I don't know where to start.
I mean that quite literally.
I think I have 10 drafts from the last several months that all start out so horribly that I can't manage to finish any of them.
And yet I miss blogging so very much and want to get back to it here as well as on my new education site (which is not even close to finished but will eventually be parked at jenzimm.com) that I've just decided to write the worst blog ever written and post it anyway.
Hot Guy went into the hospital with super high blood pressure a bit after my last post. Now, he's had high blood pressure and diabetes for a while - but he's also had trouble sticking to his meds. So the trip to the hospital was supposed to be a med tune up, not some horrible disaster.
And yet, while he was there they discovered that his kidneys had basically stopped working. And on Halloween we learned that they're not going to get better. So he's going to go on dialysis and the transplant list.
And I cannot begin to describe how much it sucks.
Really, I can't.
Yet I've lost two high school classmates to cancer this year. And their families would much rather be dealing with dialysis than death, I'm sure.
Perspective is fucking everything.
So while my anxiety goes off the charts, my professional endeavors flail and my ulcerative colitis tortures me, as my kids grow ever more independent (which is great, but sometimes I really miss them) and as Trump attempts to decimate America. . . I'm trying to look for the good. For the things I like.
And so I think I'm back to blogging.
Showing posts with label Hot Guy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hot Guy. Show all posts
12/04/2019
1/29/2018
The Taffy Incident
Many years ago, a lovely distant cousin gave us some authentic Jersey shore saltwater taffy in a pretty box. Unsurprisingly, since it was new, the kids didn't like it. I'm not a huge fan either, so it lived on our counter for weeks.
WEEKS, I tell you.
For a while, the amount in the box seemed to be shrinking regularly, so I didn't begrudge the box's place on our counter space. Much.
But then came a week where the amount in the box didn't get any smaller. I assumed that Hot Guy had eaten all the flavors he liked. I assumed that the box was just taking up precious counter space in our tiny kitchen. So I threw it away while Hot Guy was at work and I had a rare kitchen cleaning fit.
I had no idea how much my husband apparently loves authentic saltwater taffy.
"WHERE'S MY TAFFY?" he yelled from the kitchen while I was trying to convince the kids that they really did want to go to bed.
"The trash!" I replied cheerfully as I tried to brush Hugmonkey's new teeth.
I'm not an expert on marriage, my friends. But I can tell you that if you throw something your spouse likes away, even if you had a perfectly sensible reason like he hadn't been eating in for weeks and it was probably all stale and the clutter on the kitchen counter was driving you bonkers, you should not do it this way.
"WHAT??????" I know he didn't actually fly up the stairs, but it certainly felt that way. Suddenly he was sort of looming in the bathroom doorway and he looked pissed.
If this was a Lifetime movie, this is the scene where we'd find out the nice guy is actually violent and evil, that's how creepy it seemed. Fortunately, this is not a Lifetime movie and Hot Guy is neither violent nor evil, but he is really, really, into taffy. Apparently. Because he's bought like taffy like twice since.
The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in, so I launched into a long explanation of my reasoning.
Unfortunately, my reasoning mostly boiled down to, "The kids threw 8 million tantrums today, I'm exhausted, I just wanted to have a clean kitchen, I have PMS and that box of taffy was getting on my last nerve for some unfathomable reason."
Pro Tip: Start with an apology.
"WHY DID YOU THROW MY TAFFY AWAY?" was his reply. Clearly my explanation was not effective in getting him to forget about the taffy and pity me for the tough day I'd had.
In fact, nothing made him forget about the taffy, folks.
Not even approximately 8 years.
That's right. Even though he's only bought taffy 2 other times in the last 8 years, which seems suspicious if it's something he loves SO MUCH, he still complains about it regularly.
He still brings it up so often that the kids will joke about it, even though none of them remember the actual taffy incident.
A few days ago I threw away some gravy.
In my defense, this gravy was approximately a milliliter's worth at the bottom of a measuring cup left out on the counter. Okay, I'm not sure milliliter is correct. I'm old and never learned the metric system properly. But it was definitely less than a quarter of a cup.
Not even an hour later, I heard, "WHERE'S MY GRAVY?" from my life partner.
I've learned something since the taffy incident, friends. I didn't start with, "How was I supposed to know you were saving the gravy left in the bottom of the measuring cup?" I started with an apology.
And a plea that instead of periodically yelling, "Where's my taffy?" he could now yell, "Where's my gravy?"
I think the apology worked, because he stopped yelling about gravy pretty quickly. But the plea didn't. He's still bringing up taffy whenever he loses anything.
Sigh. I left half of a taco shell on my counter when I cleaned up last night. Just in case he was planning on coming back for it.
If you ever show up at my house unannounced, please don't look at my kitchen counters. Deal?
WEEKS, I tell you.
For a while, the amount in the box seemed to be shrinking regularly, so I didn't begrudge the box's place on our counter space. Much.
But then came a week where the amount in the box didn't get any smaller. I assumed that Hot Guy had eaten all the flavors he liked. I assumed that the box was just taking up precious counter space in our tiny kitchen. So I threw it away while Hot Guy was at work and I had a rare kitchen cleaning fit.
I had no idea how much my husband apparently loves authentic saltwater taffy.
"WHERE'S MY TAFFY?" he yelled from the kitchen while I was trying to convince the kids that they really did want to go to bed.
"The trash!" I replied cheerfully as I tried to brush Hugmonkey's new teeth.
I'm not an expert on marriage, my friends. But I can tell you that if you throw something your spouse likes away, even if you had a perfectly sensible reason like he hadn't been eating in for weeks and it was probably all stale and the clutter on the kitchen counter was driving you bonkers, you should not do it this way.
"WHAT??????" I know he didn't actually fly up the stairs, but it certainly felt that way. Suddenly he was sort of looming in the bathroom doorway and he looked pissed.
If this was a Lifetime movie, this is the scene where we'd find out the nice guy is actually violent and evil, that's how creepy it seemed. Fortunately, this is not a Lifetime movie and Hot Guy is neither violent nor evil, but he is really, really, into taffy. Apparently. Because he's bought like taffy like twice since.
The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in, so I launched into a long explanation of my reasoning.
Unfortunately, my reasoning mostly boiled down to, "The kids threw 8 million tantrums today, I'm exhausted, I just wanted to have a clean kitchen, I have PMS and that box of taffy was getting on my last nerve for some unfathomable reason."
Pro Tip: Start with an apology.
"WHY DID YOU THROW MY TAFFY AWAY?" was his reply. Clearly my explanation was not effective in getting him to forget about the taffy and pity me for the tough day I'd had.
In fact, nothing made him forget about the taffy, folks.
Not even approximately 8 years.
That's right. Even though he's only bought taffy 2 other times in the last 8 years, which seems suspicious if it's something he loves SO MUCH, he still complains about it regularly.
He still brings it up so often that the kids will joke about it, even though none of them remember the actual taffy incident.
A few days ago I threw away some gravy.
In my defense, this gravy was approximately a milliliter's worth at the bottom of a measuring cup left out on the counter. Okay, I'm not sure milliliter is correct. I'm old and never learned the metric system properly. But it was definitely less than a quarter of a cup.
Not even an hour later, I heard, "WHERE'S MY GRAVY?" from my life partner.
I've learned something since the taffy incident, friends. I didn't start with, "How was I supposed to know you were saving the gravy left in the bottom of the measuring cup?" I started with an apology.
And a plea that instead of periodically yelling, "Where's my taffy?" he could now yell, "Where's my gravy?"
I think the apology worked, because he stopped yelling about gravy pretty quickly. But the plea didn't. He's still bringing up taffy whenever he loses anything.
Sigh. I left half of a taco shell on my counter when I cleaned up last night. Just in case he was planning on coming back for it.
If you ever show up at my house unannounced, please don't look at my kitchen counters. Deal?
10/13/2014
My Day As A Reality TV Star
Okay, co-star.
Among the many jobs Hot Guy does, his favorite is acting. Over a year ago, he auditioned for something looking for actors with type 2 diabetes. The casting people loved him, but the corporation did not. Or something. He was called in again a while back. And then they asked if they could film not only him, but our family. At home. And could they interview me too?
We're not in a position to turn down money (especially money from a pharmaceutical company) so we agreed. And then called my parents and begged them to let us use their house, as it has more room on the first floor and is in much better shape. They agreed, bless them.
And then I didn't really think any more about it.
The day of, Ironflower and I had promised to volunteer at a 5K for pediatric cancer with her dance team. And Lovebug had a soccer game; lots of boys on the team were gone, so Lovebug pretty much had to be there. My focus was completely on getting everyone where they needed to be with the right equipment and making sure everyone had the right clothes for the shoot and whatnot.
It was not until we were back from the 5K and a make up/hair person was fixing me up that I even thought about the ensuing interview. And even then, I didn't realize that "interview" meant "let's get an emotional response from you on camera". If I had, I probably could have made up a fictional back story and given them one, just as I used to do in acting class in junior high. But to get actually emotional about our lives with a bunch of strangers staring at me, cameras pointed at me and my husband and mother eavesdropping?
Fuck no.
Suddenly I realized that all those reality TV people do have a skill; those confessionals are not just off the cuff rants. Every time, a producer is asking them a question designed to get an emotional response. Every time, they have to restate the question to make it SOUND like an off the cuff rant and then they have to spill their guts to a million people.
Hot Guy was awesome at it. Of course, he'd planned ahead and he is a really good actor. The kids didn't have to talk, they just had to act like themselves and ignore the cameras. Which they did unbelievably well. Whatever you want to say about the Duggar children or all those poor kids from Jon & Kate Plus 8, I really don't think the cameras traumatized them much.
But I'm going to hold us back from reality TV stardom. Well, me and the fact that no one has offered us a show. I do think I could get used to getting my hair done every day - my hair hasn't looked that good in years. And I was able to ignore the cameras while we played at the playground. But every time a producer put me into one of those confessional interview situations, I would freeze the way I did when yesterday's producer said, "But what's behind the smile?"
I so wanted to say, "Booze and pills." Or, "Behind my smile is a giant fist; if you want someone to cry around here, it ain't gonna be me."
But I played as nicely as I could for the paycheck. Which is when I REALLY felt like a reality TV star.
4/22/2014
How I Met Your Father*
Today is Hot Guy's birthday. I wanted to do a post about him, but I didn't want to do a typical birthday post. This one is inspired by "How I Met Your Mother" and a blog post series/link up I wrote in 2007 called "Soap Opera Sunday". It could also be entitled, "Why I Call My Husband 'Hot Guy' On My Blog."
When I moved to Kansas City, I was 27 and newly separated. I moved to KC for three reasons: because I got what I thought was my ideal teaching job there, because my ex-husband wasn't too far away in case the separation didn't take and because I was afraid to move back into my parents' house in New Jersey.
After the first four months, I realized how happy I was without my ex, so I suggested a divorce. Slowly I started to get my self-esteem back. I made some friends. I volunteered and joined the art museum's young members group. I even started pseudo dating. The guy was also recently divorced. We were little more than good friends, really, but people assumed we were dating and that was okay with me. He was attractive and funny, but there was something missing between us.
Not that I was in any rush to become romantically entangled with anyone again. Especially after my friend T got dumped and went on a singles scene rampage. Suddenly the suburban bars weren't good enough for her and she dragged me to Kelly's in Westport - one of the biggest pick-up spots in the Western hemisphere. After buying our trough-like beers, we spotted an empty table. Then T needed to go to the bathroom and R went to find chairs for our table. My job was to guard the beers from Roofie spilling sickos.
Naturally two seconds after the others left a sleazy older guy slid over to me and started talking. I panicked when I realized that my usual suburban bar tactics (escape to the bathroom, get an acquaintance to get rid of him) wouldn't work. I couldn't carry the three troughs of beer anywhere, and I didn't want to lose the table. I started dropping hints that I wasn't interested, but sleazy guy didn't notice. He even took a step closer and I couldn't move away because I had to stand between him and our beers.
Then I looked up and saw a cute guy shuffling through the narrow aisle nearby. He was looking at me and I decided to take a chance. "Honey!" I called as I waved to him frantically. As he came closer, I realized that he was a very young cute guy. A possibly not even old enough to be in the bar cute guy. Would he get what was going on?
Sleazy guy leaned over and said to my chest, "Is that your------" and then all of a sudden I was being kissed.
When I moved to Kansas City, I was 27 and newly separated. I moved to KC for three reasons: because I got what I thought was my ideal teaching job there, because my ex-husband wasn't too far away in case the separation didn't take and because I was afraid to move back into my parents' house in New Jersey.
After the first four months, I realized how happy I was without my ex, so I suggested a divorce. Slowly I started to get my self-esteem back. I made some friends. I volunteered and joined the art museum's young members group. I even started pseudo dating. The guy was also recently divorced. We were little more than good friends, really, but people assumed we were dating and that was okay with me. He was attractive and funny, but there was something missing between us.
Not that I was in any rush to become romantically entangled with anyone again. Especially after my friend T got dumped and went on a singles scene rampage. Suddenly the suburban bars weren't good enough for her and she dragged me to Kelly's in Westport - one of the biggest pick-up spots in the Western hemisphere. After buying our trough-like beers, we spotted an empty table. Then T needed to go to the bathroom and R went to find chairs for our table. My job was to guard the beers from Roofie spilling sickos.
Naturally two seconds after the others left a sleazy older guy slid over to me and started talking. I panicked when I realized that my usual suburban bar tactics (escape to the bathroom, get an acquaintance to get rid of him) wouldn't work. I couldn't carry the three troughs of beer anywhere, and I didn't want to lose the table. I started dropping hints that I wasn't interested, but sleazy guy didn't notice. He even took a step closer and I couldn't move away because I had to stand between him and our beers.
Then I looked up and saw a cute guy shuffling through the narrow aisle nearby. He was looking at me and I decided to take a chance. "Honey!" I called as I waved to him frantically. As he came closer, I realized that he was a very young cute guy. A possibly not even old enough to be in the bar cute guy. Would he get what was going on?
Sleazy guy leaned over and said to my chest, "Is that your------" and then all of a sudden I was being kissed.
12/11/2013
Wandering Wednesday: Lego Con
Okay, technically it's called "Lego Kids Fest", but really it's a Lego convention. I don't know where I heard about it, but when I discovered that one was going to be about two hours from here, all I could think was, "Road trip!"
We love our road trips. And our Legos. I thought the experience would be a great Christmas present for the kids AND it still cost much less than Hot Guy and Lovebug's coveted Lego Death Star
.
We love our road trips. And our Legos. I thought the experience would be a great Christmas present for the kids AND it still cost much less than Hot Guy and Lovebug's coveted Lego Death Star
.
Giant. Piles. Of. Bricks.
After the initial huge piles of Duplos (which my kids never play with anymore, except for when there are HUGE piles of them), we strolled over to the Lego creations. This Lightning McQueen was pretty sweet.
Life-sized Lego Hagrid.
I make a point of encouraging Ironflower's Hermione obsession.
Giant pile of regular Legos. Hugmonkey and I did this while Hot Guy and the big kids went to the Lego Master Builder Academy. The Master Builder Academy was Lovebug and Ironflower's favorite part of the whole experience. They got to meet a Master Builder and learn some building strategies.
Hugmonkey and I also hit the Lego City area; you could build vehicles or buildings and add them to the Lego City display.
We met up again at the monochromatic build. All the bricks were the same color (obviously) and the same size - the classic two by four. And yet the projects were amazing.
Ironflower's.
Hugmonkey's.
Lovebug's. And theirs weren't even the best.
Squee! Lego Harry Potter!
I wonder how much it would cost to buy that whole display?
This was where you made vehicles and raced them.
We spent a lot of time there.
We built buildings to add to a giant map of the United States.
Lovebug made the Empire State Building.
More time at the giant Lego pile. See the cool city Lovebug is adding to? Well, the only negative part of the trip happened here. A boy around 7 or so had made a giant Lego gun, and then decided to destroy the city. He knocked down every building, yanked a house out of a toddler's hands and destroyed it and just acted like a little jerk. No parent stopped him or said anything (except me and Hot Guy, not that he listened) and no one from Lego stepped in.
Next we went over to the family build competition. We had to make things from Star Wars, to the joy of the boys in the family.
We played Ninjago, which is actually way more fun than I thought.
The boys did Mindstorms while Ironflower and I went to the Lego Friends area. We would like you to know that while we are technically against the idea of "girl" and "boy" Legos, we had a lot of fun building with the Lego Friends sets. We don't know why, but they seem to be addicting.
There was an area with Lego Castle stuff.
There was Batman.
The whole thing was four and half hours long and we were there for every minute. We actually could have used another half hour or so - we didn't get to the Lego art area or take a picture with Lego Santa.
Way better (and cheaper) than our trip to Legoland a few years ago. I mean, Legoland is really just an amusement park with some Lego details - there's no Master Builder Academy and only a teeny building area. Lego Kids Fest is a much better option for kids who love Legos. And Disney World is a much better option for kids who love amusement parks.
11/06/2013
Wandering Wednesday: A Walk Down Memory Lane
I could show you the before and after photos of my desk and our breakfast nook/office. . .except that I'm too embarrassed to reveal how bad they looked before I cleaned them this weekend.
So instead I give you pictures never before seen on the internet. . .taken in the days before Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Pinterest. They are from a road trip we took while I was pregnant with Ironflower. I think I remember all the locations. . .but I could be wrong.
Pretty sure this is Lexington, Missouri. There was a Civil War battle there.
I think this is me at Waterloo Village, a living history area in Jersey.
More Waterloo.
More Waterloo.
On Lake Michigan. Somewhere in Indiana. Not an historical site!
Also Lake Michigan. I gained a zillion pounds while pregnant and they've never left.
Blacksmith at Waterloo Village.
4/10/2013
2/14/2013
True Romance
This is a repost, because I spent an hour trying to write a post about how I think Valentine's Day is ridiculous and I hated everything I wrote. So surprise! You get the story of how I started calling Hot Guy my boyfriend. Happy Valentine's Day.
When Hot Guy and I first began dating, we were in denial. Neither one of us wanted a serious relationship and we were definitely not looking to fall in love. When someone would refer to him as my boyfriend, I would loudly protest that we were JUST DATING and that he was NOT my boyfriend.
In fact, I was relieved when he would be unable to attend my friend Mimi's wedding with me. I was a bridesmaid, knew 3/4 of the guest list and was looking forward to dancing with her young, hot co-workers. Hot Guy was attending a huge paintball tournament in Oklahoma that weekend. I went to the wedding and had a fantastic time.
In fact, I had such a fantastic time that when my friend Todd dropped his champagne glass, I quickly hopped up to find a server to clean it up. But after having had so much fantastic champagne myself, I forgot that I wasn't wearing any shoes. (I'd taken off my killer heels) I sliced my foot open on a piece of glass. But because I was having such a good time, I just wrapped it in a towel and kept dancing.
I noticed that it was still bleeding when I went home that night, but I just wrapped it in gauze andpassed out went to sleep.
When I woke up with a killer headache the next morning, I noticed that it was still bleeding. And that I had trailed blood up my carpeted stairs. I decided to hit the ER. They cleaned out all the glass and stitched my foot up - while they were laughing at me. The doctor tried to lecture me about cut care, but he was laughing too hard.
Anyway, I went home and set myself up on the porch. I got myself a Diet Pepsi, a new ashtray (yeah, yeah, I know), a pile of books and propped my foot up. I couldn't face cleaning the trail of blood through my house. Hot Guy came over that night, after a long day of paintball and driving.
He got me food. He scrubbed the blood out of my carpet. He re-bandaged my foot.
And I stopped protesting when people called him my boyfriend.
When Hot Guy and I first began dating, we were in denial. Neither one of us wanted a serious relationship and we were definitely not looking to fall in love. When someone would refer to him as my boyfriend, I would loudly protest that we were JUST DATING and that he was NOT my boyfriend.
In fact, I was relieved when he would be unable to attend my friend Mimi's wedding with me. I was a bridesmaid, knew 3/4 of the guest list and was looking forward to dancing with her young, hot co-workers. Hot Guy was attending a huge paintball tournament in Oklahoma that weekend. I went to the wedding and had a fantastic time.
In fact, I had such a fantastic time that when my friend Todd dropped his champagne glass, I quickly hopped up to find a server to clean it up. But after having had so much fantastic champagne myself, I forgot that I wasn't wearing any shoes. (I'd taken off my killer heels) I sliced my foot open on a piece of glass. But because I was having such a good time, I just wrapped it in a towel and kept dancing.
I noticed that it was still bleeding when I went home that night, but I just wrapped it in gauze and
When I woke up with a killer headache the next morning, I noticed that it was still bleeding. And that I had trailed blood up my carpeted stairs. I decided to hit the ER. They cleaned out all the glass and stitched my foot up - while they were laughing at me. The doctor tried to lecture me about cut care, but he was laughing too hard.
Anyway, I went home and set myself up on the porch. I got myself a Diet Pepsi, a new ashtray (yeah, yeah, I know), a pile of books and propped my foot up. I couldn't face cleaning the trail of blood through my house. Hot Guy came over that night, after a long day of paintball and driving.
He got me food. He scrubbed the blood out of my carpet. He re-bandaged my foot.
And I stopped protesting when people called him my boyfriend.
1/10/2013
Bitchy Partners Anonymous
(Recovering When Your Male Partner Is Injured While Sledding With the Children)
Step 1: Relief. Thank God he rolled off before he hit the tree.
Step 2: Concern. How bad is it? Should we go to the doctor? The ER?
Step 3: Gratitude. It's not bad enough to go to the ER. He'll be fine soon.
Step 4: Sympathy. It seems like he's in a lot of pain, poor guy. Cracked ribs must really suck.
Step 5: Patience. Yes, over-the-counter pain killers can make you feel better. I'll get them for you.
Step 6: Commiseration. Yeah, it's terrible when your core is injured. Like when you have a c-section or 3.
Step 7: Frustration. You can handle sex but not taking the garbage out?
Step 8: Annoyance. Do you have to yell every time you feel a stabbing pain? I was sleeping, dammit.
Step 9: Envy. I want an excuse to be as grumpy as I feel.
Step 10: Appreciation. At least I'm not in terrible pain.
Step 11: Prayer. Please let him never get hurt again.
Step 12: Acceptance. I accept that I am powerless over my husband's injury, mood and ability to function.
Step 1: Relief. Thank God he rolled off before he hit the tree.
Step 2: Concern. How bad is it? Should we go to the doctor? The ER?
Step 3: Gratitude. It's not bad enough to go to the ER. He'll be fine soon.
Step 4: Sympathy. It seems like he's in a lot of pain, poor guy. Cracked ribs must really suck.
Step 5: Patience. Yes, over-the-counter pain killers can make you feel better. I'll get them for you.
Step 6: Commiseration. Yeah, it's terrible when your core is injured. Like when you have a c-section or 3.
Step 7: Frustration. You can handle sex but not taking the garbage out?
Step 8: Annoyance. Do you have to yell every time you feel a stabbing pain? I was sleeping, dammit.
Step 9: Envy. I want an excuse to be as grumpy as I feel.
Step 10: Appreciation. At least I'm not in terrible pain.
Step 11: Prayer. Please let him never get hurt again.
Step 12: Acceptance. I accept that I am powerless over my husband's injury, mood and ability to function.
10/05/2012
I Am That Idiot
alternative title: My Ass Is Damp
A few weeks ago, Hot Guy put air in my tires (not a euphemism). He also left my car window open. Naturally it poured that night. Towels soaked up the surface puddle, but they did jack for the deep wet that rooted itself in the upholstery.
My ass was damp for three days. Hopefully you have no idea how uncomfortable that is.
When I mentioned it to Hot Guy, he claimed that he did it to himself all the time. He seemed confused by how bothered I was. Of course, he was probably hoping that I'd just shut up about it. But all I could think was:
"My ass is damp, motherfucker!"
Also: "What kind of idiot does this more than once?"
You know where this is going.
Yesterday at the Y, I left my car window open. And it rained like hell while we were inside. Since I spent all of my time in the basement and in the pool area, I had no clue. Until we got back to the car, anyway.
My ass was damp.
Again.
And this time I didn't even get my tires inflated. (This all sounds kind of dirty, doesn't it?)
A few weeks ago, Hot Guy put air in my tires (not a euphemism). He also left my car window open. Naturally it poured that night. Towels soaked up the surface puddle, but they did jack for the deep wet that rooted itself in the upholstery.
My ass was damp for three days. Hopefully you have no idea how uncomfortable that is.
This is what my ass looks like. In my head. Or 1996. Whatever.
When I mentioned it to Hot Guy, he claimed that he did it to himself all the time. He seemed confused by how bothered I was. Of course, he was probably hoping that I'd just shut up about it. But all I could think was:
"My ass is damp, motherfucker!"
Also: "What kind of idiot does this more than once?"
You know where this is going.
Yesterday at the Y, I left my car window open. And it rained like hell while we were inside. Since I spent all of my time in the basement and in the pool area, I had no clue. Until we got back to the car, anyway.
My ass was damp.
Again.
And this time I didn't even get my tires inflated. (This all sounds kind of dirty, doesn't it?)
9/03/2012
Marvelous Monday
Over at Band Back Together, we have Dose of Happy Mondays every week.
And every week, I forget to participate. Except this week! This week I have a list of awesome stuff for you to click on, so that you can be happy too. Or you can even join in on your own blog and share a link! But I called the post "Marvelous Monday" because I really like alliteration. And I feel like "marvelous" is an under-utilized word these days. Anyway, things that make me happy and/or are marvelous . . .
1. That my cousin finally has an outlet for his obsession with Charlie's Angels.
2. That my other cousin moved to Hawaii, became a homeschooler and started a blog in the space of a month. (Confession: This actually makes me happy AND jealous, but she says we can come visit so I'm trying to let go of the jealousy).
3. That my mom started blogging. (New personal goal: Get entire extended family to start blogging.)
4. That Hot Guy is spending more time on Twitter. (Though he already has a higher Klout score than I do. Which is unfair.)
5. That my dad is also hanging out on Twitter. (He also has a higher Klout score than I do. Maybe I should try get the entire family on Twitter instead and have them retweet me so that I could get a higher Klout score? Or possibly I should stop obsessing about my Klout score.)
6. This lovely back-to-school letter. It's a bit too religious for me to share with my kids verbatim, but I'll be sharing similar ideas with my own kiddos this week when they finally go back to school.
What's making you happy today, readers?
And every week, I forget to participate. Except this week! This week I have a list of awesome stuff for you to click on, so that you can be happy too. Or you can even join in on your own blog and share a link! But I called the post "Marvelous Monday" because I really like alliteration. And I feel like "marvelous" is an under-utilized word these days. Anyway, things that make me happy and/or are marvelous . . .
1. That my cousin finally has an outlet for his obsession with Charlie's Angels.
2. That my other cousin moved to Hawaii, became a homeschooler and started a blog in the space of a month. (Confession: This actually makes me happy AND jealous, but she says we can come visit so I'm trying to let go of the jealousy).
3. That my mom started blogging. (New personal goal: Get entire extended family to start blogging.)
4. That Hot Guy is spending more time on Twitter. (Though he already has a higher Klout score than I do. Which is unfair.)
5. That my dad is also hanging out on Twitter. (He also has a higher Klout score than I do. Maybe I should try get the entire family on Twitter instead and have them retweet me so that I could get a higher Klout score? Or possibly I should stop obsessing about my Klout score.)
6. This lovely back-to-school letter. It's a bit too religious for me to share with my kids verbatim, but I'll be sharing similar ideas with my own kiddos this week when they finally go back to school.
What's making you happy today, readers?
7/11/2012
Aaron Sorkin Is Threatening My Marriage
Hot Guy likes to bullshit people. I don't know if it's an actor thing, a small town childhood thing or just some weird personality quirk, but for whatever reason, Hot Guy likes to get people to believe the most outrageous things. He once convinced a much younger girlfriend that there was an entire dance called the "Wang Chung" and that the song was about it.
Over the years, he has to tried to bullshit me as well, but it never works. I ALWAYS know. Sometimes it's because I am old and have a great memory for the '80's and sometimes I can just tell by the expression on his face. This is probably the real reason that we are married.
Which makes what happened last night a bit worrying.
We were watching The Newsroom, which is a great show if you have HBO access, like Aaron Sorkin dialogue and wish the news was actually fair and balanced. At one point, one character uses the term, "rube" to describe another character. After repeating the line for Hot Guy, who is going to need a hearing aid before he turns 40, he turned to me and said, "What's a rube?"
I giggled. I mean, my husband grew up on a dirt road outside of a small town in Kansas. With chickens. The first time I sat outside on his parents' deck, I kept hearing this noise. This low, sort of moaning but not human noise. It was the cows next door (how was I to know that they don't really say moo?). You could say that he grew up in Rube-ville.
I answered him and I couldn't stop laughing. For him not to know the word "rube", it was just too perfect. Suddenly I became suspicious. I asked him if he was fucking with me. It's not like it's an obscure word, right? I mean, my husband is educated and well read. Not a rube. Shouldn't he know what it means?
He refused to answer. For the first time since I've known him, I have NO IDEA whether he is bullshitting me or not. It is driving me crazy.
So I'm wondering, is "rube" so antiquated that only Aaron Sorkin and I use it? Or my husband full of shit?
Tell me, internets. Has he finally bullshitted me? Or do country boys not know about rubes?
Over the years, he has to tried to bullshit me as well, but it never works. I ALWAYS know. Sometimes it's because I am old and have a great memory for the '80's and sometimes I can just tell by the expression on his face. This is probably the real reason that we are married.
Which makes what happened last night a bit worrying.
We were watching The Newsroom, which is a great show if you have HBO access, like Aaron Sorkin dialogue and wish the news was actually fair and balanced. At one point, one character uses the term, "rube" to describe another character. After repeating the line for Hot Guy, who is going to need a hearing aid before he turns 40, he turned to me and said, "What's a rube?"
I giggled. I mean, my husband grew up on a dirt road outside of a small town in Kansas. With chickens. The first time I sat outside on his parents' deck, I kept hearing this noise. This low, sort of moaning but not human noise. It was the cows next door (how was I to know that they don't really say moo?). You could say that he grew up in Rube-ville.
I answered him and I couldn't stop laughing. For him not to know the word "rube", it was just too perfect. Suddenly I became suspicious. I asked him if he was fucking with me. It's not like it's an obscure word, right? I mean, my husband is educated and well read. Not a rube. Shouldn't he know what it means?
He refused to answer. For the first time since I've known him, I have NO IDEA whether he is bullshitting me or not. It is driving me crazy.
So I'm wondering, is "rube" so antiquated that only Aaron Sorkin and I use it? Or my husband full of shit?
Tell me, internets. Has he finally bullshitted me? Or do country boys not know about rubes?
1/19/2012
In Defense of Reality Television
In 1992, I began my love affair with reality TV. This was back when The Real World was groundbreaking television and the people appearing on it had personalities, not labels. A lot has changed in the last 20 years (political maps, computers, my boobs), but my love for reality TV has not.
(We did take a break for a few years, reality TV and I. After I outgrew The Real World, there weren't a lot of options. When Survivor became so popular, I refused to watch it on principle. It wasn't groundbreaking, it was pandering. It was putting writers out of work. Then, of course, I agreed to watch it once to please some friends. I watched that season and the next few. But by the time I was over it. . .)
There was a reality TV show for everyone. Not ABOUT everyone, like there is now, but definitely a good enough variety to make most Americans forget any principles they may have had. And forget I did. Temptation Island was the next one I watched. I would like to blame that one on the guy I was dating at the time, but since he stopped watching reality television when we broke up and I started watching Big Brother instead, I really can't.
It only got worse after I had kids and became addicted to basic cable.
Hot Guy is baffled by my love for the Real Housewives. And Dance Moms. And Project Runway. Actually, "baffled" isn't really the right term. "Disgusted," maybe. "Horrified", even. He doesn't understand why I want to watch stupid people get paid to act like assholes. To which I squeal, "But it's entertaining!" Surprisingly, he has not been swayed by this argument. So here are some more:
1. Since the people on reality television seem less real than those on good scripted shows (Parenthood, anyone?), it's a lot less upsetting when something bad happens to them.
2. I never lose the plot when one of the kids distracts me.
3. It lets me feel superior about my parenting skills, which pretty much never happens in real life.
4. It lets me feel superior about my maturity level, which also never happens in real life.
5. The Soup is much funnier if you have seen what Joel McHale is making fun of. (Except The Bachelor. There is no excuse for watching The Bachelor.)
6. So is Kathy Griffin.
7. Remember how much fun dive bars are? Especially when you've been going to wine bars filled with hipsters and finance guys? Reality television has the same appeal.
8. I grew up watching soap operas. I'm conditioned to like this kind of crap.
9. It's cheaper than shopping.
10. It's not as emotionally draining as being a football fan.
(We did take a break for a few years, reality TV and I. After I outgrew The Real World, there weren't a lot of options. When Survivor became so popular, I refused to watch it on principle. It wasn't groundbreaking, it was pandering. It was putting writers out of work. Then, of course, I agreed to watch it once to please some friends. I watched that season and the next few. But by the time I was over it. . .)
There was a reality TV show for everyone. Not ABOUT everyone, like there is now, but definitely a good enough variety to make most Americans forget any principles they may have had. And forget I did. Temptation Island was the next one I watched. I would like to blame that one on the guy I was dating at the time, but since he stopped watching reality television when we broke up and I started watching Big Brother instead, I really can't.
It only got worse after I had kids and became addicted to basic cable.
Hot Guy is baffled by my love for the Real Housewives. And Dance Moms. And Project Runway. Actually, "baffled" isn't really the right term. "Disgusted," maybe. "Horrified", even. He doesn't understand why I want to watch stupid people get paid to act like assholes. To which I squeal, "But it's entertaining!" Surprisingly, he has not been swayed by this argument. So here are some more:
1. Since the people on reality television seem less real than those on good scripted shows (Parenthood, anyone?), it's a lot less upsetting when something bad happens to them.
2. I never lose the plot when one of the kids distracts me.
3. It lets me feel superior about my parenting skills, which pretty much never happens in real life.
4. It lets me feel superior about my maturity level, which also never happens in real life.
5. The Soup is much funnier if you have seen what Joel McHale is making fun of. (Except The Bachelor. There is no excuse for watching The Bachelor.)
6. So is Kathy Griffin.
7. Remember how much fun dive bars are? Especially when you've been going to wine bars filled with hipsters and finance guys? Reality television has the same appeal.
8. I grew up watching soap operas. I'm conditioned to like this kind of crap.
9. It's cheaper than shopping.
10. It's not as emotionally draining as being a football fan.
4/22/2011
Happy Birthday, Hot Guy!
Today is Hot Guy's birthday. Since I cannot afford to get him the Star Wars Millenium Falcon model with a gazillion working parts and Princess Leia sex robot (or whatever comes with it that makes it SO FREAKING EXPENSIVE), I thought I would write him a blog post.
I also got him a few boring gifts of stuff he actually needs. We're romantic like that.
Anyway, I am shamelessly stealing this idea from the gracious Nicole at Band Back Together.
Top Ten Reasons Why I Am Happy To Be Married To You:
1. You like cooking. And you're good at it.
2. Our shared obsession with Friday Night Lights.
3. Your patience in doing projects with the kids.
4. I can brag that we spent most of our courtship hanging out at a gay bar.
5. Your shoulders. *
6. We can tell each other anything.
7. You fix things, kill bugs AND tear up during movies.
8. Your altered versions of bedtime stories, complete with hysterical accents.
9. You have only complained once about what I've posted on the internet.
10. You have such a huge heart.
*That's not a euphemism, but it totally could be.
I also got him a few boring gifts of stuff he actually needs. We're romantic like that.
Anyway, I am shamelessly stealing this idea from the gracious Nicole at Band Back Together.
Top Ten Reasons Why I Am Happy To Be Married To You:
1. You like cooking. And you're good at it.
2. Our shared obsession with Friday Night Lights.
3. Your patience in doing projects with the kids.
4. I can brag that we spent most of our courtship hanging out at a gay bar.
5. Your shoulders. *
6. We can tell each other anything.
7. You fix things, kill bugs AND tear up during movies.
8. Your altered versions of bedtime stories, complete with hysterical accents.
9. You have only complained once about what I've posted on the internet.
10. You have such a huge heart.
*That's not a euphemism, but it totally could be.
8/04/2010
Simon Cowell Is Like A Margarita
A former contestant on Britain's Got Talent is suing Simon Cowell because he humiliated her on the show. When I snorted while reading the article, Hot Guy wanted to know what was up.
I think it's a testimony to our love that my snorts, instead of repelling him, make him interested in whatever I am reading.
So I explained about the suit. I may have also implied that this woman does not deserve several million pounds for getting humiliated on a Simon Cowell show, since by now even people who hate pop culture know what happens when you sing in front of Simon Cowell.
This is a man, after all, who does not appreciate Jennifer Hudson.
I expected Hot Guy to agree. I mean, the humiliation of others is half the reason people watch those shows. And while the other judges might dash dreams, Simon makes a sport of how nasty he can be. So anyone who does audition should know exactly what they're in for, shouldn't they?
Instead, I got to hear a little lecture about how dreadful it is that Simon Cowell makes so much money being mean to people and basically he deserves every frivolous law suit he gets.
I was a little taken aback. Hot Guy usually agrees with me about frivolous law suits AND he's always said that he won't watch any competition shows because of the annoying screams of the adolescent audience.
But now I see Hot Guy's point. Simon's mean just to be mean and it does seem rather unfair that he's got more money that the queen because of it.
So now I'm wondering what song I should sing for my audition. I guarantee he will be very nasty to me because I can't carry a tune unless I think no one else is listening. Then I can sue him for several million dollars and finally buy a new dishwasher. And redo my basement. . .
Damn, I'm too old for American Idol and I don't think Simon's on America's Got Talent (I'm pretty sure David Hasselhoff is , but there's no point in suing him. Better he saves his money for another trip to rehab). Which is understandable, because the truth is, I don't think Simon Cowell yelling at me would make me feel humiliated like it would have at 20. It would just make me ask him if it's true that his penis is only 3 inches long (c'mon, it must be - what other excuse for his bitterness is there?) and somehow I don't think this would help me with the whole "poor humiliated woman" case.
So there go my dreams for suing Simon Cowell. But hey, at least I've come to agree with Hot Guy on the whole thing. Though I still say frivolous lawsuits are bad, they are not bad if they involve Simon Cowell. Like tequila is bad, unless it's part of a margarita.
I think it's a testimony to our love that my snorts, instead of repelling him, make him interested in whatever I am reading.
So I explained about the suit. I may have also implied that this woman does not deserve several million pounds for getting humiliated on a Simon Cowell show, since by now even people who hate pop culture know what happens when you sing in front of Simon Cowell.
This is a man, after all, who does not appreciate Jennifer Hudson.
I expected Hot Guy to agree. I mean, the humiliation of others is half the reason people watch those shows. And while the other judges might dash dreams, Simon makes a sport of how nasty he can be. So anyone who does audition should know exactly what they're in for, shouldn't they?
Instead, I got to hear a little lecture about how dreadful it is that Simon Cowell makes so much money being mean to people and basically he deserves every frivolous law suit he gets.
I was a little taken aback. Hot Guy usually agrees with me about frivolous law suits AND he's always said that he won't watch any competition shows because of the annoying screams of the adolescent audience.
But now I see Hot Guy's point. Simon's mean just to be mean and it does seem rather unfair that he's got more money that the queen because of it.
So now I'm wondering what song I should sing for my audition. I guarantee he will be very nasty to me because I can't carry a tune unless I think no one else is listening. Then I can sue him for several million dollars and finally buy a new dishwasher. And redo my basement. . .
Damn, I'm too old for American Idol and I don't think Simon's on America's Got Talent (I'm pretty sure David Hasselhoff is , but there's no point in suing him. Better he saves his money for another trip to rehab). Which is understandable, because the truth is, I don't think Simon Cowell yelling at me would make me feel humiliated like it would have at 20. It would just make me ask him if it's true that his penis is only 3 inches long (c'mon, it must be - what other excuse for his bitterness is there?) and somehow I don't think this would help me with the whole "poor humiliated woman" case.
So there go my dreams for suing Simon Cowell. But hey, at least I've come to agree with Hot Guy on the whole thing. Though I still say frivolous lawsuits are bad, they are not bad if they involve Simon Cowell. Like tequila is bad, unless it's part of a margarita.
7/04/2010
Happy Anniversary
Hot Guy and I are celebrating our anniversary today, because tomorrow (our real anniversary) we will celebrating the 4th of July (because my hometown is weird like that). Also, my parents have the kids.
After doing a lot of cleaning (and we don't even have impending visitors. Hot Guy feels we should stop living like trailer trash. I say I would much rather live like people with servants, but he claims that's not in our budget) we retired to the patio with books and drinks.
It was quite peaceful, except for the occasional blast of illegal fireworks. Which is sort of like our old neighborhood in KC, except there it wasn't always fireworks. Anyway, given the time and the relative quiet, I was able to reflect upon the reasons that I love Hot Guy.
1. He's hot. Duh.
2. He's pretty understanding about my pathological need for alone time.
3. And about my crush on Tim Riggins.
4. He's funny.
5. He's an excellent father.
6. He cooks.
7. He can fix things.
8. He can answer all the kid questions I can't.
9. He's incredibly outgoing.
10. He can remember exactly when Pickett's charge was, but not when the next pediatrician appointment is.
11. He never hides anything.
12. He accepts me exactly the way I am. (Except for the cleaning issue. Which I guess is sort of understandable.)
13. He lets me pick out his clothes.
14. He knows how to help around the house.
15. He can sing.
After doing a lot of cleaning (and we don't even have impending visitors. Hot Guy feels we should stop living like trailer trash. I say I would much rather live like people with servants, but he claims that's not in our budget) we retired to the patio with books and drinks.
It was quite peaceful, except for the occasional blast of illegal fireworks. Which is sort of like our old neighborhood in KC, except there it wasn't always fireworks. Anyway, given the time and the relative quiet, I was able to reflect upon the reasons that I love Hot Guy.
1. He's hot. Duh.
2. He's pretty understanding about my pathological need for alone time.
3. And about my crush on Tim Riggins.
4. He's funny.
5. He's an excellent father.
6. He cooks.
7. He can fix things.
8. He can answer all the kid questions I can't.
9. He's incredibly outgoing.
10. He can remember exactly when Pickett's charge was, but not when the next pediatrician appointment is.
11. He never hides anything.
12. He accepts me exactly the way I am. (Except for the cleaning issue. Which I guess is sort of understandable.)
13. He lets me pick out his clothes.
14. He knows how to help around the house.
15. He can sing.
6/21/2010
Swimming and Other Natural Disasters
On Saturday, I tried to take my kids swimming. It sounds so simple. But, much like keeping a clean house or resisting bagels, things that are simple for other people are kind of challenging for me.
My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.
Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don't get to go swimming.
Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It's not cheap and I don't know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which - spoiler alert! - is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.
Not, apparently, anymore.
We could not swim in our town's pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town's pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn't possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.
By the time we got settled at my parents' town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.
We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn't demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.
I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can't be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.
And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn't have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn't eat the crackers he'd thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn't let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn't let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world's longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I'd collapsed.
Not exactly the fun family day I'd had in mind.
My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.
Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don't get to go swimming.
Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It's not cheap and I don't know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which - spoiler alert! - is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.
Not, apparently, anymore.
We could not swim in our town's pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town's pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn't possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.
By the time we got settled at my parents' town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.
We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn't demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.
I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can't be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.
And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn't have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn't eat the crackers he'd thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn't let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn't let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world's longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I'd collapsed.
Not exactly the fun family day I'd had in mind.
3/14/2010
It's Like My Binky
Hot Guy calls it "the big black". How I love it. It's huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It's MINE. It's my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.
Sure, it's probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don't care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I've been overly attached to it every since. It's not just that it's black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11's ass). It's not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children's births). It's that I've declared it as mine.
When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it's not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?
Enter "the big black" a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn't want him to use it at all.
My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he'd use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he'd just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he'd suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn't exercising, she wouldn't have invented Diet Pepsi.
Anyway, it's getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn't seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.
I know, I know. It's a cup. That's Hot Guy's argument. Why get worked up over a cup?
I don't know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I'm asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?
Sure, it's probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don't care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I've been overly attached to it every since. It's not just that it's black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11's ass). It's not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children's births). It's that I've declared it as mine.
When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it's not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?
Enter "the big black" a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn't want him to use it at all.
My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he'd use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he'd just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he'd suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn't exercising, she wouldn't have invented Diet Pepsi.
Anyway, it's getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn't seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.
I know, I know. It's a cup. That's Hot Guy's argument. Why get worked up over a cup?
I don't know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I'm asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?
5/25/2009
One of Us Has Issues
Very early on in our relationship, Hot Guy rearranged my refrigerator. As all it contained was breakfast food, condiments and diet Pepsi, I didn't really think much about it. If he wanted to bring food over and cook it for me, who was I to complain about the organization of my refrigerator? Besides, it was so cute how much interest he took in it.
Now, of course, I make breakfast and lunch for the kids and myself every day. A lot of times I have to make dinner (or, you know, an attempt at dinner) too. The refrigerator is usually full. So - and it was just a coincidence that Hot Guy was out of town - I rearranged the fridge and freezer the way I like it. I like to have things organized because my short-term memory is shot from lack of sleep. Sorting things by category allows me to find things quickly, which makes me happy. And cuts down on the whining. The kids appreciate quick service.
Anyway, now Hot Guy is back. And what did I discover on the breakfast shelf of the freezer this morning? Chicken nuggets. I mean, sure, the kids probably WOULD eat them for breakfast. But they don't. The chicken nuggets had been on the meat shelf. With the other meat. Like should be put with like. In rows. With the oldest ones in the front. Because that's what makes sense, right? RIGHT?
Already his expensive Parmesan has moved from the cheese shelf to right in front of the yogurt.
I think his system can be summed up as, "Wherever I can put it quickly". He says it has to do with being a cook. Either way, it means that stuff gets forgotten as it winds up in the back. And you always have to move stuff out of the way to get what you want. And it just looks messier. Not that he seems to care. He has absolutely no respect for my system.
So, which one of us is the problem here? Do you have an organized fridge? Or do you think I'm weird?
Now, of course, I make breakfast and lunch for the kids and myself every day. A lot of times I have to make dinner (or, you know, an attempt at dinner) too. The refrigerator is usually full. So - and it was just a coincidence that Hot Guy was out of town - I rearranged the fridge and freezer the way I like it. I like to have things organized because my short-term memory is shot from lack of sleep. Sorting things by category allows me to find things quickly, which makes me happy. And cuts down on the whining. The kids appreciate quick service.
Anyway, now Hot Guy is back. And what did I discover on the breakfast shelf of the freezer this morning? Chicken nuggets. I mean, sure, the kids probably WOULD eat them for breakfast. But they don't. The chicken nuggets had been on the meat shelf. With the other meat. Like should be put with like. In rows. With the oldest ones in the front. Because that's what makes sense, right? RIGHT?
Already his expensive Parmesan has moved from the cheese shelf to right in front of the yogurt.
I think his system can be summed up as, "Wherever I can put it quickly". He says it has to do with being a cook. Either way, it means that stuff gets forgotten as it winds up in the back. And you always have to move stuff out of the way to get what you want. And it just looks messier. Not that he seems to care. He has absolutely no respect for my system.
So, which one of us is the problem here? Do you have an organized fridge? Or do you think I'm weird?
2/02/2009
The Other Woman Loses Some of Her Allure
When Garmin Girl did not lead us directly to the interstate, I didn't say anything. After all, we already know that I have issues with the GPS, plus driving around all of these speeding old people makes Hot Guy annoyed enough without my helpful suggestions.
I also kept my tongue when Garmin Girl had us bypass the interstate completely. Just because the ad for the outlets had stated its interstate exit did not mean that the interstate was the best way for us to get there. Still, I began to worry. Garmin Girl is not known for sensible alternatives to the highway, after all.
We drove farther and farther into the Gulf Coast's interior, which seemed to me a logical place for an outlet mall. Land would be cheaper and no one would be distracted by a good view. It sort of looked like Kansas with palm trees. Except soon there were less shopping centers. My mother was the first to voice her concern about our location. By that time, though, we were nearly there.
Or so Garmin Girl said.
Garmin Girl felt that the outlet mall was on the dirt road to the right. Not even the paved version of the road on the left, not for Garmin Girl. That's when I thought about Dad programming the GPS for us. And how, of course, you have to program the town before you can program the street name. I asked Hot Guy if Garmin Girl would search for a street name in the nearby towns too.
Apparently Garmin Girl is not able to that, she searches one town only. Get the wrong town and you wind up at the end of a dirt road surrounded by swampland. Which mom and I were totally open to exploring, but Hot Guy and the kids not so much. So, while I did find the correct route to the correct place on Garmin Girl, we mostly followed MY directions to get to the outlets.
Because unlike Garmin Girl, I can synthesize information. And use logic.
Thankfully, Hot Guy finds these skills sexy.
I also kept my tongue when Garmin Girl had us bypass the interstate completely. Just because the ad for the outlets had stated its interstate exit did not mean that the interstate was the best way for us to get there. Still, I began to worry. Garmin Girl is not known for sensible alternatives to the highway, after all.
We drove farther and farther into the Gulf Coast's interior, which seemed to me a logical place for an outlet mall. Land would be cheaper and no one would be distracted by a good view. It sort of looked like Kansas with palm trees. Except soon there were less shopping centers. My mother was the first to voice her concern about our location. By that time, though, we were nearly there.
Or so Garmin Girl said.
Garmin Girl felt that the outlet mall was on the dirt road to the right. Not even the paved version of the road on the left, not for Garmin Girl. That's when I thought about Dad programming the GPS for us. And how, of course, you have to program the town before you can program the street name. I asked Hot Guy if Garmin Girl would search for a street name in the nearby towns too.
Apparently Garmin Girl is not able to that, she searches one town only. Get the wrong town and you wind up at the end of a dirt road surrounded by swampland. Which mom and I were totally open to exploring, but Hot Guy and the kids not so much. So, while I did find the correct route to the correct place on Garmin Girl, we mostly followed MY directions to get to the outlets.
Because unlike Garmin Girl, I can synthesize information. And use logic.
Thankfully, Hot Guy finds these skills sexy.
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