Hey y'all! I'm practicing my accent because...we have a house!! The offer has been accepted and we close in November! I'm so unbelievably relieved. It would've really sucked to move in January and have no house. We actually flew down this weekend to do a walk through, sign the papers and start the list of stuff that needs to be done, which is why I've been ignoring my blog. And you thought I was just being lazy.
Chris and I left Saturday and it was really cool because we've never flown anywhere without the kids. It was really nice to not have to be paranoid in the airport, looking around frantically for your children who can't seem to grasp what stay right next to me means. Try playing that game in LaGuardia. Super fun. Anyway, it was a pretty big plane, 3 seats on each side. I took the window seat, Chris in the middle and someone else in the aisle seat. On the first flight, that someone else was a very, VERY drunk man. He reeked of liquor. During the takeoff he kept taking his shoes off and playing with his feet, which also smelled. Then as soon as we were in the air, the guy reached in his bag and pulled out a fifth of vodka. I can't even get a Diet Coke through security and this guy has a fifth? Whatever. Maybe he bought it in the airport, which would be even worse because it was almost empty. So anyway, this dude kept getting up and stumbling down the aisle to the bathroom, where the poor stewardesses were like, Sir? Sir, we need you to take your seat. Then he'd stagger back to his seat, drool on Chris a little bit and drink some more. Right before we landed, he wiped the drool off his chin and PULLED OUT HIS TEETH. For real. Then he fell back asleep. Chris was like, next time I'm NOT sitting in the middle. I hate you. I found the whole thing hilarious until we were actually in the terminal. Chris and I were standing in front of one of those big maps looking for the best place to eat, and the guy walks buy and grabs my ass. I was like, that drunk guy just grabbed my ass! Chris says, yeah, try sitting next to him for an hour and half. Sucks doesn't it. Fair enough I suppose.
So after our whole weekend extravaganza, Chris and I were looking forward to going home, sleeping in our own bed, seeing the kids, all that good stuff. Just wanted a nice, restful flight back. I was really tired and wanted to take a nap on the plane, which was a great plan until the big dumb animal sitting next to me spilled Diet Coke all over my leg. He didn't do it once, but twice. Oh and that big dumb animal? Yeah, that was Chris. At first I was really mad because my leg was really cold and I was getting a little travel weary. I was like, what the hell? Would you pay attention to what you're doing? He's like, I'm sorry, I hit it with my arm. I didn't mean to. So I said, well are you going to do anything about it? He's like, what do you want me do? Now all I really meant was that I wanted him to get some napkins so I could mop up the puddle of Diet Coke in my lap, but because I'm a total smartass and kind of a bitch, I said, you want to make it right, why don't pour the rest of that on yourself. And you know what that fool did? He picked up his Diet Coke and dumped it in his lap. He was like, now we can be wet and miserable together. I was like, aww, you're the best travel buddy ever.
So even though we had to brave the crowded seats, drunks and laps full of Diet Coke, we had an awesome weekend. And did I mention we have a house? Hell yeah, y'all.
Showing posts with label messing with Chris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label messing with Chris. Show all posts
Bring back that loving feeling, whoa that loving feeling...
With all this move stuff going on, Chris and I have been spending the majority of our time either arguing, stressing, debating or scratching each other's eyes out. It kind of all came to a head a few days ago when we were having what should've been a normal discussion and it ended up with me in tears and him holding his head in hands, clearly on the verge of a breakdown. This just isn't how we do things. We just don't fight that often, I mean, yeah we disagree and snipe back and forth sometimes, but we really don't fight. Most times, when we "fight" we bicker for a few minutes, he makes a joke, I call him a jackass and we move on. Lately, that just hasn't been happening. Anyway, after the dust settled, we decided that enough was enough. We decided that we really needed to get back to basics and get back to why we work so well to begin with.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
So Monday night, we were both kinda tired, but we wanted to watch Monday Night Football, so we decided to watch it upstairs in bed. So we're lying there all cuddly (trying to mend our relationship, remember), and he says, this is nice. I was like, it is. You know, sometimes I wish that we could've done things different. Like, I had the chance to be your actual girlfriend. See, when we got together, he lived in South Carolina, I lived in Maine with the kids, so we've never had a "normal" relationship. We never got to do some of those fun dating things that people do. So he says, what do you mean? You were my girlfriend. I was like, no, I mean like, you pick me up for dates and stuff. You know, like normal people do. Normal people go on real dates. The only date you ever took me on was to Hooters, that hardly counts. He was all, Hooters totally counts, you just don't appreciate it like I do. Heh, I bet I don't. So we didn't say much else about it, the game got pretty good and fixing a relationship or not, football was on. We do have priorities, you know.
So yesterday, he only had to work until 12:30, so he sent me a text and asked if I wanted to leave early and get some lunch. I was like, yeah sure, just let me know when you get here. So I go about my business, and figure he'll call when he's in the parking lot. About 20 minutes later, he calls and says, hey, so I was wondering if you were busy. I'm in town today, and I'd really like to see you. I'm totally confused. I was like, uh, ok? I checked my phone to make sure that it was really him, and I wasn't going insane. He says, yeah, I just thought that we could go get some Chinese food. I've been thinking about you a lot, and I'd love to spend some time together. I'm completely confused. I was like, what are you talking about? I thought we already said we'd go have lunch? What are you saying? Honestly, at this point, I'm thinking he didn't mean to call me. He really meant to call his mistress and just didn't realize it was me and didn't hang up fast enough. My mind is racing, my blood starts boiling, I'm getting really, really angry. He says, I thought you said you wanted to go on a real date. Isn't this what guys are supposed to do? Call you up and ask you all proper? I just want us to be good again, and I know this is important to you. I feel like a total douche. Here I am thinking that my husband is having an affair, and he's really just trying to "date" me. I've said something in passing that he's not only listened to but has actually put some thought in, and all I can think is that he didn't call me on purpose, that he meant to call some other woman. Sigh.
After lunch we were driving home and got a flat tire on the interstate. He says, see, I'm so glad this wasn't an actual date. Bad Chinese food, a flat tire, you standing on the side of the interstate, I'd have to go home and cry myself to sleep. This is the worst date ever. I just smiled and said, I think it went pretty well, considering.
It's not like I asked him to put it on his forehead
I have three tattoos (as I mentioned in my 100 things post), a vine around my ankle, a sun on my shoulder and the chinese symbol for tranquility on the inside of my wrist. The one on my shoulder was my first act as an adult. Register to vote? Nah. Buy cigarettes legally? Nah. Get a tattoo to piss your parents off? Hell yeah! The one on my wrist was at a time when I felt I needed a constant reminder to stay calm and be tranquil. It doesn't really work, but it looks cooler than a string around my finger. I love tattoos. I love them on other people, and I love mine, except the one around my ankle because really, there's no need for a fat girl to have a big blue vine around her ankle, it only makes her leg look more like a tree trunk. It's really not sexy. Granted, when I got it, it was in an alcohol and drug induced state, and I really wasn't thinking about things like, I wonder if I'll regret this when I'm 30 or I bet this will just draw more attention to an already heavy leg. That's probably why there are laws against getting a tattoo if you're intoxicated. Intoxication makes you do things you wouldn't normally do, go figure. So anyway, I was talking to Chris about getting another tattoo. I said I was thinking about getting another one, and I thought that he should get one too. Now this isn't the first time that we've talked about him getting one. When I got the one on my wrist, he went with me and was thisclose to getting one, but he totally chickened out, that was 3 years ago. I said, wouldn't it be cool if you got a tattoo about me, like my name or something? He was like, I'm not putting your name on me. Ehhh, what the fuck? Why the hell not?
Apparently there's some man law that, thou shall not tattoo a woman's name on you, even if she's your wife. He says that even though he has no plans on divorce and wants nothing more to be with me forever (aww, sweet, right? Wait for it...), there's always a chance that we'll get divorced or I'll die and he'll be stuck with my name on his body forever (there it is!). Are you kidding me? Not only is he thinking about our divorce but he's also considering my death? So I'm getting, Oh I love you so much, but if you die, I'm gonna be able to pick up any chicks with your name tattooed on my arm? That's just wrong.
Ok, I totally get that a tattoo is a big deal for some people, it's a forever kind of thing. You can get them removed, but that sounds like an immense pain in the ass, so you really need to be sure before you get a tattoo. And it's not like he's like, I don't want a tattoo at all. He does, he just can't decide what he wants, well that and he's afraid it's gonna hurt a lot (which it totally doesn't). So surely getting something about the love of his fucking life should inspire him, I mean it's not even like my name is Betty or Jane or a name that is even sounds like other names. Maybe Merritt means excellence, to be worthy of, goodness, perfection (which it totally does according to the thesaurus) and he just spelled it more fancy with an extra r and t. And it's not like I think it should say I heart Merritt (like with a picture of a heart, like I heart NY), that's dumb. It could say, Merritt is the best and hottest wife ever, or Merritt is the most wonderful woman on the planet, or Merritt is the love of my life and I've tattooed her name on my arm to show the world that there will never be another woman for me, although that may be too long. Some girls like flowers and candy, I like tattoos. Am I nuts?
What do you think? Would you want your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend to tattoo your name on him/her? Would you be offended if they said they wouldn't?
Apparently there's some man law that, thou shall not tattoo a woman's name on you, even if she's your wife. He says that even though he has no plans on divorce and wants nothing more to be with me forever (aww, sweet, right? Wait for it...), there's always a chance that we'll get divorced or I'll die and he'll be stuck with my name on his body forever (there it is!). Are you kidding me? Not only is he thinking about our divorce but he's also considering my death? So I'm getting, Oh I love you so much, but if you die, I'm gonna be able to pick up any chicks with your name tattooed on my arm? That's just wrong.
Ok, I totally get that a tattoo is a big deal for some people, it's a forever kind of thing. You can get them removed, but that sounds like an immense pain in the ass, so you really need to be sure before you get a tattoo. And it's not like he's like, I don't want a tattoo at all. He does, he just can't decide what he wants, well that and he's afraid it's gonna hurt a lot (which it totally doesn't). So surely getting something about the love of his fucking life should inspire him, I mean it's not even like my name is Betty or Jane or a name that is even sounds like other names. Maybe Merritt means excellence, to be worthy of, goodness, perfection (which it totally does according to the thesaurus) and he just spelled it more fancy with an extra r and t. And it's not like I think it should say I heart Merritt (like with a picture of a heart, like I heart NY), that's dumb. It could say, Merritt is the best and hottest wife ever, or Merritt is the most wonderful woman on the planet, or Merritt is the love of my life and I've tattooed her name on my arm to show the world that there will never be another woman for me, although that may be too long. Some girls like flowers and candy, I like tattoos. Am I nuts?
What do you think? Would you want your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend to tattoo your name on him/her? Would you be offended if they said they wouldn't?
It's gonna be a loooong summer
So yesterday I talked about bribing (some may call it buying off) my kids. I still stand by what I said, it's an invaluable tool in close combat situations...no wait...yeah, close combat with 2 pre-pubescent kids that's about right. Anyway, they brought home their report cards, and they did really, really well. Although, I have to hand it to these fine public schools, we don't do grades, grades are too much pressure on kids. We have politically correct things like, "practice and support needed", or "meets". Not "needs improvement", or "your kid is a total slacker and there's no way they're gonna see the 4th grade", no, that would be too harsh. So they both did really well, lots of "meets". Kat's teacher did write a personal note about Kat craving attention and being a drama queen (yes, I'm serious), but overall, they did a great job. David improved a lot since his last report card, he's been working really hard, actually doing his homework and not just saying the old standby, I finished it at school, etc.
So tobribe them reward them for their report cards, Chris and I decided to buy them both new Razor scooters. They love them, they've been scooting up and down the driveway, or as Kat says, "scootah, scootah, scootah" (we ARE from Maine after all) for hours and hours on end since they got them. Well Davey, never the master of coordination or balance, fell off and got a nasty little scrape on his knee. No big deal, who hasn't gotten a little road rash as a kid, right? Well, yeah, except that he's fallen so many times that his scrapes have scrapes. Of course my Florence Nightingale kicked in and peroxided the hell out his knees, put about a tube and a half of Neosporin on it, and slapped on the two biggest bandaids I could find. He limped around for a bit until he sufficiently used up all my sympathy then ran off, back to his prized scooter. So I'm wondering, is this my bad karma rubbing off on the kids? Have I gone terribly wrong with the universe when I bribed rewarded my kids for doing what every kid should do, when they did well on their report card? Have all of my "questionable parenting skills" finally caught up with me and now my children are suffering? No, I think they just have a grown ass man running around acting like a damn teenager for a dad. Check out the video below.
Yes, that's Chris. yes, he's using the kids old scooters as rollerblades/skis/death machines. Yes, he's a big tool. And I wonder why my kids act like they do. It's not karma, it's just my big kid of a husband being a great role model. Sigh.
So to
Yes, that's Chris. yes, he's using the kids old scooters as rollerblades/skis/death machines. Yes, he's a big tool. And I wonder why my kids act like they do. It's not karma, it's just my big kid of a husband being a great role model. Sigh.
Domestic Bliss
So this weekend I'm finally getting my "new" couch. Ok, so not new. One of my friends is moving away and was having an "everything must go!" sale of all of her earthly possessions...or at least the stuff she didn't feel like dragging half-way across the country. Anyway, I'm buying her couch for $100, which is awesome. She's a super clean freak, total OCD, so this couch is super clean, it completely puts my beaten to hell, dog chewed, kids boogered, nasty ass couch to shame. Not that I haven't tried to get a new couch for like 4 years, but Scrooge McDuck strikes again. So the other night I'm thinking of all the rearranging and redecorating I'm going to have to do and I'm like, I think I we're gonna need a sofa table. Chris is like, what the hell is a sofa table and why do we need one? So I explain (it's just a table that goes behind a sofa. Clever name, eh?) and wave my hands around all excitable and such, and I'm all, doesn't that sound great? He makes the dumbest face I've ever seen and says, yeah, well, we'll see. How much is it? Eh. Ok. The guy seriously has earned his Scrooge McDuck nickname. In the interest of not wanting to get divorced over a stupid sofa table, I start thinking about alternatives.
As we all know there are legions of mommy crafters out there and they all have blogs. I am so not one of those mommies. I suck so bad at crafting it's not even funny. The one time I used a hot glue gun, I glued ribbon to my arms, the table and wound up with second degree burns on my neck. Against my better judgement, I start looking for their blogs to maybe get a little design inspiration, I'm just hoping for no glue gunning. Here's what I've learned.
1. These mommies are like fucking MacGyver. They fashion a new table cloth with matching curtains from paper clips, magazine clippings and a glue gun. It's crazy.
2. If I'm ever going to be crafty, I'm going to have to get over my fear of glue guns. One lady redid her guest bedroom by with nothing but a glue gun and popsicle sticks. It was kinda pretty. These women even have names for their glue guns, clearly, they love them and are much more comfortable with theirs than I am with mine. I'm going to name mine Hell Beast.
3. I love Pottery Barn. You want a "beachy chic" look, Pottery Barn has it. You want "urban farmhouse"? Pottery Barn has that too. You don't have to learn to sew or paint or even get over your unnatural fear of glue guns. You can just order whatever your little heart desires. They'll even ship it right to your door sans popsicle sticks.
Yeah, so what we've really learned here is, fuck crafting. I'm going to Pottery Barn. And I'm getting a sofa table.
As we all know there are legions of mommy crafters out there and they all have blogs. I am so not one of those mommies. I suck so bad at crafting it's not even funny. The one time I used a hot glue gun, I glued ribbon to my arms, the table and wound up with second degree burns on my neck. Against my better judgement, I start looking for their blogs to maybe get a little design inspiration, I'm just hoping for no glue gunning. Here's what I've learned.
1. These mommies are like fucking MacGyver. They fashion a new table cloth with matching curtains from paper clips, magazine clippings and a glue gun. It's crazy.
2. If I'm ever going to be crafty, I'm going to have to get over my fear of glue guns. One lady redid her guest bedroom by with nothing but a glue gun and popsicle sticks. It was kinda pretty. These women even have names for their glue guns, clearly, they love them and are much more comfortable with theirs than I am with mine. I'm going to name mine Hell Beast.
3. I love Pottery Barn. You want a "beachy chic" look, Pottery Barn has it. You want "urban farmhouse"? Pottery Barn has that too. You don't have to learn to sew or paint or even get over your unnatural fear of glue guns. You can just order whatever your little heart desires. They'll even ship it right to your door sans popsicle sticks.
Yeah, so what we've really learned here is, fuck crafting. I'm going to Pottery Barn. And I'm getting a sofa table.
Scrooge McDuck and Magellan do Boston
I don't know if it's just spring fever or I'm just completely lazy, but I've been pretty bad about updating my blog for the last week or so. I suppose I'm just not feeling very bloggy lately. I spent the majority of the week trying in vain to get ready for Kat's cheering competition in Rhode Island. Between packing, cleaning and laundry I was pretty busy. It amazes me that no matter how many loads of laundry I do, it's never done. I must've done about 17 loads last week. Apparently Chris and the kids didn't get the memo that we only wear ONE outfit a day and that just because you try on something for 30 seconds does not make it dirty. Sigh. Anyway, we left early Friday afternoon for Rhode Island. Despite several attempts to buy a GPS, Scrooge McDuck (aka Chris) says it's cheaper to print directions that to buy a GPS, so we used MapQuest...even though MapQuest gives us bad directions ALL the time. Well Scrooge McDuck got exactly what he paid for when MapQuest tried to kill us. Yeah, MapQuest apparently doesn't like the major highways and took us right through the middle of Boston, which we didn't even realize until we came around a corner and find ourselves smack in the middle of the Boston tunnels at freaking 4:15 on a Friday afternoon. Now in case I hadn't mentioned it before, I have a little claustrophobia thing. I also have a fear of being underground in the dark with a bunch of people who'd rather punch you in the face than let you switch lanes. So here we are sitting in bumper to bumper traffic in a fucking tunnel with idiots swerving in and out of lanes, honking horns, flipping people off...holy shit I thought I was going to die. Chris, normally cool, calm and collected, turned off the radio and was like shutupshutupshutup to the kids. He's asking me where to go, and I'm completely freaking out because I'm 110% sure that there's going to be a huge fireball coming through the tunnel any second (a'la Independence Day) and we're all going to die a firey death because we can't escape the tunnel of hell.
Believe it or not, the tunnel didn't explode and did see daylight again...45 minutes later. It was another 45 minutes before we were even out of Boston. Boston sucks. A lot. Finally, finally, finally we got to Rhode Island. We did get lost 3 times from the end of Boston to the Rhode Island state line. The whole time Chris is yelling at me, telling me to read the directions, which I totally was. It said get off at exit 8A, but there was no 8A. It went 9, 8, 7...no 8A. Someone told me later that 8A actually was after exit 6. Well of course it is, because that makes a lot of sense. Anyway, I told him to get off some exit and ask for directions.
Chris: Yeah, thanks a lot Magellan, you've been very helpful.
Me: Well you know what, that's what happens when you're too cheap to buy a GPS. I told you we should get one.
Chris: Yes well, once again you've done a superb job with navigation.
Me: Jackass.
He's referring to last spring when we were going to Six Flags in Massachusetts and I read the directions wrong and we wound up literally in the ghetto...like with real live drug dealers and hookers on the corner. We were supposed to go to a street in Agawam, and I led us to a street of the same name in Springfield. We had to stop at a convenience store next to a bar with one of those LIVE DANCING NUDE GIRLS! signs for directions. He was pretty pissed. He also could be referring to the time that we went to Athens, Georgia and we took a 3 hour detour on country dirt road because I mis-read the map. All we saw were cows and fields for hours and hours. He was pretty pissed. Of course he could be talking about the time that we went to York's Wild Kingdom and I mis-read the map and missed the exit and drove into New Hampshire...twice. He was really pissed that time. It's just a few detours, what's the big deal? And this time it wasn't even my fault, I read the directions right, it was totally MapQuest's fault.
When we got home he started pricing GPSs.
Believe it or not, the tunnel didn't explode and did see daylight again...45 minutes later. It was another 45 minutes before we were even out of Boston. Boston sucks. A lot. Finally, finally, finally we got to Rhode Island. We did get lost 3 times from the end of Boston to the Rhode Island state line. The whole time Chris is yelling at me, telling me to read the directions, which I totally was. It said get off at exit 8A, but there was no 8A. It went 9, 8, 7...no 8A. Someone told me later that 8A actually was after exit 6. Well of course it is, because that makes a lot of sense. Anyway, I told him to get off some exit and ask for directions.
Chris: Yeah, thanks a lot Magellan, you've been very helpful.
Me: Well you know what, that's what happens when you're too cheap to buy a GPS. I told you we should get one.
Chris: Yes well, once again you've done a superb job with navigation.
Me: Jackass.
He's referring to last spring when we were going to Six Flags in Massachusetts and I read the directions wrong and we wound up literally in the ghetto...like with real live drug dealers and hookers on the corner. We were supposed to go to a street in Agawam, and I led us to a street of the same name in Springfield. We had to stop at a convenience store next to a bar with one of those LIVE DANCING NUDE GIRLS! signs for directions. He was pretty pissed. He also could be referring to the time that we went to Athens, Georgia and we took a 3 hour detour on country dirt road because I mis-read the map. All we saw were cows and fields for hours and hours. He was pretty pissed. Of course he could be talking about the time that we went to York's Wild Kingdom and I mis-read the map and missed the exit and drove into New Hampshire...twice. He was really pissed that time. It's just a few detours, what's the big deal? And this time it wasn't even my fault, I read the directions right, it was totally MapQuest's fault.
When we got home he started pricing GPSs.
Well isn't that special
So today I was on Facebook taking yet another one of their quizes. Today's was Who Would Be Your Celebrity Boyfriend? Sounds fun. So I take the quiz and my result is Colin Farrell. So I said to Chris, my celebrity boyfriend would be Colin Farrell. Does that surprise you? He says, not really, you're both badasses. Interesting. I said, True, but I married you, so what does that say? He thinks about it for a second and says, that I'm more badass than you expected? PFFFFFFFFFFFFT. I respond with a snort, If you're a badass, I'm the Church Lady. He says, well you do go to church on Sunday...
Ok seriously. What the fuck? I'm so NOT the Church Lady. Yes. I go to church. And yes, I like it. No, I'm not the God-less heathen y'all thought I was. If that somehow makes me less badass, well screw you. I still swear like a motherfucking trucker (nothing like a little gratuitous swearing to prove my point). Sure I bake cookies for the neighborhood children, care for sick kittens and read to the blind, but I'm still a total badass. Okay, I really dislike other people's children and wouldn't bake cookies for them for fear that they'd come back for seconds. I don't really care for sick kittens, I don't really like cats. And I don't really read to the blind, because that's kinda what they have audiobooks for. Clearly I'm still a badass.
Chris, in all his badassery is scared to get a tattoo. He says he's not scared, he says he just hasn't found the perfect design yet. I say he's scared as hell. I have 3 tattoos, it's not scary. He went with me to get the one on my wrist and was watching with complete fascination, asking constantly, doesn't that hurt? Well yeah dummy, it's a needle poking ink into my wrist, what do you think? When it was his turn, he was all, No, no. I didn't mean I was getting one TODAY, I was just looking. Yeah, sure. Here's what maybe you didn't know about Chris.
1. He's a staunch Southern conservative republican. Not very badass.
2. He's was educated in a private Christian school. He took AP (advanced placement) calculus...FOR FUN. He got a 1320 on his SATs. Not very badass.
3. The first time I met him he was wearing a white and green polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. Does that sound very badass to you?
Granted, he's changed a lot since I first met him, and I've burned all of his pleated pants, but he's still not a badass. He's funny, sarcastic, witty, snarky, he makes me laugh every single day, he's the most fun person in the world to be around, he's a great dad and my best friend, but he's NOT a badass.
P.S. Like that? How I turned it around at the end and got all aww I totally didn't see that sweetness at the end coming! Yeah, that's why I'll be having a steak dinner with a side of shopping for something sparkly and you'll be sitting at home watching American Idol on DVR while your husband snores in the chair. I'm just that good.
Ok seriously. What the fuck? I'm so NOT the Church Lady. Yes. I go to church. And yes, I like it. No, I'm not the God-less heathen y'all thought I was. If that somehow makes me less badass, well screw you. I still swear like a motherfucking trucker (nothing like a little gratuitous swearing to prove my point). Sure I bake cookies for the neighborhood children, care for sick kittens and read to the blind, but I'm still a total badass. Okay, I really dislike other people's children and wouldn't bake cookies for them for fear that they'd come back for seconds. I don't really care for sick kittens, I don't really like cats. And I don't really read to the blind, because that's kinda what they have audiobooks for. Clearly I'm still a badass.
Chris, in all his badassery is scared to get a tattoo. He says he's not scared, he says he just hasn't found the perfect design yet. I say he's scared as hell. I have 3 tattoos, it's not scary. He went with me to get the one on my wrist and was watching with complete fascination, asking constantly, doesn't that hurt? Well yeah dummy, it's a needle poking ink into my wrist, what do you think? When it was his turn, he was all, No, no. I didn't mean I was getting one TODAY, I was just looking. Yeah, sure. Here's what maybe you didn't know about Chris.
1. He's a staunch Southern conservative republican. Not very badass.
2. He's was educated in a private Christian school. He took AP (advanced placement) calculus...FOR FUN. He got a 1320 on his SATs. Not very badass.
3. The first time I met him he was wearing a white and green polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. Does that sound very badass to you?
Granted, he's changed a lot since I first met him, and I've burned all of his pleated pants, but he's still not a badass. He's funny, sarcastic, witty, snarky, he makes me laugh every single day, he's the most fun person in the world to be around, he's a great dad and my best friend, but he's NOT a badass.
P.S. Like that? How I turned it around at the end and got all aww I totally didn't see that sweetness at the end coming! Yeah, that's why I'll be having a steak dinner with a side of shopping for something sparkly and you'll be sitting at home watching American Idol on DVR while your husband snores in the chair. I'm just that good.
I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet
Usually when I write a post, I text Chris to tell him, make him read it, shower me with praise, etc., etc., etc. Normally he has comments, but after reading Friday's post, he was suspiciously quiet. We went out dinner at Olive Garden, and I was like, so you didn't say much about my blog post, did you not like it? He was like, yeah, I did...I just ...I dunno. So I'm moderately offended.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
Working the guilt angle
When I was a kid, I was so excited for my birthday. I did a daily countdown, pretty much reminding anyone who would listen that it was MY birthday. For the past 3 or 4 years, I wasn't like that all. I was very much leave me the hell alone, I'm not ready to be old. But I found that kind of approach really limits my ability to get what I want. For instance, my birthday this year will be spent at a cheering competition (big surprise, right?), but that's ok, because I support my kid and all that. But because I "have to spend the day at a cheering competition, I don't even get a real birthday", I said I wanted to go to Outback for a steak the size of my head (seriously the size of my head, their steaks are ginormous and freaking awesome). Chris was like, Outback, that's really pricey. And then I'm all, but that's what I REALLY want for my birthday, and I have to spend the day at a cheering competition, I don't even get a real birthday (cue whiny voice). We're going to Outback.
So far I've been able to score some pretty sweet stuff, because I'm either great at birthday guilt or he has a mistress on the side that the feels guilty about: A brand new camera (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and I never get anything), an Ed Hardy shirt (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and how often do I get new clothes?), and $28 mascara--now this one a little was harder to justify. He was all, that's friggin insane, what the hell is in it that makes it $28? And I was like, well it's called Yves Saint Laurent Effet Faux Cils. It's French. I think I threw him off with the French because he was all, what the hell does that mean? I was like, I have no idea, but it's YSL and French, so it must be good, right? And I just know that this would make me feel like I look better, and that will make me feel better about turning 30, and you know I'm really struggling with it. And honestly, how can you say no to that? It came in the mail yesterday from Sephora--and it really does kick ass, totally worth $28. Now you're probably thinking, what a greedy bitch, but it's not really like that...ok it is. But I'm completely unapologetic. Honestly, your birthday only comes once a year, why not capitalize on it? I also figure if on the off chance this isn't just birthday gift-giving guilt, and Chris really does have a mistress, I'm going to be able to get that Jeep I've had my eye on...
P.S. Apparently because of all the economy crap, people have actually found freaking Manolos at Goodwill (or so says Politco's Political Playbook). Seriously. I'll be cruising Goodwill from now on.
P.P.S. Effet Faux Cils means false eyelash effect, or so says the babelfish translator.
So far I've been able to score some pretty sweet stuff, because I'm either great at birthday guilt or he has a mistress on the side that the feels guilty about: A brand new camera (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and I never get anything), an Ed Hardy shirt (but baby, I REALLY want it for my birthday, and how often do I get new clothes?), and $28 mascara--now this one a little was harder to justify. He was all, that's friggin insane, what the hell is in it that makes it $28? And I was like, well it's called Yves Saint Laurent Effet Faux Cils. It's French. I think I threw him off with the French because he was all, what the hell does that mean? I was like, I have no idea, but it's YSL and French, so it must be good, right? And I just know that this would make me feel like I look better, and that will make me feel better about turning 30, and you know I'm really struggling with it. And honestly, how can you say no to that? It came in the mail yesterday from Sephora--and it really does kick ass, totally worth $28. Now you're probably thinking, what a greedy bitch, but it's not really like that...ok it is. But I'm completely unapologetic. Honestly, your birthday only comes once a year, why not capitalize on it? I also figure if on the off chance this isn't just birthday gift-giving guilt, and Chris really does have a mistress, I'm going to be able to get that Jeep I've had my eye on...
P.S. Apparently because of all the economy crap, people have actually found freaking Manolos at Goodwill (or so says Politco's Political Playbook). Seriously. I'll be cruising Goodwill from now on.
P.P.S. Effet Faux Cils means false eyelash effect, or so says the babelfish translator.
Global warming and garden gnomes
So I'm sitting here in January enjoying the most kick ass heat wave. It's really more of a dry heat, it's a balmy 4 degrees. It's a high of 8 today. Tonight it's supposed to be 13 below zero, which should be fun for outdoor activities. We're actually kind of lucky though, there was some places in Wisconsin, Minnesota and Northern Maine that were 47 below with the wind chill. I can't even comprehend that kind of cold. I did learn though that skin freezes in 10 minutes at 43 below zero. I have no intention of testing this theory, I'm going to just take this on good authority (the National Weather Service). It's apparently like 89 today in California. We hate them. Seriously, it's been said before, but it must be said again, if global warming keeps up, I'm going to freeze to death.
The other night I was flipping through the channels with Chris and landed on the Home Shopping Network. Nate Berkus was on, who I love from the Oprah show. He had on all these really cool pillows which I decided we needed to have for the living room. I was like, don't you love those? He was like, ehh. No. Apparently Chris hates pillows. I went online and showed him all the different styles and colors and he was all, babe, they're pillows. I don't like them. I'm like, what don't you like about them? Do you want a different color? Different pattern? He's like, no, no, no. I don't care how they look, I hate pillows. This is not the first time I've encountered his strange phobias. He also has an aversion to seat cushions, which is just weird. He doesn't seem to mind pillows if they're totally attached to something, like the back of a couch, or a really puffy recliner, but try to get throw pillows and he gets all crazy. I could understand if I'd tried to smother him with a throw pillow or something, but I totally wouldn't do that. I wouldn't risk getting spit or face dirt on my good pillows, they're really hard to clean. No, that's not true. Any good dry cleaner could take care of stains. You know, this reminds me, he also has a fear of garden gnomes. Perhaps he's not afraid of me smothering him...perhaps he's afraid of garden gnomes smothering him with throw pillows...
P.S. I totally wouldn't really smother Chris. He's way stronger than me. And besides, I always "get" him wrong. A couple of weeks ago, he took out the trash and I thought it would be funny if I sprayed him with the faucet sprayer. He walked in and I aimed and hit him right in the chest. He was like, AHHHHHH! Son of a bitch baby! That's HOT water! I was like, awww. I didn't mean to scald him, just get him wet. This is why I don't mess with Chris, it always goes terribly wrong.
P.P.P.S. I'm totally getting a garden gnome for my garden. Who needs throw pillows to scare your husband when you have garden gnomes? *rubs hands together and laughs manically*
P.P.P.P.S I fear may regret this decision...
The other night I was flipping through the channels with Chris and landed on the Home Shopping Network. Nate Berkus was on, who I love from the Oprah show. He had on all these really cool pillows which I decided we needed to have for the living room. I was like, don't you love those? He was like, ehh. No. Apparently Chris hates pillows. I went online and showed him all the different styles and colors and he was all, babe, they're pillows. I don't like them. I'm like, what don't you like about them? Do you want a different color? Different pattern? He's like, no, no, no. I don't care how they look, I hate pillows. This is not the first time I've encountered his strange phobias. He also has an aversion to seat cushions, which is just weird. He doesn't seem to mind pillows if they're totally attached to something, like the back of a couch, or a really puffy recliner, but try to get throw pillows and he gets all crazy. I could understand if I'd tried to smother him with a throw pillow or something, but I totally wouldn't do that. I wouldn't risk getting spit or face dirt on my good pillows, they're really hard to clean. No, that's not true. Any good dry cleaner could take care of stains. You know, this reminds me, he also has a fear of garden gnomes. Perhaps he's not afraid of me smothering him...perhaps he's afraid of garden gnomes smothering him with throw pillows...
P.S. I totally wouldn't really smother Chris. He's way stronger than me. And besides, I always "get" him wrong. A couple of weeks ago, he took out the trash and I thought it would be funny if I sprayed him with the faucet sprayer. He walked in and I aimed and hit him right in the chest. He was like, AHHHHHH! Son of a bitch baby! That's HOT water! I was like, awww. I didn't mean to scald him, just get him wet. This is why I don't mess with Chris, it always goes terribly wrong.
P.P.P.S. I'm totally getting a garden gnome for my garden. Who needs throw pillows to scare your husband when you have garden gnomes? *rubs hands together and laughs manically*
P.P.P.P.S I fear may regret this decision...
