The mister's 31st birthday was yesterday.
We had planned on going kayaking, but with wind gusts of 50 mph and intermittent rain, we decided that was a stupid idea and instead spent the day on a model-airplane-store/bike-shop crawl.
For his birthday I gave the mister a handknit sweater and P90X (his request; I am not dumb enough to get someone the devil's workout if it's not something they expressly requested).
His response to both gifts and the delicious homemade dinner and cake I made was enthusiastic.
His response, however, upon going bed and discovering clean sheets, freshly laundered duvets and comforters, and a tidied bedroom, was a bellowed, "Oh, my God, I love you very much."
It's the simple things, I guess.
Showing posts with label Married Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Married Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
A box?
I am working the 3:30 to midnight shift at work. This means, among other things, that my sleeping habits are messed up, my coffee addiction is back in a wicked way, and the mister and I never see each other awake during the week, as our schedules are completely opposite.
Because we never see each other, we talk on the phone a lot.
Tonight's conversation included this gem, which I thought I'd share with you.
Both of us: blah blah blah, chat chat, nothing exciting.
Him: Wow, the kitchen garbage smells.
Me [wondering what could stink, as today was garbage day and the can was empty when I left for work]: So take it out.
Him: Nah. I stuck a box on top of it. It's good.
Me: Are you serious? A box? Take the trash out!
Him: But I don't want to.
Me: If I come home and the kitchen smells because you couldn't be bothered to deal with it and just left it for me, I'm going to be very pissed.
[for similar sentences, see nagging section 5(b): the toilet does not scrub itself, or argument 124: fairies do not chip the dried cheese off your nacho plate, my friend. *I* do.]
Him: But the box...
Me: Trash. Out.
Him: Fine. I'll tie up the bag, but I'm just going to put it on the stoop. You have to put it in the big can.
Me: Fine.
Him: Fine.
Because we never see each other, we talk on the phone a lot.
Tonight's conversation included this gem, which I thought I'd share with you.
Both of us: blah blah blah, chat chat, nothing exciting.
Him: Wow, the kitchen garbage smells.
Me [wondering what could stink, as today was garbage day and the can was empty when I left for work]: So take it out.
Him: Nah. I stuck a box on top of it. It's good.
Me: Are you serious? A box? Take the trash out!
Him: But I don't want to.
Me: If I come home and the kitchen smells because you couldn't be bothered to deal with it and just left it for me, I'm going to be very pissed.
[for similar sentences, see nagging section 5(b): the toilet does not scrub itself, or argument 124: fairies do not chip the dried cheese off your nacho plate, my friend. *I* do.]
Him: But the box...
Me: Trash. Out.
Him: Fine. I'll tie up the bag, but I'm just going to put it on the stoop. You have to put it in the big can.
Me: Fine.
Him: Fine.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Camping
It had been disgustingly hot all day and we’d been standing in line in the sun or standing on ship decks in the sun. The only shade was what was created by other people standing near us or the brief darkness as we slipped below decks on the HMS Bounty.
But very cool, all that rigging and the sails and the guy dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow.
Upon returning to our campground I bicycled up to the bathroom, eager to shower off the sweat and grime of the day. The showers require quarters. 8 of them, for three minutes of water. I soak my washcloth in the sink and scrub the important parts. Then I stick my head under the faucet and shampoo my hair in the sink. Take that, stupid campground.
***
We head north to Gooseberry, set up our tent, crack a couple of beers, and char some hamburgers over the fire. Ahhh, perfect.
Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening!
We sprint with our deck of cards and our annual camping Rummy 500 Tournament to the campground shelter where I proceed to beat the mister rather soundly. This never happens.
We later discover that our tent is waterproof to a point. That point is 3 hours in to an all-night thunderstorm. The tent springs a leak right over the mister’s head. I find this hilarious. The mister does not.
***
We’ve spent a day hiking and walking and dipping our toes in the Gooseberry River. We’ve had our beers and our charred hot dogs and played our nightly game of rummy, where I lost. I knit on the sweater I brought, the only knitting I packed to make sure I would FINISH IT, as it was supposed to be a 30th birthday gift for the mister. His 31st birthday is in a month.
We’re in bed in our tent and the mister is sound asleep. So soundly that he doesn’t hear the clankity-bang of critters getting into our trash because we forgot to tie it up and put it in the pick-up. I get up and scare away a pack of raccoons.
He sleeps with noise canceling ear plugs when we camp. I’m not that brave. I’m afraid that I won’t hear the creepy serial killer sneaking up on us. Because serial killers totally hang out in state parks on the North Shore.
***
It’s a foggy morning and we’re strolling along the shore, watching the fog eddy and flow over the rocky outcroppings. The mister spots something in the distance. One of the tall ships we’d toured earlier in the week, sliding out of the fog on the lake. Eerie and awesome. We sit for the better part of an hour, watching the ship.
***
We’re touring Split Rock Lighthouse and suddenly I look at the mister.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s our anniversary.”
“Happy anniversary,” he replies.
We forget again ten minutes later.
***
He goes mountain biking. I do not. I hate mountain biking and, frankly, am eager for a little respite from the run-go-do-see-hike-busy-busy-busy approach the mister has to vacations. He’s not much for relaxing, that one, and I am. So I stick my knitting and a granola bar in my pack and hike up the river for a mile or two until I find the perfect ledge over-looking the river, with a flat spot for sitting and a rock perfect for resting my back. I settle in, pull my knitting out of the bag, and have a glorious hour of peace and calm.
***
We sit in traffic on 35 southbound, sunburned and tired, our gear packed and stuffed in the bed of the pickup.
He rolls his head towards me, “Good vacation?”
I grin and slip my fingers into his. “Great vacation.”
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Babies in the Woods
He and his friends went four-wheeling on Sunday afternoon.
Look carefully at the above photo. There's the Jeep (Shitbox V, for those of you keeping track). There's a mudhole. There's the mister, trucker cap and all. And in the back seat of the Jeep...those pink things...good God, are those CAR SEATS? Did you bring CHILDREN mudding with you?
They did.
The mister and I are never having children. I'd spend every moment they were out of my sight wondering what dangerous bad ideas he was coming up with and subjecting them to. The stress would kill me.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Photos
I am still rocking the writer's block and nursing a deep-seated hatred of any time spent in front of a computer screen after the 40 hours I spend in front of one at work. But I've been out and about and remembered my camera, so here are some recent pictures.
Feeding the new lambs on the in-laws' farm. Ignore my double chin.
The mister competed in a mountain bike race and did fabulously right up until the bike broke.
You can't see where it broke because it was COVERED in mud.
My younger brother taking the mister's 30 year old moped for a spin. He's single, ladies, and does his own laundry!
Artemesia in my garden.
The mister and I took a stroll at Minnehaha Creek.
We brought the dog.
We also brought him on a bike ride.
I learned to spin yarn on my new spinning wheel. (I'm still learning. I suck.)
And I knit.
Feeding the new lambs on the in-laws' farm. Ignore my double chin.
The mister competed in a mountain bike race and did fabulously right up until the bike broke.
You can't see where it broke because it was COVERED in mud.
My younger brother taking the mister's 30 year old moped for a spin. He's single, ladies, and does his own laundry!
Artemesia in my garden.
The mister and I took a stroll at Minnehaha Creek.
We brought the dog.
We also brought him on a bike ride.
I learned to spin yarn on my new spinning wheel. (I'm still learning. I suck.)
And I knit.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I might need help burying the body
Yesterday the mister took his moped to work. The moped is 30 years old and doesn't have a key, so he forgot to bring his keys to work.
I didn't know this and just a few weeks ago he read me the riot act for failing to lock up the house when I left, so when I left for work I very conscientiously locked each and every door.
Several hours later, Captain Fantastic gets home from work, realizes he's locked out, and comes down to my office (luckily he'd left the key in the motorcycle ignition, because taking a moped that only goes 25 miles per hour on the freeway would have been bad news) and took MY house key. (We used to have spare keys stashed in the garage but SOMEONE used them and never put them back.)
Knowing he had plans and would be gone for much of the evening, I admonished him to leave the back door unlocked as I would be extremely upset to find myself locked out when I returned home.
Guess who was locked out. It was pouring rain and I had to pee so badly I ended up driving to the local GAS STATION to use their bathroom.
I didn't know this and just a few weeks ago he read me the riot act for failing to lock up the house when I left, so when I left for work I very conscientiously locked each and every door.
Several hours later, Captain Fantastic gets home from work, realizes he's locked out, and comes down to my office (luckily he'd left the key in the motorcycle ignition, because taking a moped that only goes 25 miles per hour on the freeway would have been bad news) and took MY house key. (We used to have spare keys stashed in the garage but SOMEONE used them and never put them back.)
Knowing he had plans and would be gone for much of the evening, I admonished him to leave the back door unlocked as I would be extremely upset to find myself locked out when I returned home.
Guess who was locked out. It was pouring rain and I had to pee so badly I ended up driving to the local GAS STATION to use their bathroom.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Conversation
Me: I'm going to press our clothes for K's wedding, Which suit do you want to wear?
Him: My suits are too small.
Me: You're just going to have to suck it up. You should have gotten them altered 6 weeks ago, now it's too late, so you're going to have to deal.
Him: But I just want to wear comfortable clothes!
Me: This is a very nice wedding at a very nice church. No flip-flops allowed.
Him: God doesn't care what I wear!
Me: But your wife does.
Him: You're not God.
Me: silence
Him: I'll wear the brown suit, please.
Him: My suits are too small.
Me: You're just going to have to suck it up. You should have gotten them altered 6 weeks ago, now it's too late, so you're going to have to deal.
Him: But I just want to wear comfortable clothes!
Me: This is a very nice wedding at a very nice church. No flip-flops allowed.
Him: God doesn't care what I wear!
Me: But your wife does.
Him: You're not God.
Me: silence
Him: I'll wear the brown suit, please.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Men and Women: Different
For my friend K's bachelorette party, we did pretty things. We got dressed up, styled, and made-up, and posed for pinup pictures.
Photo by Sugar Bomb Studios. Highly recommended. HIGHLY.
The mister went to a bachelor party this past weekend for a different wedding. Here's what they did (make sure you have your sound on):
Photo by Sugar Bomb Studios. Highly recommended. HIGHLY.
The mister went to a bachelor party this past weekend for a different wedding. Here's what they did (make sure you have your sound on):
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Return of Music
I don’t like quiet. Silence gives me the willies.
I always had my headphones on, or the stereo blasting, or I’d sing (admittedly this was more to annoy the mister than anything else). I played the guitar and oboe for years, though that has faded and now I mostly play the stereo.
I would dance in the kitchen while cooking, my hips keeping rhythm with Sergio Mendez. I would jog with Spiderbait and Rammstein and A Perfect Circle pounding in my ears. I'd lounge in the bathtub with Nina Simone in the background or I’d sucker the mister into slow-dancing in the living room to Harlem Nocturne.
The mister would often come in from the garage and remind me to turn down the stereo, as he could hear it over his power tools, and it was probably driving the neighbors crazy. He’d chuckle when we were neck deep in a home-improvement nightmare and he’d turn off his sander only to hear me screeching along, off key, to whatever was playing on my ipod at the moment.
My life was accompanied by music.
But for a while there, right before being laid-off, when I spent more time weeping than working, and during unemployment, it was quiet. I didn’t feel like dancing. I didn’t want to sing. I didn’t want music to keep me company.
I wallowed in silence.
A few weeks ago I was expecting a couple of darling friends to come over for dinner and I was in the kitchen getting the meatloaf in the oven and making garlic potatoes au gratin. Something’s strange, I thought to myself. It’s so quiet.
I plugged my ipod into the stereo and Ain’t Nothing Wrong With That sounded through the speakers. I twirled my way back into the kitchen accompanied by the pounding beats and set back to work.
Startled by the noise, the mister came in from taking out the trash and just stood there, grinning at me.
I guess he missed the music too.
I always had my headphones on, or the stereo blasting, or I’d sing (admittedly this was more to annoy the mister than anything else). I played the guitar and oboe for years, though that has faded and now I mostly play the stereo.
I would dance in the kitchen while cooking, my hips keeping rhythm with Sergio Mendez. I would jog with Spiderbait and Rammstein and A Perfect Circle pounding in my ears. I'd lounge in the bathtub with Nina Simone in the background or I’d sucker the mister into slow-dancing in the living room to Harlem Nocturne.
The mister would often come in from the garage and remind me to turn down the stereo, as he could hear it over his power tools, and it was probably driving the neighbors crazy. He’d chuckle when we were neck deep in a home-improvement nightmare and he’d turn off his sander only to hear me screeching along, off key, to whatever was playing on my ipod at the moment.
My life was accompanied by music.
But for a while there, right before being laid-off, when I spent more time weeping than working, and during unemployment, it was quiet. I didn’t feel like dancing. I didn’t want to sing. I didn’t want music to keep me company.
I wallowed in silence.
A few weeks ago I was expecting a couple of darling friends to come over for dinner and I was in the kitchen getting the meatloaf in the oven and making garlic potatoes au gratin. Something’s strange, I thought to myself. It’s so quiet.
I plugged my ipod into the stereo and Ain’t Nothing Wrong With That sounded through the speakers. I twirled my way back into the kitchen accompanied by the pounding beats and set back to work.
Startled by the noise, the mister came in from taking out the trash and just stood there, grinning at me.
I guess he missed the music too.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Why I Love the Mister (Part 1)
5:45 I'm at work and get a text message from him. I don't notice.
7:25 I read text message. It says, Our furnace is broken. Blowing black smoke all over the basement. Not good.
7:26 Panic attack, thinking of my two maxed out credit cards, my miniscule bank account balance, and the huge amount of money we’re going to owe the IRS, wondering how to add a new furnace into that mix.
7:28 I call him and ask how bad it is. He replies, "I spent two hours fixing it and machining new parts at work. It’s blowing hot air again and the smoke has cleared."
7:32 I call him my hero, profess my undying love, and promise any number of favors of ANY variety. He fixed the furnace!
7:25 I read text message. It says, Our furnace is broken. Blowing black smoke all over the basement. Not good.
7:26 Panic attack, thinking of my two maxed out credit cards, my miniscule bank account balance, and the huge amount of money we’re going to owe the IRS, wondering how to add a new furnace into that mix.
7:28 I call him and ask how bad it is. He replies, "I spent two hours fixing it and machining new parts at work. It’s blowing hot air again and the smoke has cleared."
7:32 I call him my hero, profess my undying love, and promise any number of favors of ANY variety. He fixed the furnace!
Monday, October 19, 2009
Anatomy of a Fight
Note:
I become unreasonable when I am hungry. Low blood sugar turns me into a raving lunatic with anger management issues and tendencies towards violence. I know this. I try to regulate the anger. It doesn’t work. I need to eat regularly. You’d think after 7 years, the mister would pick up on this, but he can be a tiny bit dense.
Me: Wow, I’m hungry. Can we stop and pick something up to eat?
The mister: Sure. I just need to stop by Home Depot, the auto-parts store, the grocery store, Target, the post office, the mall, Walgreens, and my parents’ house.
Me: Um, okay. Can we maybe stop before we get started on that?
Him: Nah, it won’t take long.
Me: concerned silence.
45 minutes pass. My stomach is gnawing on my spine and my mood has dropped a bit. We are only on stop 3.
Me: Listen, I’m really hungry, can we please stop?
Him: I’m almost done.
It’s been another half hour since our last conversation. My stomach is audibly growling and I’m beginning to get the low-blood-sugar-shakes. My mood could now best be classified as irate with a side of irrational.
Me: I am HUNGRY. Stop now and find me a snack.
Him: One more stop.
Twenty minutes pass. We are still dicking around in the aisles of Fleet Farm. I am furious and barely coherent.
Me: FOOD. NOW. Or I will gnaw off your fucking arm.
Him: Um, okay. What do you want? Burger? Pizza? Pasta?
I do not want choices at this point. Choices will only fuel the rage. I can’t think clearly enough to pick a restaurant. The best I can be counted on to do is restrain myself from physically attacking a waitress when she brings the bread basket.
Me: I don’t care.
Him: But you’re so hungry, what do you want?
Me: I. Do. Not. Care. I just want food.
Him: But…
Me: snarl
Him: Jeez, there’s no reason to be so angry.
The moment I knew he had truly figured it out was this weekend, when my mood plummeted and I began commenting on how hungry I was. The mister got it and after just a few moments of my bad attitude, pulled into a parking lot, scored us a table for two, and asked for some chips and salsa to be brought out right away.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Why we have weekends apart sometimes.
The mister went out of town for another four-wheeling weekend with his buddies. He has a different Jeep (the man changes Jeeps like I change my socks), but still had a glorious time. They went off-roading, mudding, and rock-crawling.
I did not go. I was invited and I declined with snorting laughter. No, no thank you.
I’m not a girlie girl. I don’t mind getting dirty. (I mind BEING dirty for extended periods of time, but I don’t mind GETTING dirty.) I change my own oil and I know how my engine works. I will dig and garden and shovel shit out of the horse pasture if I have to (see Thanksgiving with the in-laws). I can run a chainsaw, I don’t faint at the sight of blood, and I have a total potty mouth. Sure, I like nice clothes and perfumes that smell good, and I have screamed at the sight of a rodent, but I like to think of myself as well-rounded, easy-going, and up for adventure.
That said, I hate four-wheeling.
Vehicles are for roads. I understand driving off road if it’s necessary for some sort of work thing or hunting, but taking a perfectly good Jeep off of a perfectly good road just for the fun of zipping around the woods and through mudholes makes NO SENSE to me at all.
I don’t like smacking my head against the door, the window, the dashboard, and the frame because we’re ricocheting over a rock field. I don’t like smelling like gasoline and exhaust (though the mister seems to find nothing sexier). I don’t like winching or pushing vehicles when they’re stuck. I don’t like riding in the passenger seat but being unable to knit or read.
Actually, I don’t like being in the car. As long as we’re going somewhere, I can handle it, but I get bored and fidgety easily, so the whole “drive around for the fun of it” thing is lost on me, even more so when I cannot occupy myself with something else because the driving around is accompanied by big hills, loud noises, and unceasing, unpredictable movement.
I don’t like the way welding smells, I hate having to pee while being bounced around, and I have no interest in conquering Horsepower Hill.
I would have been miserable all weekend, and misery for me most often lead to bitchiness, which leads to misery for the mister.
So, while the mister invited me along on his little red-necked adventure, I happily gave up my seat to my younger brother and had myself a little hen weekend, full of pizza and beer with friends, enjoying the last warm weekend of the year, cruising top-down in my dad’s convertible with my friend to our old college stomping grounds, watching whatever I wanted on TV without having to wrestle someone else to the ground for the remote, trying on various first day at the new job outfits, knitting without being mocked, and not having random men appear in the house while I am pants-less.
And on Sunday, when he came back from his weekend, we were both happy, content with how we'd spent our time, and not angry at each other.
I did not go. I was invited and I declined with snorting laughter. No, no thank you.
I’m not a girlie girl. I don’t mind getting dirty. (I mind BEING dirty for extended periods of time, but I don’t mind GETTING dirty.) I change my own oil and I know how my engine works. I will dig and garden and shovel shit out of the horse pasture if I have to (see Thanksgiving with the in-laws). I can run a chainsaw, I don’t faint at the sight of blood, and I have a total potty mouth. Sure, I like nice clothes and perfumes that smell good, and I have screamed at the sight of a rodent, but I like to think of myself as well-rounded, easy-going, and up for adventure.
That said, I hate four-wheeling.
Vehicles are for roads. I understand driving off road if it’s necessary for some sort of work thing or hunting, but taking a perfectly good Jeep off of a perfectly good road just for the fun of zipping around the woods and through mudholes makes NO SENSE to me at all.
I don’t like smacking my head against the door, the window, the dashboard, and the frame because we’re ricocheting over a rock field. I don’t like smelling like gasoline and exhaust (though the mister seems to find nothing sexier). I don’t like winching or pushing vehicles when they’re stuck. I don’t like riding in the passenger seat but being unable to knit or read.
Actually, I don’t like being in the car. As long as we’re going somewhere, I can handle it, but I get bored and fidgety easily, so the whole “drive around for the fun of it” thing is lost on me, even more so when I cannot occupy myself with something else because the driving around is accompanied by big hills, loud noises, and unceasing, unpredictable movement.
I don’t like the way welding smells, I hate having to pee while being bounced around, and I have no interest in conquering Horsepower Hill.
I would have been miserable all weekend, and misery for me most often lead to bitchiness, which leads to misery for the mister.
So, while the mister invited me along on his little red-necked adventure, I happily gave up my seat to my younger brother and had myself a little hen weekend, full of pizza and beer with friends, enjoying the last warm weekend of the year, cruising top-down in my dad’s convertible with my friend to our old college stomping grounds, watching whatever I wanted on TV without having to wrestle someone else to the ground for the remote, trying on various first day at the new job outfits, knitting without being mocked, and not having random men appear in the house while I am pants-less.
And on Sunday, when he came back from his weekend, we were both happy, content with how we'd spent our time, and not angry at each other.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Yuck
In addition to my husband and brother, my house has seen a revolving population of men lately, with lots of friends stopping by to visit, help work on the mister’s Jeep or my brother’s car or hang out for movies and beer.
I have to keep stocking up on peanuts and beer, but it's fine.
But I’ve learned a lesson. Apparently peeing while standing up is a very arduous task, requiring more support than a man’s own two legs can provide.
I have made this deduction based on the proliferation of dirty, greasy handprints on the bathroom wall above the toilet.
Someone (obviously a man) is coming in from the garage, taking a leak, and leaning his dirty, grimy, garage-goo-coated hand against the wall while he does it, leaving smears and grease behind.
I have hung a note above the toilet. Do not lean a hand on this wall while you pee. If I have to scrub one more greasy handprint off this wall, I will kill you while you sleep. Also, please pee in the toilet, not on, around, or near. IN.
Men are gross. Or at least the ones that frequent my home.
I have to keep stocking up on peanuts and beer, but it's fine.
But I’ve learned a lesson. Apparently peeing while standing up is a very arduous task, requiring more support than a man’s own two legs can provide.
I have made this deduction based on the proliferation of dirty, greasy handprints on the bathroom wall above the toilet.
Someone (obviously a man) is coming in from the garage, taking a leak, and leaning his dirty, grimy, garage-goo-coated hand against the wall while he does it, leaving smears and grease behind.
I have hung a note above the toilet. Do not lean a hand on this wall while you pee. If I have to scrub one more greasy handprint off this wall, I will kill you while you sleep. Also, please pee in the toilet, not on, around, or near. IN.
Men are gross. Or at least the ones that frequent my home.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Moog?
My younger brother moved into my basement. The mister and I pretty much run a bed and breakfast for various family members and friends out of that spare room and that’s fine. We’re glad the space is being used and happy to help out when we can. I mean, the next houseguest that plugs up our plumbing by flushing things that should not be flushed and costs us close to $700 in plumbing repairs is dead meat, but otherwise it’s fine.
Before my brother moved in, I was holding my own in the household battle of clutter. The mister and I are not tidy people by nature, preferring to put things down rather than put them away, but the house never got too terrible. (My friend Kate is all, “It did too get terrible, you pig, I had to sit on my hands every time I came over to keep from tidying up” and she’d be right, but she has a much lower tolerance for grossness than I do. It comes from having brothers.) I developed a system. When the house got to be too pig-sty like, I’d pick up and put away all my crap and I’d stuff all the mister’s crap into one of those Volkswagen sized Rubbermaid totes, set the tote by his side of the bed, and leave it for him to deal with. I’m pretty sure the he just rummaged through the tote until he found what he was looking for, used that item, and then set it back on the coffee table for me to scoop up again a couple of days later, but the system worked. Then I’d scrub, mop, wipe, and dust until the place at least smelled clean and the worst of the dust bunnies were vanquished.
Now, there’s another man in the house.
And you guys, I am losing the battle. My own tendencies towards untidiness, combined with the mister’s absent-mindedness and messy propensities were bad enough, but throw in my brother, and the house is a shithole. There are dirty socks piled by the door because all three of us like to take our socks off as soon as we come home. The mountain of shoes grows every day. The dishes are out of control. There are ALWAYS whiskers in the sink. I found a half-drunk beer next to the couch this morning (fallen soldier!), leftover from chili and the Twins game last night. My basement smells like boy. The dog is now dragging everyone’s underwear out of their laundry baskets and into the living room. Someone’s half-folded laundry (not mine) is on the coffee table, along with a toothbrush (also not mine). The TV remote is gone forever. There are magazines and books on every flat surface. There are now two Shop Vacs in the house.
And this is on my dining room table, on my pretty white lace tablecloth.
What the fuck is Moog, and why is there a greasy box of it in the house?
Before my brother moved in, I was holding my own in the household battle of clutter. The mister and I are not tidy people by nature, preferring to put things down rather than put them away, but the house never got too terrible. (My friend Kate is all, “It did too get terrible, you pig, I had to sit on my hands every time I came over to keep from tidying up” and she’d be right, but she has a much lower tolerance for grossness than I do. It comes from having brothers.) I developed a system. When the house got to be too pig-sty like, I’d pick up and put away all my crap and I’d stuff all the mister’s crap into one of those Volkswagen sized Rubbermaid totes, set the tote by his side of the bed, and leave it for him to deal with. I’m pretty sure the he just rummaged through the tote until he found what he was looking for, used that item, and then set it back on the coffee table for me to scoop up again a couple of days later, but the system worked. Then I’d scrub, mop, wipe, and dust until the place at least smelled clean and the worst of the dust bunnies were vanquished.
Now, there’s another man in the house.
And you guys, I am losing the battle. My own tendencies towards untidiness, combined with the mister’s absent-mindedness and messy propensities were bad enough, but throw in my brother, and the house is a shithole. There are dirty socks piled by the door because all three of us like to take our socks off as soon as we come home. The mountain of shoes grows every day. The dishes are out of control. There are ALWAYS whiskers in the sink. I found a half-drunk beer next to the couch this morning (fallen soldier!), leftover from chili and the Twins game last night. My basement smells like boy. The dog is now dragging everyone’s underwear out of their laundry baskets and into the living room. Someone’s half-folded laundry (not mine) is on the coffee table, along with a toothbrush (also not mine). The TV remote is gone forever. There are magazines and books on every flat surface. There are now two Shop Vacs in the house.
And this is on my dining room table, on my pretty white lace tablecloth.
What the fuck is Moog, and why is there a greasy box of it in the house?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
More than meets the eye
The mister's mom found a box of old toys in her basement.
In the box were the mister's old Transformers.
He was DELIGHTED when she gave them to him and I came upstairs with a basket of laundry to find him stretched out on the couch playing with them.
After spending several evenings with friends that have young children, the mister commented on the almost magnetic attraction he holds for small children. They swarm around him, hang off of him, sit on his lap and chatter at him, and generally adore him. "Why?" he asked. "Sweetheart," I replied, laughing a little, "you're a six foot tall four year old. Of course they love you."
In the box were the mister's old Transformers.
He was DELIGHTED when she gave them to him and I came upstairs with a basket of laundry to find him stretched out on the couch playing with them.
After spending several evenings with friends that have young children, the mister commented on the almost magnetic attraction he holds for small children. They swarm around him, hang off of him, sit on his lap and chatter at him, and generally adore him. "Why?" he asked. "Sweetheart," I replied, laughing a little, "you're a six foot tall four year old. Of course they love you."
Monday, June 22, 2009
Marital Dynamics
A couple of weeks ago I posted this on Twitter: Married Ladies: do you ever wonder if your husband is being deliberately annoying or if he's just that inconsiderate naturally?
I was pretty irritated with the mister, who had done several of my least favorite things all in one day, pretty much all of which include him doing something without even thinking, for one second, how that might inconvenience me, annoy me, create more work for me, or be downright rude.
The responses I got to my irritated post were pretty funny. “I wonder the same thing every day.” “All the time.” “YYYEEEEEESSSSS.”
These responses started me thinking.
The mister never accuses me of being inconsiderate. Annoying, sure. Bitchy? Sometimes, and he’d be right. Inconsiderate? Never. He, on the other hand, is forgiving, laid back, and really, really inconsiderate. And thinking of my friends in steady relationships, I don’t think those women could be called inconsiderate either, while their mates very well might be.
Are women more aware of how our actions and inactions impact others? Are women more aware of their significant other’s comfort and solicitous of that comfort? Is it because we think about others more while men are more inwardly focused? Is it some innate, estrogen enhanced characteristic?
Or is it societal? Are we trained to focus more on others, to take care of others, to do the dirty work and the heavy lifting for someone else?
Looking back, I can count on one hand how many loads of laundry my father has done and how many times he’s done a load of dishes. I can remember my mother picking up after him and rolling her eyes as she shoveled his magazines and books back into the basket by the couch, an action I often mirror as I scoop up dirty socks and put them in the hamper. I wonder how much of my actions are learned from this behavior.
The mister, too, actually. His own mother picked up after him, did his laundry, washed his dishes and took care of him, took care of his father. Even when she worked in the evenings, she’d cook dinner and leave for work, never getting the chance to eat herself. When the mister lived on his own, she’d still come by and “help” him clean. How much of his leave-it-and-the-wife’ll-get-it-for-me behavior is learned?
And how stupid am I for perpetuating that? He leaves it and I get it. Sure, I get annoyed and I rail at him, and we have our little standoffs where I refuse to replace the toilet paper and will in fact carry my own roll in and out of the bathroom and just leave him to fend for himself, but when push comes to shove, I always give in. Someone has to clean up, put away, make the calls, think about something other than themselves. So far, it's been me. I wonder if it always will be.
I was pretty irritated with the mister, who had done several of my least favorite things all in one day, pretty much all of which include him doing something without even thinking, for one second, how that might inconvenience me, annoy me, create more work for me, or be downright rude.
The responses I got to my irritated post were pretty funny. “I wonder the same thing every day.” “All the time.” “YYYEEEEEESSSSS.”
These responses started me thinking.
The mister never accuses me of being inconsiderate. Annoying, sure. Bitchy? Sometimes, and he’d be right. Inconsiderate? Never. He, on the other hand, is forgiving, laid back, and really, really inconsiderate. And thinking of my friends in steady relationships, I don’t think those women could be called inconsiderate either, while their mates very well might be.
Are women more aware of how our actions and inactions impact others? Are women more aware of their significant other’s comfort and solicitous of that comfort? Is it because we think about others more while men are more inwardly focused? Is it some innate, estrogen enhanced characteristic?
Or is it societal? Are we trained to focus more on others, to take care of others, to do the dirty work and the heavy lifting for someone else?
Looking back, I can count on one hand how many loads of laundry my father has done and how many times he’s done a load of dishes. I can remember my mother picking up after him and rolling her eyes as she shoveled his magazines and books back into the basket by the couch, an action I often mirror as I scoop up dirty socks and put them in the hamper. I wonder how much of my actions are learned from this behavior.
The mister, too, actually. His own mother picked up after him, did his laundry, washed his dishes and took care of him, took care of his father. Even when she worked in the evenings, she’d cook dinner and leave for work, never getting the chance to eat herself. When the mister lived on his own, she’d still come by and “help” him clean. How much of his leave-it-and-the-wife’ll-get-it-for-me behavior is learned?
And how stupid am I for perpetuating that? He leaves it and I get it. Sure, I get annoyed and I rail at him, and we have our little standoffs where I refuse to replace the toilet paper and will in fact carry my own roll in and out of the bathroom and just leave him to fend for himself, but when push comes to shove, I always give in. Someone has to clean up, put away, make the calls, think about something other than themselves. So far, it's been me. I wonder if it always will be.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
SassyBuster, Vice President
The Conversation
The mister: You know what I think is really sexy?
Me: eye roll. What?
The mister: When you run a pneumatic orbital sander.
Me: The hell?
The mister: Really, it’s hot.
Me: No. I’m not sanding any parts for you.
The mister: Please? I just need these parts sanded so I can paint them tonight.
And that is how I ended up spending five hours sanding last night and will spend another couple doing the same today.
The Business
In addition to having an actual normal job, the mister runs a small business where he does car restoration, including body repair and high-end paint.
This is the car he did over the winter.
I do a lot of the grunt work for the little business – I draft the contracts, file with the Secretary of State, run the numbers, make the trips to the parts store, and, on occasion, sand parts in the garage for five hours. He normally hires contractors if there's work he can't get done (the contractors are usually my little brother or one of the mister's buddies - might as well spread the wealth). The contractors get paid. I do not.
So I’m thinking of naming myself the Vice-President of the little business and having some business cards printed up.
The mister: You know what I think is really sexy?
Me: eye roll. What?
The mister: When you run a pneumatic orbital sander.
Me: The hell?
The mister: Really, it’s hot.
Me: No. I’m not sanding any parts for you.
The mister: Please? I just need these parts sanded so I can paint them tonight.
And that is how I ended up spending five hours sanding last night and will spend another couple doing the same today.
The Business
In addition to having an actual normal job, the mister runs a small business where he does car restoration, including body repair and high-end paint.
This is the car he did over the winter.
I do a lot of the grunt work for the little business – I draft the contracts, file with the Secretary of State, run the numbers, make the trips to the parts store, and, on occasion, sand parts in the garage for five hours. He normally hires contractors if there's work he can't get done (the contractors are usually my little brother or one of the mister's buddies - might as well spread the wealth). The contractors get paid. I do not.
So I’m thinking of naming myself the Vice-President of the little business and having some business cards printed up.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Driving Fight
The mister and I have this spat every time I drive. I'm not kidding; the one mile drive to the grocery store is long enough for us to have this fight. The 19 hours home from Moab? We had this fight about 19 times.
Me: driving.
Him: [nitpicky comment about something small and completely legal I did while driving, like easing off the gas for a second, accelerating, then braking when I come to a red light a minute later]
Me: [either shoots him a dirty look or responds to comment with a reason for said driving maneuver, like “I noticed I was speeding” or “there was a massive pothole” or “I was thinking about David Boreanaz and just wasn’t paying attention”]
Him: [nitpicky comment, nag nag, nitpicky comment]
Me: If you don’t like how I drive, you drive. Otherwise, sit there and shut up.
Now, at this point, he should just shut up or offer to drive, right? No, what he does is launch an attack on my driving skills, which, let’s face it, are not great, but they're not that bad. I use my blinkers, I turn into the appropriate and legally correct lanes, I don’t unnecessarily run yellow lights, I don’t ride in the left lane going ten under the speed limit, I don’t drive in the right lane going ten over the speed limit, I don’t tailgate (often) and I try not to ride in blind spots. He, on the other hand, ignores niceties like blinkers, thinks nothing of whizzing around someone on the right, and often pulls jackass maneuvers behind the wheel just because he can. Furthermore, my driving record isn’t spotted with reckless driving citations and speeding tickets, is it? No! But someone else’s record is. Guess whose!
I think next time I'll just pull over, saunter over to the passenger's side, yank his butt out of the seat, plop myself down, and never again drive with him in the car.
Me: driving.
Him: [nitpicky comment about something small and completely legal I did while driving, like easing off the gas for a second, accelerating, then braking when I come to a red light a minute later]
Me: [either shoots him a dirty look or responds to comment with a reason for said driving maneuver, like “I noticed I was speeding” or “there was a massive pothole” or “I was thinking about David Boreanaz and just wasn’t paying attention”]
Him: [nitpicky comment, nag nag, nitpicky comment]
Me: If you don’t like how I drive, you drive. Otherwise, sit there and shut up.
Now, at this point, he should just shut up or offer to drive, right? No, what he does is launch an attack on my driving skills, which, let’s face it, are not great, but they're not that bad. I use my blinkers, I turn into the appropriate and legally correct lanes, I don’t unnecessarily run yellow lights, I don’t ride in the left lane going ten under the speed limit, I don’t drive in the right lane going ten over the speed limit, I don’t tailgate (often) and I try not to ride in blind spots. He, on the other hand, ignores niceties like blinkers, thinks nothing of whizzing around someone on the right, and often pulls jackass maneuvers behind the wheel just because he can. Furthermore, my driving record isn’t spotted with reckless driving citations and speeding tickets, is it? No! But someone else’s record is. Guess whose!
I think next time I'll just pull over, saunter over to the passenger's side, yank his butt out of the seat, plop myself down, and never again drive with him in the car.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Dryer Incident
Our clothes dryer is…let’s go with “vintage.” It’s avocado green. It’s built like a tank. And it just won’t die. Last summer we replaced the belt, which was a nightmare of epic proportions. I am not mechanically inclined and the mister is not very good at giving clear, understandable directions, so the repair job culminated in us lifting the dryer off the floor, turning it upside down (you read that right) and SHAKING IT to dislodge a screwdriver that had tumbled down the vent shaft. It was several hours after that before either one of us could speak civilly to the other. (And I am not the one that dropped the damned screwdriver. I am the one that suggested where he could stick it once we retrieved it, though.)
More recently, the dryer started making a noise. The noise didn’t bother me. I’d just turn up the stereo and consider it fixed. I also do this with cars. Denial is not one of my better habits. The noise bothered the mister, though. Oh, it bothered him a lot. So one evening, he took apart the dryer and came upstairs with a pile of parts cupped in his dirty, dirty hands.
“I need you to get replacements parts for these.” I looked down at the collection of grimy, lint and grease-coated bits. There was something that resembled a Rollerblade wheel, a washer-looking thing, and a shattered plastic piece.
I raised my eyes back to his and laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
Of course he wasn’t joking. I slid the parts into a Ziploc baggie and stuck a post-it in there with the model number of our dryer. The next morning I trekked to Home Depot, Ace Hardware and Menard's. None of them sell replacement dryer parts. I ended up at this strange little shop tucked behind a broken-down car wash where the guy behind the counter gave me one of those lady, you must be lost looks. I guess my flutter sleeve top, skinny jeans, and freshly highlighted and curled hair looked a wee bit out of place in a shop that sold some sort of basement deodorizing product.
I pulled my Ziploc baggie of parts out of my purse and shook it. “My husband took apart my dryer, it's in pieces on my laundry room floor, and he says we need new ones of these.”
The man’s expression cleared. He sorted through the crap in the bag and returned with new parts in just a few seconds.
Last night we fixed the dryer. I only called him a dirty name twice and he only made that very male sound of irritation in his throat once, which is some sort of record for us because we are very prone to the home improvement fight.*
*Home Improvement Fight: noun; An argument wherein two people malign each other's aptitude with tools, spacial reasoning skills, and entire characters while they fix, re-do, remodel, or otherwise work on something in, on, or around their home.
More recently, the dryer started making a noise. The noise didn’t bother me. I’d just turn up the stereo and consider it fixed. I also do this with cars. Denial is not one of my better habits. The noise bothered the mister, though. Oh, it bothered him a lot. So one evening, he took apart the dryer and came upstairs with a pile of parts cupped in his dirty, dirty hands.
“I need you to get replacements parts for these.” I looked down at the collection of grimy, lint and grease-coated bits. There was something that resembled a Rollerblade wheel, a washer-looking thing, and a shattered plastic piece.
I raised my eyes back to his and laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
Of course he wasn’t joking. I slid the parts into a Ziploc baggie and stuck a post-it in there with the model number of our dryer. The next morning I trekked to Home Depot, Ace Hardware and Menard's. None of them sell replacement dryer parts. I ended up at this strange little shop tucked behind a broken-down car wash where the guy behind the counter gave me one of those lady, you must be lost looks. I guess my flutter sleeve top, skinny jeans, and freshly highlighted and curled hair looked a wee bit out of place in a shop that sold some sort of basement deodorizing product.
I pulled my Ziploc baggie of parts out of my purse and shook it. “My husband took apart my dryer, it's in pieces on my laundry room floor, and he says we need new ones of these.”
The man’s expression cleared. He sorted through the crap in the bag and returned with new parts in just a few seconds.
Last night we fixed the dryer. I only called him a dirty name twice and he only made that very male sound of irritation in his throat once, which is some sort of record for us because we are very prone to the home improvement fight.*
*Home Improvement Fight: noun; An argument wherein two people malign each other's aptitude with tools, spacial reasoning skills, and entire characters while they fix, re-do, remodel, or otherwise work on something in, on, or around their home.
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