Tag Archives: couples

As I Was Saying…

11 Feb

I’ll just let the narrative of where I’ve been for almost a year unfold on its own. In its own time and way. I’ll briefly say that I stopped reading pretty much anything online except anything about hilarious autocorrect incidents. I don’t care how dumb they are, I love that stuff. I made a pledge not to read anything that baited me with CLICK HERE TO SEE WHAT SHE DID or LEARN THIS ONE WEIRD TRICK. That cut down on about 80% of my internet time. I didn’t totally quit Facebook, but I walked out on Twitter. I wish I could say I went out and got a life, but if you’ve read this blog at all you know that requires pants. And you’ll know how I feel about pants.

Let me also tell you this up front. I will not be talking about vaccinations. I’m not going down that rabbit hole. I’m not going to talk about how completely selfish, ignorant, fatuous, narcissistic, narrow-minded, and totally asshatted it is not to vaccinate/immunize your children. Nope. Go somewhere else for that. Like here, for example.

What I WILL discuss with impunity is 50 Shades. Because that shit is hysterical. I will also discuss house cleaning, periods, marriages, abortion, gays, straights, blacks, whites, other regional person shades, my parents, my husband (THE SAINT, but no longer The Ham King), the birds in my backyard, my crazy friends, I’d talk about my sane friends if I had any, underwear and lack thereof, my discovery of Outlander, text messages from my mother, the crickets in our storage closet, what I learned from not watching news regularly, and my need of suggestions for a really good concealer and a conditioner that doesn’t smell like an overworked stripper dipped in coconut car freshener.

I’m also taking suggestions about what animal, vegetable, or mineral I should replace the YAAT bird with. Or if I should replace it at all. If I shouldn’t then blerghe or she needs a name, so I’m open to that as well. Standard Life Coach will be making an appearance, so email your questions using the contact form on this page.

Several of you have been kind enough to ask after my imaginary twins Sizzlene and Formicadinette. Sadly, their birth mother who lives in one of those square states has regained custody of them after realizing their earning potential in the child beauty pageant business and Formicadinette’s ability to make a casserole from little more than and can of creamed corn and Velveeta. Since the are imaginary, they will never grow older and can make quite a killing off the Babee Lil’ Miss Shiny Eyelash Glamour Tot pageant circuit. I’m happy for them, obviously. And, quite frankly, Sizzlene’s inability to master the twirl-n-curtsy was really getting on my nerves. For those of you concerned about The Ham King’s sanity, I’m happy to report that he still would like a life-size Cylon Centurion and enjoys a good hat. And he’s still practiced in the art of diplomacy, but he is no longer The Ham King. I suppose he is now The Nonmetallic Thermal And Acoustical Insulation Production King, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it. I am extremely happy in his change of kingdoms, as is he.

I was going to finish this post up and go eat delicious homemade chocolate chip and pecan cookies, but I can’t make the damn things. I can’t make chocolate chip cookies. I can make a brown sugar cookie that looks like it should be on the cover of a baking magazine and tastes like eight kinds of heaven, but my chocolate chip cookies ALWAYS come out too cake-like. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. But that does mean I have an entire mixing bowl of cookie dough. So there’s that. Any ideas on why EVERY cookie recipe and technique I use comes out wrong would be greatly appreciated. Could it be I’m getting the sugars and butter too fluffy? Maybe it’s my ass’s way of telling me to slow down with the cookies? Whatever, there are no good cookies and no Cheetos in the house, so I haz a sad.

If you are a new reader, welcome. If you are a returning reader, thank you. I shall endeavor to deserve your time. Just kidding. Ima totally waste it and make you have to read Chekhov to get your IQ back up.

My SuperStrate Marriage™©

26 Jun

Forget gay marriageAre you as bored with my saying I don’t understand what it means to be conservative as I am with not understanding what it means to be conservative? Today SCOTUS tossed out DOMA, a federal law. ONE LESS FEDERAL LAW, PEOPLE! Why are so few of my right wing buddies dancing in the streets? OH! Wait! I remember. With DOMA gone, now I can marry my car, right? And my gay dog can marry my gay goldfish and then adopt a little human Asian baby they can dress in the most fabulous clothes from Baby Boden.

Now that DOMA is gone and California’s Prop 8 is pretty much dunzo, I think I’ll start a log of all the ways teh gay marriage is going to threaten My SuperStrate Marriage™©. So. For the next few days I’ll be chronicling like such. I can tell you this, already I feel a little less feminine. Granted, it might have something to do with the fact I sat out in Standard Shed this morning and forgot to turn on the AC and a raging case of swamp ass began to creep up on me, BUT I JUST KNOW IT’S THE LESBIANS!

I think tomorrow it’s really going to sink in. The gayness. The deterioration of the morality, sanctity, and missionary-style sexiness of My SuperStrate Marriage™©. As it is, I just saw a picture of Ellen Degeneres and thought WOW! Her skin is lovely! I must have this Gay Olay she uses. Will I want to leave the love of my life and move to an all-womyn commune and spend my days rewriting children’s classic books to be gender neutral? Will I become overly fond of the Canadian Tuxedo? Will I listen to nothing but Ani DiFranco? Will Chuck still find me attractive when I wear nothing but flannel? Okay, that’s kind of moot. I’m really fond of seasonally-appropriate flann….OH GAWD! It’s already started!!

Stay tuned, friend(s). I’ll be charting the demise of My SuperStrate Marriage™© right before your very eyes!

Briefly

19 Oct

For Chuck

The Bunny

16 Oct

Until I got married, I never knew it was possible to love and to hate someone at the same time. I mean that much more positively than it sounds, HONEY. I don’t think this makes me a terrible person. I think it makes me a person who lives with her true love. And a person who occasionally wants to hold said true love’s head under the water until the bubbles stop. You think he feels any differently? HA! Our prenup specifically allows him up to ten minutes of homicidal fantasies a day. Fifteen if I use any tense of the word “redecorate”.

If you’ve read this blog before, you may know of the saint to whom I am married. And make no mistake, the man IS a saint. I know it’s hard to tell from my writing, but I’m a little neurotic. And high maintenance. And tend to have pizza cravings which must be satisfied RIGHT NOW. And also I steal his socks. And start most of my conversations with him with “Okay, so…” as if we were already in the middle of a conversation. Oh, and occasionally I get mad at him in my head, and we have this fight in my head, and then I take it out on him in person. I am aware that is in no way cool.

If his life with me had a soundtrack, it would be nothing but a sad trombone.

We’ve gone through some tough times in the almost seven years we’ve been married, but to paraphrase my mother, divorce is not an option. Homicide might be, but not divorce. See, we took our time. He shook me and held me for a while to see if I was heavy for my size. I looked for bruises and any sign of mold along the stem. It took a while, and the other day he did–when asked–tell me he had no idea I was THIS crazy before he married me, but he actually likes me more now. There are days he has to remind himself that’s the case, sure, but at the end of the day he’s the whiskey to my sour.

I don’t know if it was hormones or meatloaf, but last night I got a little weepy. You know how us gals do with our emotions and our feelings and our bottles of stuff sitting around everywhere and why does anyone need seven different kinds of body lotion? (The answer to that is, of course, because I’m economizing down from thirteen. Duh.) I just wanted him to be, you know, all therethere and pat my head. Around year five I realized that he could not read my mind. Armed with this knowledge last night, I decided to wake him up and force him to soothe me.

So I sort of poked him and whispered his name. Nothing. A little more shaking this time. He rattles and sputters and coughs and flails, but does not wake up. A little louder this time. CHUCK! Nope. I give up and burrow in next to him, occasionally dodging an errant elbow or full-body sleep jerk. I looked at my dresser. I couldn’t see it in the dark, but I knew what sat on top. It’s a small beige ceramic bunny. His mother brought it to me a couple of years ago. When he was about three, he went to an Easter egg hunt and the bunny was in one of those bifurcated plastic eggs. She said he was so excited to show her his prize. I keep the little bunny there for a reason. When I get upset, angry, sad, or just generally pissed off, I look at the bunny. Immediately, I get an image in my head of a little toddler Chuck, his dimpled starfish hands holding up the little dime store bunny to his mom. In my head he’s wearing those little white shoes and has a bowl cut and there’s a Peter Pan collar involved. That image usually calms me down, and it worked last night.

I started feeling better about the time he violently flipped onto his back and let out a mournful sigh. In his obviously deep sleep, he reached for my hand, and I startled myself with the realization that all I ever need to do is put out my hand.

He will tell you his nocturnal thrashing is IN NO WAY as bad as how I ALLEGEDLY fly back into bed after getting up and repeatedly beating my pillow which ALLEGEDLY bounces him around to the point he’s in danger of getting a ceiling fan haircut.

Understanding. That’s what makes a good marriage. Understanding. And liquor doesn’t hurt either.

The Theme Nite

27 Mar

Yes, I do the Pinterest thing. For several years I’ve been looking for some sort of online bulletin board and Pinterest pretty much works for me. I use Listhings for sticky notes. I haven’t found something that combines both services that I like. I don’t have the reaction to Pinterest that some people do which is there are all these projects they’ll never get to, their houses will never be as nice or organized as the ones they pin, and who cooks this stuff anyway? Yeah, I pin some crap, but I’ve also used most of the tips I’ve come across and made several of the recipes. The first one I made was for the homemade Reese’s Eggs. Reese’s Eggs are the far superior of the holiday-themed Reese’s shapes. Just don’t bother. The Eggs are on sale like two packs of six for $3. The homemade ones are really buckeyes. There is nothing wrong with a buckeye; but let’s be clear, it ain’t a Reese’s Egg.

Pinterest is helping me get my dinky little laundry closet more organized and useful. I use it to pin color palettes for, among other things, the blog. I don’t really use it for clothes because, let’s face it, I get dressed up like twice a year. There are only so many pictures of jeans, my favorite Target v-neck t-shirt, and flip flops I could pin. And I don’t do theme nights.

Pinterest is BIG on theme nights. And bunting. It’s big on bunting, too. So what’s a theme night? It’s where you might have Mexican food, but you don’t just have some carne asada and call it a day. No, friend. On Mexican Nite you need to make bunting in the shape of Mexican flags. And you need to make them with repurposed fabric from Christmas when you made bunting, smocked dresses for four children, a tree skirt, a fabric wreath, a fabric tree for your guest bath, and then covered the fridge with fabric and Mod Podge to make it look more festive. You take THAT fabric, sew a tablecloth, napkins, and new curtains. THEN you make those charms you put on wine glasses because, damn, y’all people must lose your wine glasses a lot. There are thousands of ideas for wine glass charms on Pinterest. These charms should be in the shape of tacos and sombreros. OBVIOUSLY. Now you also need Mexican Nite themed plates. You can get these for like three bucks at Walmart. People on Pinterest are always getting stuff for like three bucks at Walmart. You will now use ceramic paint to paint authentic Mexican scenes like a little dude in a serape leaning against a wall taking a siesta.  You will then serve all your food out of terra cotta pots. Your chicken enchilada recipe, it goes without saying, will come from Pinterest. There are approximately 492,495,092 chicken enchilada recipes on Pinterest, but only three of them do not contain a cream-of-something soup. These are the super authentic ones and you probably won’t like them.

Here are some ideas I had for THEME NITE! They are yours to make and to share. I’m a giver.

Just-Off-The-Interstate Massage Parlor Nite:

You wear a t-shirt from when the Vols won the championship in 1998, cut-off mom jeans, and pink Crocs. Serve $.99 burritos, Mountain Dew Code Red, and Munchos Big Grabs from the nearest truck stop. Lay your honey out on the dining room table, light your finest Renuzit candles, and give him a sexxay massage with mango scented lotion from Big Lots while not dropping ash from your generic cigarette onto him. HAWT!

You Know What Your Problem Is? Nite:

Just hash it all out, once and for all. Throw it all on the wall and see what sticks. Serve a salad of bitter greens and the wine you’d, “be drinking every night if I’d married Larry and his MBA instead of you and your BS. And I DON’T mean the bachelor’s you don’t have!” Watch some movie known for its set design porn like Meryl Streep’s kitchen in It’s Complicated and spend most of the movie whining about the house you’ll never have. Wind down the evening with Tums and a good, shrieking cry.

It Will Never Live Up To My Expectations Nite:

Use tonight to cook something with lots of steps like Julia Child’s boeuf bourguignon and a dessert like baklava. Wait until you get home from work to start. Drink all the dinner wine before you get the boeuf seared. Festoon the bedroom with red rose petals, scented candles, and some sexxay sex dice game you ordered from drugstore.com and then cry into your pinot noir when your husband falls asleep as you’re putting on your new babydoll nightie.

No, You Decide Nite:

Spend all evening trying to get your mate to decide what to do. Give up and order pizza. Watch a PBS documentary on carpenter ants and fall asleep on the couch.

Go Out At Home Nite:

Fill your house with cigarette smoke. Resurrect your black light from college. Spill beer on yourself. Hire a couple to stay in the bathroom and make out so when you try to go, you have to wait for like an hour for them to hear your knocking. Play crap hip hop music too loud and flash your husband. Have him take your picture–don’t forget to make a duck face! Wake up hungover and vow never to go out again.

But I Thought You LIKED Tulips Nite:

Show up with all her favorites: tulips, a bottle of pinot gris, Hershy’s with almonds, and a movie starring whatever piece of man meat Jennifer Anniston is currently dating. Find out she hates tulips, wanted a chardonnay, is allergic to almonds, and it was the OTHER guy she likes to drool over. Try to make it up by making pasta, but she won’t come out of the bathroom. You give up, throw some sardines in the pasta, crack a beer, and watch something with swords.

A Confession

20 Jan

I needn’t go into all the reasons why, but a couple of weekends ago I had to go to the ER.  Feel free to make one of them jokes about doing an x-ray of my head and not finding anything. About 3:30 on a Saturday morning, I got up, tried to find clothes in the dark, and attempted to sneak out before I woke Chuck up. The thing is, I’m not a neat person so there was much rustling about in piles of clothes and more than a little cussing. I think it was the cussing that woke him up. He asked if I was okay. Yes, I said. I’m going to the hospital. He asked if I could at least wait until he put on pants.

“Did you think I wouldn’t take you?”

And this is when it dawned on me that I still don’t get this marriage stuff.

Of course I knew he would take me. I knew I wanted him to take me. But it is not easy for me–even after almost six years–to say I’m hurt and I need help. I realized one of the reasons for this is that I believe I’m not supposed to think marriage is a big deal. We didn’t need to get married. We both had jobs, we weren’t planning on more children, we had no farm to run. Marriage was the paper that said I choose you. I choose you today, and I’ll choose you next year when you’re complaining about your knees. It was paper that said we’d stick together even when plotting ways to escape. And I foolishly thought that’s all there was to it.

Because I knew so many people who chose not to get married and so many people who couldn’t get married, I thought it was just a formality. I was so determined not to let marriage define me that I missed the point. The point of marriage is that it does define me. My life is inextricably linked to another’s. You don’t have to be married to have that, obviously, but you’d better have it if you are to be married. There is nothing I do which exists in a vacuum. Every grocery store trip, every sweater I buy, every meal I plan, trip I take impacts my Other. And just as I fret because The Man Who Never Gets Sick comes home and pukes his guts up, he frets when I’m up before dawn trying to sneak out to the ER. And he frets less about what’s wrong with me and more about why I won’t let him DO SOMETHING like drive me there.

My problem has been that I thought I was too cool for school. I thought I could be married and still be single. I don’t mean mess around with someone. I really don’t see the point in being married if you’re going to dip your nib in someone else’s India ink. I believed there was weakness in leaning on another. The thing I missed is that the extra support makes me stronger. It’s kind of simple, I know.

I guess what I want to say is that I’m formally rejecting Generation X’s position that marriage is just a piece of paper. I need my husband, and this is why I married him. This is why I will stay married to him. This is why I believe anyone should have the opportunity to be married. It is more than a piece of paper. I don’t give a rat’s ass that you think it’s an antiquated system of oppression. I’m over all that. Marriage matters. If people like me continue to downplay the importance of it, it just becomes more difficult to make the case that marriage should be for everyone. If it’s not important, what does it matter that couple over there can’t get married? You just said it was no big deal.

I got married because life made more sense with my husband than without him. It still does. My goal for this year is to say that more. You know– to him. And I want to work harder to make sure that one special person, that one person you want to annoy the rest of your life, can check the MARRIED box when you have to go to the hospital at 3:30 on a Saturday morning.

Lucky. Yeah, Right.

9 Oct

All the time people are telling me how lucky I am to have my husband. He’s a kind, smart, funny, gorgeous, thoughtful, solid man. So all the time I’m getting, “Oh, what a guy, that Chuck. You’re so lucky.” Well, one, no. I’m not lucky. This relationship is the result of elbow grease. I’m not saying we laid traps. I’m saying that we were grown-ass adults who understood relationships are work and were willing to do that work to have a good relationship. HOWEVER, the overall point is well taken.

He’s a saint. The man is a saint.

Thing is, he doesn’t get a lot of, “Oh, how lucky you are that Susan married you. What would you do without her?”  It took me until tonight to figure out why that is.