive around to the other parking structure. It didn't seem like a bad idea. It was the same distance from the restaurant as the other parking structure and it actually had parking. (Although I am navigator, once we get into a parking lot, the husband is in charge. He decides the parking spot, because he insists on parking the furthest away from the front door as possible. This is a battle in which I have accepted defeat and no longer try to direct him.) So, the husband found a parking space, somewhere in the middle and we walked.
On the way back from dinner, we realized that we didn't exactly remember where we parked. This was a new structure. We forgot to look at the numbers they have on the walls with the level and all I remembered was it was in the middle of a level that was somewhat high up. We decided that it must have been level 5 and started our ascent. We walked to the middle of the aisle where the car should have been, but we couldn't see it. After a while of wandering, the husband pulled out his keys so he could beep the unlock button and we would be able to locate our camouflaged vehicle.
We heard the "beep beep" indicating our car was behind us. The husband kept hitting the button "beep beep" "beep beep" "beep beep". We headed in the direction we thought the car should be. Our ears were telling us that we should see the car. Yet there was no car in sight. We looked crazy I'm sure. Imagine that old couple you see at the mall. You know the type. They are so old they can barely walk, and by walk I mean take such shuffled and tiny steps that they can only manage to move as fast as a snail might. This couple is always arguing over something completely irrelevant, like who is holding the other one up. And they are always walking aimlessly and somewhat lost, like they can't for the life of them remember why they came here in the first place. We are like them. We are lost, and can't for the life of us remember where the car is and why we decided to park in an unfamiliar parking garage in the first place.
We must have walked back and forth down that aisle and the next for 5 minutes at least. And it was worse because the parking structure was really busy. The kind of busy where people follow you in their cars so they can take your parking spot as you leave. We had numerous cars follow us at various points in our quest for the car. We finally decided that the "beep beep" had to be right where we were. There was no other option.
Until. It finally dawned on us that we were hearing the "beep beep" come from a level under us. What was even worse was that when we finally walked down to the correct level, somebody was stopped in the lane with their blinker on, waiting for the owners of the car whose lights have been blinking and horn has been "beep beeping" for the past 10 minutes.
Now every time I walk into, park in, or see a parking structure, I think of how ridiculous we must have looked scouring the aisles for our missing beeping car.
One night the husband and I decided to go out. This in itself is a rarity, since both the husband and myself are more of homebodies. We generally spend our evenings cooking together, eating together, then watching a movie together. Sometimes we throw some delicious homemade strawberry daiquiris into the mix. But we're pretty content just sitting with each other and being. But this night we went out.
The husband always drives and I am his navigator. If he makes a wrong turn, he turns to me and complains that it is clearly my job to make sure he doesn't miss the exit or turn the wrong way. Even for the simplest of tasks such as driving to the grocery store that we frequent every week, the husband need my directions to take him there. I thought it would get better when he bought a car with a built-in GPS. No. On the contrary, the husband now requests that I sound like the GPS. For example, if we are one exit away from our destination, he wants me to "ding ding" at him so he knows he needs to exit next. I obviously do not oblige this request of his, but I always find it enertaining that he wishes I sound like his GPS lady whom he has named Judith, because he thinks this name depicts a nasty, mean woman.
On this particular night I directed him to a popular outdoor mall where we could enjoy a romantic meal together. When we got there it was packed. There was no parking in our normal parking structure, the one we frequently used. We were forced to drive around to the other parking structure. It didn't seem like a bad idea. It was the same distance from the restaurant as the other parking structure and it actually had parking. (Although I am navigator, once we get into a parking lot, the husband is in charge. He decides the parking spot, because he insists on parking the furthest away from the front door as possible. This is a battle in which I have accepted defeat and no longer try to direct him.) So, the husband found a parking space, somewhere in the middle and we walked.
On the way back from dinner, we realized that we didn't exactly remember where we parked. This was a new structure. We forgot to look at the numbers they have on the walls with the level and all I remembered was it was in the middle of a level that was somewhat high up. We decided that it must have been level 5 and started our ascent. We walked to the middle of the aisle where the car should have been, but we couldn't see it. After a while of wandering, the husband pulled out his keys so he could beep the unlock button and we would be able to locate our camouflaged vehicle.
We heard the "beep beep" indicating our car was behind us. The husband kept hitting the button "beep beep" "beep beep" "beep beep". We headed in the direction we thought the car should be. Our ears were telling us that we should see the car. Yet there was no car in sight. We looked crazy I'm sure. Imagine that old couple you see at the mall. You know the type. They are so old they can barely walk, and by walk I mean take such shuffled and tiny steps that they can only manage to move as fast as a snail might. This couple is always arguing over something completely irrelevant, like who is holding the other one up. And they are always walking aimlessly and somewhat lost, like they can't for the life of them remember why they came here in the first place. We are like them. We are lost, and can't for the life of us remember where the car is and why we decided to park in an unfamiliar parking garage in the first place.
We must have walked back and forth down that aisle and the next for 5 minutes at least. And it was worse because the parking structure was really busy. The kind of busy where people follow you in their cars so they can take your parking spot as you leave. We had numerous cars follow us at various points in our quest for the car. We finally decided that the "beep beep" had to be right where we were. There was no other option.
Until. It finally dawned on us that we were hearing the "beep beep" come from a level under us. What was even worse was that when we finally walked down to the correct level, somebody was stopped in the lane with their blinker on, waiting for the owners of the car whose lights have been blinking and horn has been "beep beeping" for the past 10 minutes.
Now every time I walk into, park in, or see a parking structure, I think of how ridiculous we must have looked scouring the aisles for our missing beeping car.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Three Shorts Part I
Over the course of our relationship, the husband and I have had some pretty entertaining experiences together. The next few posts will be dedicated to these short and unrelated stories.
Before the husband and I got married, we both lived at home and had never really lived on our own. (college dorms don't count) Prior to getting engaged, the husband bought a home, which quickly became our home once he proposed. He joked that I wasn't allowed to have a key to his house, but despite his sarcasm I did receive a key. Since the home he bought was brand new, he had to wait a few months to move in and when he did the neighborhood was not all built-up yet. Which could be a little scary. And since I still lived at home and we were only engaged, I did not stay over until after we were married. I would come, spend time and hang out until anywhere between 12 and 1 and then leave. This being said:
One night, just an ordinary night, it was time for me to go home so I gathered my things and the husband walked me to the door and we said goodnight. I walked to my car and realized that I forgot my phone inside. It had been a few minutes since I had already put all my things in my car and drove around the block before noticing that my phone was MIA. So I do what anyone in my situtation would do: I turned around and headed back to the house to retrieve it.
I didn't see the point in knocking since I had a key. I slowly slipped the key into the hole and turned the lock ever so slightly - so as to not make a sound. I wouldn't want to wake the hard working husband after a long day of making me the happiest of women on Earth! (the husband's idea) The door began to creak open when without a warning I heard a boom. What was that sound? I thought to myself wondering what could have just happened on the second floor of the house. Then the boom immediately transformed into a stampede of pounding steps. I quickly followed the steps pound across the master bedroom, down the hall and to the staircase. As I peered upward, I hollared with a whisper to my husband that "It's just me" fearing an all out assualt he was about to unleash like what Kate did to Jon for the first 3 seasons. If that didn't slap the biggest smirk across my face, the sight of him standing at the stairs ready to engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat would have brought anyone to tears. There he stood in nothing more than his loincloth (boxer shorts) with his mighy club hoisted above his head (cable remote control) ready to be hurled at the sad fool that chose to break into the husband's mighty fortress. Instead of an intruder, he saw me, bursting at the seams with laughter. To think he was really going to fend off intruders with a remote control by what? bopping them on the head!? It hadn't quite registered with the husband that it was only me, his little 'ole fiance and not some big bad bandit and he was not happy. He just couldn't seem to find the humor in it. I however, found the entire situation hysterical. I was laughing all the way home. And in the morning when I awoke this was the first thing I told my parents. Who also found it hilarious. This has become a favorite story of my parents. They still bring it up and everyone has a nice chuckle at my mighty husband's expense.
Before the husband and I got married, we both lived at home and had never really lived on our own. (college dorms don't count) Prior to getting engaged, the husband bought a home, which quickly became our home once he proposed. He joked that I wasn't allowed to have a key to his house, but despite his sarcasm I did receive a key. Since the home he bought was brand new, he had to wait a few months to move in and when he did the neighborhood was not all built-up yet. Which could be a little scary. And since I still lived at home and we were only engaged, I did not stay over until after we were married. I would come, spend time and hang out until anywhere between 12 and 1 and then leave. This being said:
One night, just an ordinary night, it was time for me to go home so I gathered my things and the husband walked me to the door and we said goodnight. I walked to my car and realized that I forgot my phone inside. It had been a few minutes since I had already put all my things in my car and drove around the block before noticing that my phone was MIA. So I do what anyone in my situtation would do: I turned around and headed back to the house to retrieve it.
I didn't see the point in knocking since I had a key. I slowly slipped the key into the hole and turned the lock ever so slightly - so as to not make a sound. I wouldn't want to wake the hard working husband after a long day of making me the happiest of women on Earth! (the husband's idea) The door began to creak open when without a warning I heard a boom. What was that sound? I thought to myself wondering what could have just happened on the second floor of the house. Then the boom immediately transformed into a stampede of pounding steps. I quickly followed the steps pound across the master bedroom, down the hall and to the staircase. As I peered upward, I hollared with a whisper to my husband that "It's just me" fearing an all out assualt he was about to unleash like what Kate did to Jon for the first 3 seasons. If that didn't slap the biggest smirk across my face, the sight of him standing at the stairs ready to engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat would have brought anyone to tears. There he stood in nothing more than his loincloth (boxer shorts) with his mighy club hoisted above his head (cable remote control) ready to be hurled at the sad fool that chose to break into the husband's mighty fortress. Instead of an intruder, he saw me, bursting at the seams with laughter. To think he was really going to fend off intruders with a remote control by what? bopping them on the head!? It hadn't quite registered with the husband that it was only me, his little 'ole fiance and not some big bad bandit and he was not happy. He just couldn't seem to find the humor in it. I however, found the entire situation hysterical. I was laughing all the way home. And in the morning when I awoke this was the first thing I told my parents. Who also found it hilarious. This has become a favorite story of my parents. They still bring it up and everyone has a nice chuckle at my mighty husband's expense.
My Mighty Warrior
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Oh Happy Days
The husband and I are celebrating our 1 year wedding anniversary today. One year ago we said "I do" and the past year has been amazing. Different than I expected, harder than I expected but amazing nonetheless. My mom told me that now the honeymoon is over, to which I responded "What honeymoon?" I love my husband and I can't wait for another year to be under our marriage, but I am so excited for our anniversary present!
A few months ago (Yes, the husband is most certainly a planner. Anything that involves travel especially is sure to be completely planned a few months in advance.) the husband played a nice trick on me. We were both downstairs in the kitchen, taking turns preparing dinner. I finished my portion of whatever I had been working on so I sat down to search the internet for something interesting to look at. After a few minutes, the husband asks if we could switch for a few minutes so he can look up something for work. I don't mind, I love it when we are both in the kitchen working together.
As dinner is finishing up I walk back to my computer to continue whatever it was I was doing to find a picture of the New York skyline on the screen. I was very confused at this point. And I'm one of those people that shows every emotion across their face all the time. My father refers to me as 'poker face' because I cannot concel my thoughts in the least. With questioning eyes and furrowed eye brows I ask the husband how he could possibly need that picture for work. To which he replies:
Well, we never went on a honeymoon and I know you have always wanted to go to New York so I thought we would go for our 1 year anniversary. I tried planning it but couldn't do it without talking to you first.
My husband is thoughtful like this all the time. I came home on Friday to a bouquet of gerbera daisies and field daisies (they were the flowers in our wedding) and the song 1234 by the plain white t's playing (my bridesmaids walked down the aisle to this song). He was hiding around the corner in the dining room so I didn't see that he was recording me. He also took me out to the Melting Pot last night for our anniversary dinner and is making me blueberry pancakes with homemade blueberry syrup on top this morning for breakfast. As he told me, this is our "anniversary weekend" in which I get to celebrate the happiest day of my life (I knew he couldn't be completely serious).
These moments where he and I get to reconnect and just be together are the happiest moments in my life. I am so blessed to have married such a wonderful man and am excited to see how our life together plays out.
A few months ago (Yes, the husband is most certainly a planner. Anything that involves travel especially is sure to be completely planned a few months in advance.) the husband played a nice trick on me. We were both downstairs in the kitchen, taking turns preparing dinner. I finished my portion of whatever I had been working on so I sat down to search the internet for something interesting to look at. After a few minutes, the husband asks if we could switch for a few minutes so he can look up something for work. I don't mind, I love it when we are both in the kitchen working together.
As dinner is finishing up I walk back to my computer to continue whatever it was I was doing to find a picture of the New York skyline on the screen. I was very confused at this point. And I'm one of those people that shows every emotion across their face all the time. My father refers to me as 'poker face' because I cannot concel my thoughts in the least. With questioning eyes and furrowed eye brows I ask the husband how he could possibly need that picture for work. To which he replies:
Well, we never went on a honeymoon and I know you have always wanted to go to New York so I thought we would go for our 1 year anniversary. I tried planning it but couldn't do it without talking to you first.
My husband is thoughtful like this all the time. I came home on Friday to a bouquet of gerbera daisies and field daisies (they were the flowers in our wedding) and the song 1234 by the plain white t's playing (my bridesmaids walked down the aisle to this song). He was hiding around the corner in the dining room so I didn't see that he was recording me. He also took me out to the Melting Pot last night for our anniversary dinner and is making me blueberry pancakes with homemade blueberry syrup on top this morning for breakfast. As he told me, this is our "anniversary weekend" in which I get to celebrate the happiest day of my life (I knew he couldn't be completely serious).
These moments where he and I get to reconnect and just be together are the happiest moments in my life. I am so blessed to have married such a wonderful man and am excited to see how our life together plays out.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Why bananas are not so good.
Being a fit and health-conscious individual I often find myself at the gym. Or running. And most of the time watching what I eat (this sometimes includes watching all those trans-fats and sugary love treats make their way to my mouth). But I make sure to get a physical every year and check that all my insides are working properly. I have never had a major health issue. So when I found myself waking up in the middle of the gym floor after fainting IN FRONT OF EVERYONE I was a little concerned.
Let me back up.
This past summer was the first summer the husband and I were married. Being so, I had to get on his health insurance and quit my other health plan. Because we are both teachers, it was easier to get my yearly physical in the summer. So it was summer and I was getting all checked out to confirm that I didn't have any bad diseases or high cholestoral and blah blah blah.
With physicals comes blood work. Which let me tell you is not so fun for me. I have small veins that roll, yay me, and whenever I tell the nurse who is hovering over me, wrapping that rubber thingy around my bicep and telling me to pump my fist that I have small veins that roll, they almost always roll their eyes and say "ok" completely uninterested. Then they spend the next three minutes or so poking my arm, digging it around under the skin trying to prick some part of the vein. When that doesn't work they start in on the other arm only to repeat the process. Needless to say, I always bruise and I always have multiple prick marks. Blood work also means fasting for at least 12 hours. Because of this, I choose to get my blood taken in the morning so I don't have to neglect food any longer than necessary. On this particular day, the plan was to go down to the office at 8am with the husband, get my blood work done, and eat a banana on the car ride to the gym.
Upon arriving at the gym I did my normal 30 minutes of cardio and then went into the weight room to do some circuit training while the husband finished his workout. Once I started lifting the weights I got light-headed. Let me preface this by saying I am not a sissy at the gym. I am one of those chicks who lifts more than a lot of the guys I see in there. (Let me also say that I am definitely not manly, so stop thinking it!) So when I started getting light-headed I rested and made sure to drink a lot of water. This went away quickly and I continued on with my workout. Then I got nauseous. It came on so suddenly I thought I was going to puke up my stupid banana right there in the middle of the weight room. I immediately sat down and tried to breathe away the swirling acid I could feel engulfing my stomach.
At this point I knew something was not right. I told the husband that I needed to go to the bathroom because I was sure that I was going to vomit. As I started walking away though I starting seeing black spots (imagine a movie scene where a cirlce is formed surrounded by black zeroing in on the middle of the screen until all you see is black). Not only was I seeing black, but my knees starting buckling. The husband had to help me to the nearest bench so I would not fall. The queasiness was still eminent in the pit of my stomach. All I could think was that I HAD to get to the bathroom because there was no way I was going to be spewing banana chunks all over the weight room floor. I told the husband I had to get to the bathroom and starting moving again.
I was about 10 steps from the bathroom.
Then I woke up to pounding footsteps running toward me. I was looking up at the husband who was looking back and forth at me and the other people that were coming to my rescue. His eyes looked like googley-eyes, the kind that you would see on a stuffed puppy. No, like Puss in Boots from Shrek, most definitely Puss in Boots eyes. You might think this translated to concern, but all I could see in those eyes was embarrassment. He was utterly horrified that his wife fainted in the middle of the gym that we frequented a few times a week. And not only was the husband staring at me with those eyes, but I just happend to have passed out right by the stretching mats. (If you have ever been to the gym, the stretching mats are generally only used by a few people: old women, old men, and young hot chicks who don't really need to work out but go to the gym anyway to stretch and get hit on.) All the old ladies were staring at me with their mouths gaping wide open.
The pounding steps I heard were from the front desk staff. They sat me in a worokout chair and got me gatorade to drink thinking my sugar level was low and/or I was dehydrated. Which I knew I was neither of those things because I had about a liter of water prior to working out and I had a banana which is full of sugar. I got out of there as soon as I could convince everyone that I was fine. The husband helped by blaming it on the blood work. (He actually told them I had given blood that morning, as in donated blood, and I probably was just weak because I had less blood.)
Because this had never happened before, the husband thought it would be a good idea to make a doctor's appointment and get everything checked out. They actually gave me an EKG to check my heart. They said it was all good, I even had a resting heart rate in the low 50's. And, since I had just had blood work done, they analyzed all my levels.
It turns out I had too much potassium in my system. Do you know what too much potassium does to your body? No? I didn't either. It makes your heart beat slower. Coupled with me already having a slow heart-rate and me working out hard and having eaten a banana packed with potassium my brain: didn't have enough blood and oxygen. So my body simply shut down. In the middle of the gym.
It took me months to go back to that gym. I would instead travel an extra 5 miles out of my way to go to the other gym.
Also, since this episode, I have eaten 1 banana, and I quickly puked it up. Bananas and I are no longer on speaking terms.
Let me back up.
This past summer was the first summer the husband and I were married. Being so, I had to get on his health insurance and quit my other health plan. Because we are both teachers, it was easier to get my yearly physical in the summer. So it was summer and I was getting all checked out to confirm that I didn't have any bad diseases or high cholestoral and blah blah blah.
With physicals comes blood work. Which let me tell you is not so fun for me. I have small veins that roll, yay me, and whenever I tell the nurse who is hovering over me, wrapping that rubber thingy around my bicep and telling me to pump my fist that I have small veins that roll, they almost always roll their eyes and say "ok" completely uninterested. Then they spend the next three minutes or so poking my arm, digging it around under the skin trying to prick some part of the vein. When that doesn't work they start in on the other arm only to repeat the process. Needless to say, I always bruise and I always have multiple prick marks. Blood work also means fasting for at least 12 hours. Because of this, I choose to get my blood taken in the morning so I don't have to neglect food any longer than necessary. On this particular day, the plan was to go down to the office at 8am with the husband, get my blood work done, and eat a banana on the car ride to the gym.
Upon arriving at the gym I did my normal 30 minutes of cardio and then went into the weight room to do some circuit training while the husband finished his workout. Once I started lifting the weights I got light-headed. Let me preface this by saying I am not a sissy at the gym. I am one of those chicks who lifts more than a lot of the guys I see in there. (Let me also say that I am definitely not manly, so stop thinking it!) So when I started getting light-headed I rested and made sure to drink a lot of water. This went away quickly and I continued on with my workout. Then I got nauseous. It came on so suddenly I thought I was going to puke up my stupid banana right there in the middle of the weight room. I immediately sat down and tried to breathe away the swirling acid I could feel engulfing my stomach.
At this point I knew something was not right. I told the husband that I needed to go to the bathroom because I was sure that I was going to vomit. As I started walking away though I starting seeing black spots (imagine a movie scene where a cirlce is formed surrounded by black zeroing in on the middle of the screen until all you see is black). Not only was I seeing black, but my knees starting buckling. The husband had to help me to the nearest bench so I would not fall. The queasiness was still eminent in the pit of my stomach. All I could think was that I HAD to get to the bathroom because there was no way I was going to be spewing banana chunks all over the weight room floor. I told the husband I had to get to the bathroom and starting moving again.
I was about 10 steps from the bathroom.
Then I woke up to pounding footsteps running toward me. I was looking up at the husband who was looking back and forth at me and the other people that were coming to my rescue. His eyes looked like googley-eyes, the kind that you would see on a stuffed puppy. No, like Puss in Boots from Shrek, most definitely Puss in Boots eyes. You might think this translated to concern, but all I could see in those eyes was embarrassment. He was utterly horrified that his wife fainted in the middle of the gym that we frequented a few times a week. And not only was the husband staring at me with those eyes, but I just happend to have passed out right by the stretching mats. (If you have ever been to the gym, the stretching mats are generally only used by a few people: old women, old men, and young hot chicks who don't really need to work out but go to the gym anyway to stretch and get hit on.) All the old ladies were staring at me with their mouths gaping wide open.
The pounding steps I heard were from the front desk staff. They sat me in a worokout chair and got me gatorade to drink thinking my sugar level was low and/or I was dehydrated. Which I knew I was neither of those things because I had about a liter of water prior to working out and I had a banana which is full of sugar. I got out of there as soon as I could convince everyone that I was fine. The husband helped by blaming it on the blood work. (He actually told them I had given blood that morning, as in donated blood, and I probably was just weak because I had less blood.)
Because this had never happened before, the husband thought it would be a good idea to make a doctor's appointment and get everything checked out. They actually gave me an EKG to check my heart. They said it was all good, I even had a resting heart rate in the low 50's. And, since I had just had blood work done, they analyzed all my levels.
It turns out I had too much potassium in my system. Do you know what too much potassium does to your body? No? I didn't either. It makes your heart beat slower. Coupled with me already having a slow heart-rate and me working out hard and having eaten a banana packed with potassium my brain: didn't have enough blood and oxygen. So my body simply shut down. In the middle of the gym.
It took me months to go back to that gym. I would instead travel an extra 5 miles out of my way to go to the other gym.
Also, since this episode, I have eaten 1 banana, and I quickly puked it up. Bananas and I are no longer on speaking terms.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
An Afternoon Snack
The husband and I rarely go out to eat. We are usually in the kitchen concocting our own dinners and recipes. Today, however, we decided we would treat ourselves and go out to lunch. (mostly because we had a gift card and today seemed as good a day as any to use it)
When we go out to eat, we usually order in one of two ways. We either order two or three appetizers to split or one entree to split. We never order drinks or dessert. And we always come home with left-overs. But as I said, we had a gift card so we ordered uncharacteristically and decided to get 3 appetizers and an entree and a dessert. I'm sure we looked quite ridiculous as we sat at a table for two with enough food to feed at least four.
We sat there, eating the deliciousness of pizza, onion rings, lettuce wraps, salad, soup and a sandwich. The husband was working on the lettuce wraps while I sat with half a sandwich in my hand. As is usual, as we sat eating neither of us were talking. All of a sudden the husband turns to me and asks, "Is your other hand clean?"
I looked down to inspect the hand that was not holding any food. Puzzled as to why he was asking me this I reply "Yes."
"Then can you scratch my left nipple?"
I looked at him with concern, trying to decode his question. But the husband was completely serious, there were no signs of mischief across his face. My face however was a mix between confusion, horror, and utter embarrassment at the thought of reaching over and scratching his left nipple in a crowded restaurant.
At this point I completely lost it. I could not help but burst into laughter at this ridiculous notion. It wasn't just a ha-ha laugh. It was the kind where you can't breathe and your face is all contorted into a squinty mess. It's the kind where people might actually think you are dying because you turn all red from lack of oxygen and you can't make any noise. Did he really think I was going to put my hand up his shirt to scratch his nipple?
Yes, he did because as I started laughing he was almost hurt that I was laughing instead of agreeing to his request.
Right about then was when the husband realized how slightly inappropriate it might be for me to be seen publicy feeling up my husband and he too started laughing hysterically.
In between gasps for air he would say to me "No seriously, it's itching really bad."
Which only made me laugh harder. During one of the last pleas for me to please just scratch it, he couldn't help laughing, which in turn sent food shooting out of his mouth across the table.
We were a mess.
He eventually stuck his own hand up his shirt and scratched his itchy nipple. And then he complained that it hurt because he was scratching it.
On the way home he kept reminding me how unkind I was not to scratch his nipple. He even claims that he was in so much pain that he thought he was going to die.
When we got home he was still complaining that his nipple hurt. He thought it needed lotion so he asked me to put some on for him. As I did and rubbed it in soothingly, he started to whimper and saying in a panic "It burns! It burns!"
Again I could not control myself and went into hysterics on the floor.
When we go out to eat, we usually order in one of two ways. We either order two or three appetizers to split or one entree to split. We never order drinks or dessert. And we always come home with left-overs. But as I said, we had a gift card so we ordered uncharacteristically and decided to get 3 appetizers and an entree and a dessert. I'm sure we looked quite ridiculous as we sat at a table for two with enough food to feed at least four.
We sat there, eating the deliciousness of pizza, onion rings, lettuce wraps, salad, soup and a sandwich. The husband was working on the lettuce wraps while I sat with half a sandwich in my hand. As is usual, as we sat eating neither of us were talking. All of a sudden the husband turns to me and asks, "Is your other hand clean?"
I looked down to inspect the hand that was not holding any food. Puzzled as to why he was asking me this I reply "Yes."
"Then can you scratch my left nipple?"
I looked at him with concern, trying to decode his question. But the husband was completely serious, there were no signs of mischief across his face. My face however was a mix between confusion, horror, and utter embarrassment at the thought of reaching over and scratching his left nipple in a crowded restaurant.
At this point I completely lost it. I could not help but burst into laughter at this ridiculous notion. It wasn't just a ha-ha laugh. It was the kind where you can't breathe and your face is all contorted into a squinty mess. It's the kind where people might actually think you are dying because you turn all red from lack of oxygen and you can't make any noise. Did he really think I was going to put my hand up his shirt to scratch his nipple?
Yes, he did because as I started laughing he was almost hurt that I was laughing instead of agreeing to his request.
Right about then was when the husband realized how slightly inappropriate it might be for me to be seen publicy feeling up my husband and he too started laughing hysterically.
In between gasps for air he would say to me "No seriously, it's itching really bad."
Which only made me laugh harder. During one of the last pleas for me to please just scratch it, he couldn't help laughing, which in turn sent food shooting out of his mouth across the table.
We were a mess.
He eventually stuck his own hand up his shirt and scratched his itchy nipple. And then he complained that it hurt because he was scratching it.
On the way home he kept reminding me how unkind I was not to scratch his nipple. He even claims that he was in so much pain that he thought he was going to die.
When we got home he was still complaining that his nipple hurt. He thought it needed lotion so he asked me to put some on for him. As I did and rubbed it in soothingly, he started to whimper and saying in a panic "It burns! It burns!"
Again I could not control myself and went into hysterics on the floor.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Romance is
Valentines Day. So much hype. Really, so much pressure from women that they put on their men. The husband does not believe in celebrating Hallmark holidays and I don't care one way or the other. It truly does not bother me that we had a normal day on Sunday, spent walking the mall and eating a nice lunch with my parents.
I had to field too many questions and encountered countless awkward situations concerning the subject of Valentines Day. And everyone's questions and comments are all the same:
Them: What are you and your husband doing for Valentines Day?
Me: Nothing.
Them: Nothing? *serious looks of concern would be all over their faces at this point* Why not?
Me: It's not really a big deal to me. *shrugging my shoulders* We don't believe in Valentine's Day.
I know people at this point are thinking that my husband is either: cheap, unromantic, insensitive or all three. I mean, how dare he neglect to buy me expensive jewelry and overpriced chocolates right?
No.
Let's face it, women are bitchy and whiny and demanding. And who puts up with that everyday? Our husbands. It's amazing I'm even married when I think back to how I act one week out of every month.
My husband does so much for me everyday. This morning I was running late, so the husband made my lunch. He was the one that made sure our taxes were put together and taken care of. He is the one that designs and thinks about dinner for the week. He is the one that scrubs our toilets and shower because he knows how much I hate sticking my hand in those disgusting crevices. He is the one that has the full time job and pays all our bills every month.
And do I even think to thank him for these things? These seemingly simplistic tasks are the ones that my man does to let me know he cares.
So this is to you my love.
I had to field too many questions and encountered countless awkward situations concerning the subject of Valentines Day. And everyone's questions and comments are all the same:
Them: What are you and your husband doing for Valentines Day?
Me: Nothing.
Them: Nothing? *serious looks of concern would be all over their faces at this point* Why not?
Me: It's not really a big deal to me. *shrugging my shoulders* We don't believe in Valentine's Day.
I know people at this point are thinking that my husband is either: cheap, unromantic, insensitive or all three. I mean, how dare he neglect to buy me expensive jewelry and overpriced chocolates right?
No.
Let's face it, women are bitchy and whiny and demanding. And who puts up with that everyday? Our husbands. It's amazing I'm even married when I think back to how I act one week out of every month.
My husband does so much for me everyday. This morning I was running late, so the husband made my lunch. He was the one that made sure our taxes were put together and taken care of. He is the one that designs and thinks about dinner for the week. He is the one that scrubs our toilets and shower because he knows how much I hate sticking my hand in those disgusting crevices. He is the one that has the full time job and pays all our bills every month.
And do I even think to thank him for these things? These seemingly simplistic tasks are the ones that my man does to let me know he cares.
So this is to you my love.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Cookie Monster
After making all those lovely cookies, the husband and I were excited to pass them out. Naturally. I wanted to brag about how many hours we spent in the kitchen making and packaging those stupid cookies share the wonnderful goodness that was our Christmas goodie package. Our friends and families raved about how lovely, chewy and delicious our goodies were. It made my heart all warm and fuzzy.
Until.
Our neighbors. I am going to seriously reconsider handing out our blood, sweat and tears to the neighbors next year. They are the reason I had to resort to turning into the cookie monster. (The old cookie monster, when he actually ate cookies and didn't try to convince little children to eat their vegetables.) It wasn't my fault. I had no choice. They made me do it.
It's like when you're on your period and somebody says something stupid. The hormones take over and you flip out, yelling frantically that they are an idiot. Them being an ignorant fool justifies your yelling and overreacting. It was like that.
The husband and I thought we were being neighborly when we walked next door to our neighbor to the right. They are a nice couple with two little kids, one of which has wandered into our garage on a number of occassions to ask all sorts of 3 year old questions:
Boy Neighbor: "Hi!"
Me: "Hi David. How are you today?"
Boy Neighbor: "Good. What are you doing?"
Me: "Unloading groceries."
Boy Neighbor: "Why?"
Me: "Because they have to go in the fridge or they will go bad."
Boy Neighbor: "Why?"
And then start the questions. He asks why about everything. Why is the husband playing on the computer. Why am I planting plants in the patio. Why don't we have any pets. They never stop. But I put up with it because he's just so darn cute.
Nonetheless, they are very nice and I am pretty sure their kid likes us. So we walk next door on Christmas Eve. The neighbor husband answers the door and with it comes noise from talking, tv and yummy smells wafting from the kitchen. (The husband wanted no part in this, so he is standing by the patio gate while I was the one to knock at the door and do all the talking.) I tell him that we baked some cookies and just wanted to say happy holidays.
The look on his face was one of surprise. I could see him thinking "Oh no, I didn't get them anything. Why did they bake us cookies? What can I give them in return?" As he is looking around he says, "Why don't you come in?"
I can see the numerous family members packed into his living room and more as you look toward the kitchen. I know he's only asking because we brought him a present and he doesn't have one for us.
I start to say "Oh no, that's ok we really have to..."
But before I can say it, the husband is suddenly at my side, nudging me inside the door while saying "OK." I wanted to kill him.
As we stood in the entry way of their home, their relatives came up one by one to introduce themselves. There were a lot of them. It was like they were multiplying before our eyes. After saying hello we stood in awkward silence for what felt like a year until the neighbor told us we should come back tomorrow for some homemade Christmas food that his mom was cooking and let us go back home.
It was the most awkward 3 minutes of my life.
Because of our wonderful experience with the neighbors to the right, I was leery to go to the neighbors to the left. I didn't want to be invited into their home to have another one of those moments. A moment where we are both smiling a fake smile because we are thinking about what we can possibly say. After all, we hardly know each other. We've met a handful of times. And it doesn't help that this neighbor in particular always seems to look angry. So we both just stand there, waiting for someone to say that they have something to go do so we can both go back to the safety of our own home.
We knocked, but nobody answered. It was a relief and yet not because we knew that meant we had to go back and try again.
I went next door probably 3 more times with no luck. Then one night all their lights were on. This was a good sign. I could finally get rid of these cookiesand feel better about myself for being a good neighbor. The husband had refused to go with me since the first time so I walked next door on my own.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again a little louder thinking maybe they didn't hear me. Still no answer. My mind goes through possible scenarios: Maybe the wife isn't home and the husband is in the shower. Or they are in the garage working on their car so they can't hear my kock. Still possible, they are superheros off saving the world from a giant sea monster that looks like a spider. (I hate spiders.) Since they are doingme the world such a favor, I will forgive them for not answering the door.
I start walking back to my house, get to the gate and then the porch light turns on. Oh, I guess they aren't saving the world afterall. I assume they are looking at me through the peep hole. They should recognize that I am their neighbor holding a bag full of cookies for them. As I wait for them to open the door, I slowly realize that they aren't going to. They are mocking me through the peep hole, I can feel their eyes burning into my flesh.
I'm pissed. How dare they refuse to open the door to their neighbor! I can't believe they are that malicious.
I had made up my mind to show them! As soon as I was inside the door I started devouring their cookies.
Possibly the worst part about it, is now I see them all. the. time. I see them walking to the mail box, leaving the same time I am, at the grocery store. I mean really. Are they stalking me? Because the cookies are long gone by now.
At the same time I get a little chuckle that I enjoyed my yummy goodness that was our Christmas care package.
Until.
Our neighbors. I am going to seriously reconsider handing out our blood, sweat and tears to the neighbors next year. They are the reason I had to resort to turning into the cookie monster. (The old cookie monster, when he actually ate cookies and didn't try to convince little children to eat their vegetables.) It wasn't my fault. I had no choice. They made me do it.
It's like when you're on your period and somebody says something stupid. The hormones take over and you flip out, yelling frantically that they are an idiot. Them being an ignorant fool justifies your yelling and overreacting. It was like that.
The husband and I thought we were being neighborly when we walked next door to our neighbor to the right. They are a nice couple with two little kids, one of which has wandered into our garage on a number of occassions to ask all sorts of 3 year old questions:
Boy Neighbor: "Hi!"
Me: "Hi David. How are you today?"
Boy Neighbor: "Good. What are you doing?"
Me: "Unloading groceries."
Boy Neighbor: "Why?"
Me: "Because they have to go in the fridge or they will go bad."
Boy Neighbor: "Why?"
And then start the questions. He asks why about everything. Why is the husband playing on the computer. Why am I planting plants in the patio. Why don't we have any pets. They never stop. But I put up with it because he's just so darn cute.
Nonetheless, they are very nice and I am pretty sure their kid likes us. So we walk next door on Christmas Eve. The neighbor husband answers the door and with it comes noise from talking, tv and yummy smells wafting from the kitchen. (The husband wanted no part in this, so he is standing by the patio gate while I was the one to knock at the door and do all the talking.) I tell him that we baked some cookies and just wanted to say happy holidays.
The look on his face was one of surprise. I could see him thinking "Oh no, I didn't get them anything. Why did they bake us cookies? What can I give them in return?" As he is looking around he says, "Why don't you come in?"
I can see the numerous family members packed into his living room and more as you look toward the kitchen. I know he's only asking because we brought him a present and he doesn't have one for us.
I start to say "Oh no, that's ok we really have to..."
But before I can say it, the husband is suddenly at my side, nudging me inside the door while saying "OK." I wanted to kill him.
As we stood in the entry way of their home, their relatives came up one by one to introduce themselves. There were a lot of them. It was like they were multiplying before our eyes. After saying hello we stood in awkward silence for what felt like a year until the neighbor told us we should come back tomorrow for some homemade Christmas food that his mom was cooking and let us go back home.
It was the most awkward 3 minutes of my life.
Because of our wonderful experience with the neighbors to the right, I was leery to go to the neighbors to the left. I didn't want to be invited into their home to have another one of those moments. A moment where we are both smiling a fake smile because we are thinking about what we can possibly say. After all, we hardly know each other. We've met a handful of times. And it doesn't help that this neighbor in particular always seems to look angry. So we both just stand there, waiting for someone to say that they have something to go do so we can both go back to the safety of our own home.
We knocked, but nobody answered. It was a relief and yet not because we knew that meant we had to go back and try again.
I went next door probably 3 more times with no luck. Then one night all their lights were on. This was a good sign. I could finally get rid of these cookies
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again a little louder thinking maybe they didn't hear me. Still no answer. My mind goes through possible scenarios: Maybe the wife isn't home and the husband is in the shower. Or they are in the garage working on their car so they can't hear my kock. Still possible, they are superheros off saving the world from a giant sea monster that looks like a spider. (I hate spiders.) Since they are doing
I start walking back to my house, get to the gate and then the porch light turns on. Oh, I guess they aren't saving the world afterall. I assume they are looking at me through the peep hole. They should recognize that I am their neighbor holding a bag full of cookies for them. As I wait for them to open the door, I slowly realize that they aren't going to. They are mocking me through the peep hole, I can feel their eyes burning into my flesh.
I'm pissed. How dare they refuse to open the door to their neighbor! I can't believe they are that malicious.
I had made up my mind to show them! As soon as I was inside the door I started devouring their cookies.
Possibly the worst part about it, is now I see them all. the. time. I see them walking to the mail box, leaving the same time I am, at the grocery store. I mean really. Are they stalking me? Because the cookies are long gone by now.
At the same time I get a little chuckle that I enjoyed my yummy goodness that was our Christmas care package.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Cooking is not for sissies.
The holidays have come and gone for the year of 2009. And yet, it has taken me this long to write about my cookie catastrophe. I think it has to do with the fact that I wanted to forget all about cookies and baking for a while. So, as an ode to Christmas 2009, I give you my two cents on why I do not enjoy cooking:
Christmas is here and 'tis the season for traditions. and family. and lots and lots of food. I love all of these things and so does the husband. And it's a good thing because between the two of us we have a lot of family, traditions and tons of opportunities to stuff ourselves beyond stretchy pant status.
Since this is our first married Christmas together, the husband and I thought it would be nice to start a few traditions and maybe reignite the fire on some old and forgotten traditions. The husband insisted that we make Christmas cookies and even recruited his sister and mother to join in on "the fun".
I feel I must tell you that I am not one to volunteer to be in the kitchen. Unless it involves cutting myself a nice slice of some chocolately dessert, I don't offer my services in the cooking department. The husband however, refuses to accept that I am not a domesticated cooking, cleaning, nurturing queen of her castle type. He is constantly coming home with new recipes that he wants to try out and perfecting the recipes we do have. And although I do not share his passion for cooking and just being in the kitchen in general, I try to enjoy the time I get to spend cooking with the husband.
So, needless to say, when I heard this idea of his that the husband undoubtedly deems as brilliant - I was skeptical. But, being the loving wife that I am, or at least try to be, I thought "how hard can it be?"
I imagined this scene: The husband and I are in the kitchen side by side mixing butter, flour, sugar. Cookie dough is made and we then move on to rolling the dough into perfectly uniform balls of sugary goodness. The dough is rolled and is put onto cookie sheets to be baked. And we’re done. Simple. Team Work. Hugs and Kisses.
Ha.
Little did I know the reality of the amount of work it actually takes to make Christmas cookies. The scenario I imagined is not at all how it actually played out.
First, we couldn’t just start making cookies, because we didn’t know how many cookies we needed to make. We had to make a list of our friends and family members that we wanted to give cookies to. Not only did we have to make a list of people, we had to decide how many of each kind of cookie each person would get. We also had to gather this information from the husband’s sister and mother who would also be handing out cookies.
Once we decided how many cookies we actually needed to make, we had to go get all the ingredients we need. Because Lord knows we don’t have pounds and pounds of sugar, flour, butter and all the other ingredients it actually takes to make cookies.
Ok, at this point I get a little worried. This is already a lot more work than I pictured. But I troop on, go with the flow and retain high hopes that the rest is the easy part.
Ha.
Making the cookie dough was actually fairly simple. We had all the ingredients, then mixed and put into gallon sized bags to store until it was time to actually bake the cookies.
Now comes the fun part. Making the cookies. It was during this stage of the process where I realized the husband likes to take on a certain role in the kitchen. He likes to state how things should be done and then sit back while I do them. Right. This was cause for much tension and bickering. This became particularly challenging when it came time to bake. Apparently one must bake all cookies at exactly 10 minutes. Why 10 minutes? Because the husband has it set in his mind that if the cookies bake even a second longer than 10 minutes they are inevitably ruined.
Baking all the cookies took about 4 hours in the kitchen. Two days in a row. And not only did we make cookies, but we made peppermint bark as well. This was the hardest one, because the white chocolate had to be heated up and poured over the milk chocolate very quickly and I always got in the way or didn’t do it fast enough.
This is how the peppermint is supposed to look. Ours were not so lucky. The milk chocolate and white chocolate ended up mixing and the result was marble peppermint bark.
At this point I was singing happy songs in my head. Yay we’re done!
Ha.
We then had to wrap all the cookies with cling wrap decorated with Christmasy pictures. And then we had to go over to the husband’s moms where we were going to combine all our cookies and package them to be handed out that weekend.
When we got to the husband’s moms house chaos hit. First of all, she wasn’t even home. Secondly, she only had about 2 dozen cookies baked. Thirdly, none of these were wrapped in cling wrap like we had agreed upon. What the hell. When she did get home the husband, sister, mom-in-law and myself all went to work baking and wrapping. This is when I realized where the husband gets his kitchen etiquette. The husband’s mom like to tell everyone else what to do, leave and go next door to grandma’s, come back and tell us how we did this wrong or need to do this too, leave and go to grandma’s…
Needless to say, we got to the mom-in-laws house at 4 and did not leave until 8:45pm. The husband and I had not eaten and I am not a happy person when I my stomach is empty and angry at me for not feeding it.
Cooking is a lot of work. too much work.
I don’t know that I will agree to baking cookies again next year.
Christmas is here and 'tis the season for traditions. and family. and lots and lots of food. I love all of these things and so does the husband. And it's a good thing because between the two of us we have a lot of family, traditions and tons of opportunities to stuff ourselves beyond stretchy pant status.
Since this is our first married Christmas together, the husband and I thought it would be nice to start a few traditions and maybe reignite the fire on some old and forgotten traditions. The husband insisted that we make Christmas cookies and even recruited his sister and mother to join in on "the fun".
I feel I must tell you that I am not one to volunteer to be in the kitchen. Unless it involves cutting myself a nice slice of some chocolately dessert, I don't offer my services in the cooking department. The husband however, refuses to accept that I am not a domesticated cooking, cleaning, nurturing queen of her castle type. He is constantly coming home with new recipes that he wants to try out and perfecting the recipes we do have. And although I do not share his passion for cooking and just being in the kitchen in general, I try to enjoy the time I get to spend cooking with the husband.
So, needless to say, when I heard this idea of his that the husband undoubtedly deems as brilliant - I was skeptical. But, being the loving wife that I am, or at least try to be, I thought "how hard can it be?"
I imagined this scene: The husband and I are in the kitchen side by side mixing butter, flour, sugar. Cookie dough is made and we then move on to rolling the dough into perfectly uniform balls of sugary goodness. The dough is rolled and is put onto cookie sheets to be baked. And we’re done. Simple. Team Work. Hugs and Kisses.
Ha.
Little did I know the reality of the amount of work it actually takes to make Christmas cookies. The scenario I imagined is not at all how it actually played out.
First, we couldn’t just start making cookies, because we didn’t know how many cookies we needed to make. We had to make a list of our friends and family members that we wanted to give cookies to. Not only did we have to make a list of people, we had to decide how many of each kind of cookie each person would get. We also had to gather this information from the husband’s sister and mother who would also be handing out cookies.
Once we decided how many cookies we actually needed to make, we had to go get all the ingredients we need. Because Lord knows we don’t have pounds and pounds of sugar, flour, butter and all the other ingredients it actually takes to make cookies.
Ok, at this point I get a little worried. This is already a lot more work than I pictured. But I troop on, go with the flow and retain high hopes that the rest is the easy part.
Ha.
Making the cookie dough was actually fairly simple. We had all the ingredients, then mixed and put into gallon sized bags to store until it was time to actually bake the cookies.
Now comes the fun part. Making the cookies. It was during this stage of the process where I realized the husband likes to take on a certain role in the kitchen. He likes to state how things should be done and then sit back while I do them. Right. This was cause for much tension and bickering. This became particularly challenging when it came time to bake. Apparently one must bake all cookies at exactly 10 minutes. Why 10 minutes? Because the husband has it set in his mind that if the cookies bake even a second longer than 10 minutes they are inevitably ruined.
Baking all the cookies took about 4 hours in the kitchen. Two days in a row. And not only did we make cookies, but we made peppermint bark as well. This was the hardest one, because the white chocolate had to be heated up and poured over the milk chocolate very quickly and I always got in the way or didn’t do it fast enough.
This is how the peppermint is supposed to look. Ours were not so lucky. The milk chocolate and white chocolate ended up mixing and the result was marble peppermint bark.
At this point I was singing happy songs in my head. Yay we’re done!
Ha.
We then had to wrap all the cookies with cling wrap decorated with Christmasy pictures. And then we had to go over to the husband’s moms where we were going to combine all our cookies and package them to be handed out that weekend.
When we got to the husband’s moms house chaos hit. First of all, she wasn’t even home. Secondly, she only had about 2 dozen cookies baked. Thirdly, none of these were wrapped in cling wrap like we had agreed upon. What the hell. When she did get home the husband, sister, mom-in-law and myself all went to work baking and wrapping. This is when I realized where the husband gets his kitchen etiquette. The husband’s mom like to tell everyone else what to do, leave and go next door to grandma’s, come back and tell us how we did this wrong or need to do this too, leave and go to grandma’s…
Needless to say, we got to the mom-in-laws house at 4 and did not leave until 8:45pm. The husband and I had not eaten and I am not a happy person when I my stomach is empty and angry at me for not feeding it.
Cooking is a lot of work. too much work.
I don’t know that I will agree to baking cookies again next year.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I don't know what this world has come to.
It's raining. Really hard. I don't know if you know but I hate the rain. This is why I choose to live in southern California. Sunshine and temperate climate of about 70 degrees 99% of the time.
It's actually raining so hard that there are tornado warnings. What the hell. Tornado warnings. And only in Orange County, how lovely. Not only do I live in California because there is hardly any rain, but also because we don't have things like tornadoes.
The actual tornado that is threatening my life at this very moment.
I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and at any moment my house will be swept off into a different dimension. And I don't like the thought of that. Mostly because I'm quite comfortable with my life how it is and throwing me into a different world where there are talking robots and lions and flying monkeys doesn't sound so great.
Possibly the worst thing about California and the rain is that people in California don't know how to deal with the rain. At the slightest sprinkling of water falling from the sky every news station announces a storm watch. Also, people in southern California don't know how to drive in the rain. They either drive like nothing has changed (which means at least 15 mph over the speed limit) or they drive about 5 mph. Does anybody else see a problem with this?
Rain is also very wet. And this presents a problem when I don't want to get wet. I like to stay dry unless a) I am in the shower or bath or b) if I am swimming in a swimming pool. Stepping outside after I've already had my shower, put on clean clothes and done my hair only to be soaked and left looking like a drowned rat does not please me.
Basically I want more sunshine and less rain so I can go outside without fear of horrible California drivers and my hair turning into limp, wavy wet hair.
It's actually raining so hard that there are tornado warnings. What the hell. Tornado warnings. And only in Orange County, how lovely. Not only do I live in California because there is hardly any rain, but also because we don't have things like tornadoes.
The actual tornado that is threatening my life at this very moment.
I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and at any moment my house will be swept off into a different dimension. And I don't like the thought of that. Mostly because I'm quite comfortable with my life how it is and throwing me into a different world where there are talking robots and lions and flying monkeys doesn't sound so great.
Possibly the worst thing about California and the rain is that people in California don't know how to deal with the rain. At the slightest sprinkling of water falling from the sky every news station announces a storm watch. Also, people in southern California don't know how to drive in the rain. They either drive like nothing has changed (which means at least 15 mph over the speed limit) or they drive about 5 mph. Does anybody else see a problem with this?
Rain is also very wet. And this presents a problem when I don't want to get wet. I like to stay dry unless a) I am in the shower or bath or b) if I am swimming in a swimming pool. Stepping outside after I've already had my shower, put on clean clothes and done my hair only to be soaked and left looking like a drowned rat does not please me.
Basically I want more sunshine and less rain so I can go outside without fear of horrible California drivers and my hair turning into limp, wavy wet hair.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
It's Overrated
Babies.
Such a daunting word. An even more intense experience. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. Always have. That’s why I work with them for a living. But to make that leap to actually committing to have some of your own is a big step.
It’s not like determining which Starbucks coffee to get or deciding what hair style and color I’m going to try out next.
Neither of which I don’t take lightly mind you. Every time I’m at Starbucks I have to think about what I want: hot or cold. Sugary or coffeey. Tall or Venti. Same with the hair salon. Brown or blonde. (red was nixed a while ago by the husband) Bangs or no. Trim or cut. (The irony of it all is I always end up getting the same thing. Venti skinny vanilla latte and brown with dark blonde highlights, trim as little as possible, long layers.) But I’m off topic.
Babies on the other hand is HUGE. Like I am going to get bored of my child within 24 hours because it’s one of those fad things, like beanie babies? Or can we even afford a kid? (Do I want to afford a kid?)
It sounds bad I know. Ever since the husband and I got engaged the first question was when is the wedding and the second was when is the baby due. People, give me a break!
So for a good year a half now, people have been bombarding me with baby questions. Especially since the husband and I are apparently at that age where baby making is at its best. It seems like everywhere we turn somebody is trying to get pregnant, is pregnant, or has had a baby recently. All our friends and family have been sucked into the conspiracy that now is the time to make a happy little family. gag me now.
So babies has been on the brain because everyone else is suffocating me with babies this and pregnancy that.
It was even more apparent when the husband and I were at the mall recently. Everywhere we turned there was a pregnant woman. The lady who helped us pick out a jacket for my mom? Pregnant. The woman trying to find me bronze shoes for a wedding? Pregnant. It got so bad that the husband actually told me to hold my breath while we passed pregnant ladies because we didn’t want me catching ‘the disease’. Like swine flu. Like somehow getting pregnant involves air borne pathogens. (Imagine how disgusting it would be for teeny tiny sperm to be floating through the air being sucked in through your nasal passage down into your lady parts.) Yes, this is how much babies freak me out.
It got even worst. For a week straight I had pregnancy dreams. I don’t remember the whole of the dreams, but in every single one I was pregnant and the husband either had no clue or was off dying somewhere because what in the hell were we thinking, having kids?!?! As it turns out, the husband’s sister is pregnant. When I found this out the dreams stopped. Thank god.
It’s gotten so bad that every month I swear I must be pregnant. I randomly forget to take one pill right at 7:00 and my whole world comes crashing down and I’m all scared of what might be forming inside of me. This past month I started eating like a cow. No matter how normal this behavior is right before I go on my period I was convinced that I was pregnant. The husband likes to toy with my head too. His actual text conversation with his sister went like this:
Sister: Ask your wife if she’s had any dreams about what I’m having (boy or girl)
Husband: She said no more dreams but she’s eating like a pig… what the hell does that mean?
Sister: That you don’t feed her enough… or she is pregnant!
Husband: Or it’s that happy, refreshing, soothing so you can rest time of the month where I can go worry free that no one threw water on her like a gremlin!
(FYI the husband is referring to the old 80's movie Gremlins. In the movie, if water is dumped on the gremlin he spawns into a million different gremlins. His worry is that I will spawn a million little gremlin-esk babies.)
Sister: haha, oh yea, that too.
No joke this is his actual conversation. (I looked up his texts in his phone.)
I would really love for the baby questions to cease and my life to go back to being all about me… and the husband I guess.
If I ever do this I give you permission to shoot me.
Such a daunting word. An even more intense experience. Don’t get me wrong. I love kids. Always have. That’s why I work with them for a living. But to make that leap to actually committing to have some of your own is a big step.
It’s not like determining which Starbucks coffee to get or deciding what hair style and color I’m going to try out next.
Neither of which I don’t take lightly mind you. Every time I’m at Starbucks I have to think about what I want: hot or cold. Sugary or coffeey. Tall or Venti. Same with the hair salon. Brown or blonde. (red was nixed a while ago by the husband) Bangs or no. Trim or cut. (The irony of it all is I always end up getting the same thing. Venti skinny vanilla latte and brown with dark blonde highlights, trim as little as possible, long layers.) But I’m off topic.
Babies on the other hand is HUGE. Like I am going to get bored of my child within 24 hours because it’s one of those fad things, like beanie babies? Or can we even afford a kid? (Do I want to afford a kid?)
It sounds bad I know. Ever since the husband and I got engaged the first question was when is the wedding and the second was when is the baby due. People, give me a break!
So for a good year a half now, people have been bombarding me with baby questions. Especially since the husband and I are apparently at that age where baby making is at its best. It seems like everywhere we turn somebody is trying to get pregnant, is pregnant, or has had a baby recently. All our friends and family have been sucked into the conspiracy that now is the time to make a happy little family. gag me now.
So babies has been on the brain because everyone else is suffocating me with babies this and pregnancy that.
It was even more apparent when the husband and I were at the mall recently. Everywhere we turned there was a pregnant woman. The lady who helped us pick out a jacket for my mom? Pregnant. The woman trying to find me bronze shoes for a wedding? Pregnant. It got so bad that the husband actually told me to hold my breath while we passed pregnant ladies because we didn’t want me catching ‘the disease’. Like swine flu. Like somehow getting pregnant involves air borne pathogens. (Imagine how disgusting it would be for teeny tiny sperm to be floating through the air being sucked in through your nasal passage down into your lady parts.) Yes, this is how much babies freak me out.
It got even worst. For a week straight I had pregnancy dreams. I don’t remember the whole of the dreams, but in every single one I was pregnant and the husband either had no clue or was off dying somewhere because what in the hell were we thinking, having kids?!?! As it turns out, the husband’s sister is pregnant. When I found this out the dreams stopped. Thank god.
It’s gotten so bad that every month I swear I must be pregnant. I randomly forget to take one pill right at 7:00 and my whole world comes crashing down and I’m all scared of what might be forming inside of me. This past month I started eating like a cow. No matter how normal this behavior is right before I go on my period I was convinced that I was pregnant. The husband likes to toy with my head too. His actual text conversation with his sister went like this:
Sister: Ask your wife if she’s had any dreams about what I’m having (boy or girl)
Husband: She said no more dreams but she’s eating like a pig… what the hell does that mean?
Sister: That you don’t feed her enough… or she is pregnant!
Husband: Or it’s that happy, refreshing, soothing so you can rest time of the month where I can go worry free that no one threw water on her like a gremlin!
(FYI the husband is referring to the old 80's movie Gremlins. In the movie, if water is dumped on the gremlin he spawns into a million different gremlins. His worry is that I will spawn a million little gremlin-esk babies.)
Sister: haha, oh yea, that too.
No joke this is his actual conversation. (I looked up his texts in his phone.)
I would really love for the baby questions to cease and my life to go back to being all about me… and the husband I guess.
If I ever do this I give you permission to shoot me.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Wide Open Spaces
The husband and I recently moved into a new home. The neighborhood is brand new. Actually parts of it are still being built. Because the neighborhood is new tons of solicitors come door to door selling all sorts of things.
We have had numerous Brinks Security system people come to the door. Along with people selling window coverings, realtors trying to sell your house that you’ve only lived in for a matter of months, Jehovah Witness… anything you can think of I’ve seen them and had to talk to them within weeks of moving in.
And it’s always an inconvenience. The conversation is always a battle. Sure it starts out nice. Mr. Solicitor politely greets you as Ma’am and asks how your day is going. You automatically say good, thank you (while in your head thinking it was good until you came knocking on my door). Then it starts.
Well I work for *blabbity blah* (because who cares who they work for or what nifty thing they have to sell, I don’t want it) and do you have a security system? Because you never can be too careful these days and I am selling mine for 500 million dollars, which is a really good deal and if you sign up now I can give you free installation and then we will put this dandy sign in your patio saying you have security and then you will never ever have to worry about your property being vandalized or someone trying to break into your home because….
And I’m stuck. Because it’s rude to interrupt no matter how badly I want to. And I can’t get a word in edge wise and I know I’m starting to have a glazed over look creep across my face but it’s all I can do to keep from slamming the door in Mr. Solicitors face.
Ugh. This is why I don’t answer the door.
However, the husband likes to keep the front door open to get a breeze and because he “needs fresh air”. With a roll of my eyes I agree to prop the front door open. It just so happened that one day, our front door was wide open. I was grading papers on the floor in the living room and the husband was fiddling around doing something or other in the kitchen.
All of a sudden the husband ducks behind the island. I’m talking secret agent, pouncing to the ground, tumbling out of harms way just in the knick of time.
I start laughing because I think he’s a retard and I can’t imagine why he is ducking behind the island in the kitchen. Until I hear the “hello?” at the front door.
Yes, that’s right. The husband completely ducked in the kitchen and left me to deal with the solicitor now standing at our wide opened front door. How thoughtful of him.
I no longer agree to keep the front door open to get a breeze. Or fresh air.
We have had numerous Brinks Security system people come to the door. Along with people selling window coverings, realtors trying to sell your house that you’ve only lived in for a matter of months, Jehovah Witness… anything you can think of I’ve seen them and had to talk to them within weeks of moving in.
And it’s always an inconvenience. The conversation is always a battle. Sure it starts out nice. Mr. Solicitor politely greets you as Ma’am and asks how your day is going. You automatically say good, thank you (while in your head thinking it was good until you came knocking on my door). Then it starts.
Well I work for *blabbity blah* (because who cares who they work for or what nifty thing they have to sell, I don’t want it) and do you have a security system? Because you never can be too careful these days and I am selling mine for 500 million dollars, which is a really good deal and if you sign up now I can give you free installation and then we will put this dandy sign in your patio saying you have security and then you will never ever have to worry about your property being vandalized or someone trying to break into your home because….
And I’m stuck. Because it’s rude to interrupt no matter how badly I want to. And I can’t get a word in edge wise and I know I’m starting to have a glazed over look creep across my face but it’s all I can do to keep from slamming the door in Mr. Solicitors face.
Ugh. This is why I don’t answer the door.
However, the husband likes to keep the front door open to get a breeze and because he “needs fresh air”. With a roll of my eyes I agree to prop the front door open. It just so happened that one day, our front door was wide open. I was grading papers on the floor in the living room and the husband was fiddling around doing something or other in the kitchen.
All of a sudden the husband ducks behind the island. I’m talking secret agent, pouncing to the ground, tumbling out of harms way just in the knick of time.
I start laughing because I think he’s a retard and I can’t imagine why he is ducking behind the island in the kitchen. Until I hear the “hello?” at the front door.
Yes, that’s right. The husband completely ducked in the kitchen and left me to deal with the solicitor now standing at our wide opened front door. How thoughtful of him.
I no longer agree to keep the front door open to get a breeze. Or fresh air.
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