My husband hates Michael Buble so much that simply being in the same room with him makes him physically ill. Two years ago we attended one of his concerts and my beloved GAR spent the entire time puking in the bathroom, no doubt the result of his hatred for smooth crooners with a voice like liquid velvet. Or it could have been because he had a terrible migraine and perhaps a touch of food poisoning. I suppose that’s also possible.
Nonetheless, I blame it on the music and his immense desire to avoid the concert in the first place. While GAR and I generally have the same taste in music, and even had a rock & roll inspired wedding due to this commonality, there are a few areas where we diverge. For example, his lack of knowledge for, and respect of, the 80s music genre is flat out unacceptable. But his distaste for Michael Buble? Well that I do understand. I have no idea why I like him myself. But knowing that I wanted to see him in concert regardless my GAR was generous enough to buy us tickets for the show and surprised me with them as a Christmas gift. And I THOUGHT this was a sweet gesture … a real sacrifice on his part … until I learned the truth.
For months we planned to attend the show, which was in Tampa. When finally the night of the concert arrived we made our way to the arena. When the door guy scanned our tickets this terrible buzzing went off and he informed that we, in fact, did not have tickets to the Tampa show but, instead, had tickets to the show in Ft. Lauderdale … which had already taken place the night before. Ah-ha! The truth comes out! GAR’s scheme had fooled me good – he only made me THINK he was taking me to see Michael Buble when really he planned to “forget” which concert he bought tickets for, leaving us SOL due to the fact that the Tampa concert was sold out. Well played GAR, well played. And he would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for the fact that the box office manager offered to sell us tickets in a skybox that was otherwise empty that evening, which we did.
So GAR had to suffer through it after all. And as soon as the music started the puking began as well. He only emerged from the bathroom long enough to catch the end of the encore – which featured such lovely tunes that the other people in our skybox stood up and sang along, angering the people in the skybox next to us who threw bottle caps at us and, eventually, dumped water all over one poor lady in our box who screeched at the top of her lungs “My cashmere!!! She ruined my cashmere!!” It was, all in all, an unforgettable evening.
Which leads me to the point of this post (What, those other four paragraphs before this one weren’t part of the point of this freaking long post? No. No they were not.) – My husband is not perfect. I know, you’re shocked. I bet your spouse is totally perfect in every way. But it’s true – he isn’t. And I love him anyway. While it always makes us chuckle, that Michael Buble concert is a perfect example of how, try as he might, GAR can be a pretty forgetful guy. I read recently that being married increases a man’s lifespan. And I totally get that. Because of me (and my incessant nagging) GAR eats healthier, buckles his seatbelt more often, goes to the doctor when he’s sick (sometimes), lives in a house free of mold and other airborne germs that were living in bachelor pad, and, most significantly to this post, shows up at nearly every appointment he makes. How he stayed alive for the 31 years he didn’t know me is beyond my realm of knowledge (though I’m guessing I can attribute his first 18+ years of livelihood to his mother), but I do know that now, in 2012, he is completely dependent upon me for a number of things. And one of those things is being his walking, talking appointment calendar, complete with reminder messages.
Our daily discussions go something like this:
(Him) What have we got going on Wednesday night?
Or …
(Him) I’m going to go golfing on Friday.
(Me) You can’t, you have a meeting with the Dean at noon that day.
Or …
(Him) What day are we going to Atlanta?
(Him, 5 minutes later) What day are we going to Atlanta?
(Him, the next day) I made plans to have dinner with Mike on the 21st.
(Me) You can’t, we’ll be in Atlanta.
You get the point. And, see, as promised – it just reeks of imperfection. I find it both hilarious and completely frustrating. And that pretty much sums up marriage altogether, doesn’t it? But really, who am I to talk about marriage as if I’m an expert? I’ve been married less than a year. Actually, it will officially be one year on Tuesday (Sept. 4). And that time has really flown by. Some people say the first year is the hardest but I don’t think that’s true at all (unless you are really, truly just living together for the first time) – our first year was nothing short of wonderful, flawed husband and all. No, the hardest year is the one where something truly horrible happens – a major death in the family, bankruptcy, serious illness, etc. That is when your marriage vows are truly put to the test (although GAR and I recently realized that our vows, which we picked out ourselves, promised nothing to each other, so ha!)
As we move closer to the end of our first year of marital bliss, GAR and I have spent serious time discussing how to celebrate this inaugural anniversary. Are we really going to eat that year old cake that’s been sitting in our freezer since our wedding day? Are we going to order the same menu items we served our guests a year ago? Are we exchanging gifts? We’ve plotted and planned and got ready to celebrate – just like we did on our wedding day. Except for one little problem – the other night GAR forgot all about it. Well not ALL about it. He didn’t forget that our anniversary was happening, or even that it was happening on the 4th, he just didn’t remember what day of the week the 4th falls on (it’s a Tuesday this year, even though we got married last year on a Sunday – damn that Leap Year really screwed up the calendar with its extra day). And so he says to me: “I moved that interview I was going to do Monday night to Tuesday night instead.” Sigh… oh the imperfection never ends!
And isn’t forgetting your anniversary just such a cliché anyway? And that’s what really irks me. Come on, we’re better than that. We hate clichés. Not that I don’t know his heart is in the right place – he’s been totally psyched about ushering out year 1 and saying “hello” to year 2 with a bang. And I’m sure he would have sorted out the date for himself by the time Tuesday actually did roll around. He’s not a jerk after all, quite the contrary. He’s generally the model husband who goes to great lengths to find new ways to surprise and delight me. In fact, just a few days ago he asked for feedback on how he could be an even BETTER husband. At the time I didn’t mention the fact that he’s “schedule impaired” (and we’re still working on his ability to tell time too … I don’t mean he’s often late, I literally mean his ability to read a clock that isn’t digital. Baby steps), but perhaps I could have offered that bit of criticism. After all, as his wife, I have to say that this is the one time my role as his mental calendar works against him. Perhaps as his anniversary gift I should buy him a nice thick appointment book – that would even fit with the first anniversary theme of “paper” gifts – but I know that won’t help whatever mental block keeps him from knowing what day of the week it is. He’ll still turn to me every Thursday night and say “So what are we going to do tomorrow?” and I’ll keep having to remind him that tomorrow is Friday and I work on Fridays. “Oh right!” he’ll exclaim, 52 times per year, every year for the rest of our lives – calendar or no calendar. And I’ll continue to love how simultaneously infuriating and funny he can be (though I’m guessing that slowly it be less funny and more infuriating each time until finally we’re old and gray and I kick his cane out from underneath him and pretend it’s an accident. Hey, I said that men live longer when they’re married – not that the whole process doesn’t still eventually kill them).
So no calendar, but we are still exchanging a “paper” themed gift (though, really, who adheres to these old fashioned gift giving rules anymore?) – concert tickets. Later in September we’ll be heading to Atlanta (whether or not GAR remembers what date we’re leaving on) for a 2-day music festival full of bands we both enjoy – not a smooth crooner doing old covers in sight. It’s the perfect way to truly celebrate the anniversary of our rock & roll wedding. We can’t wait! And, thankfully I planned this trip, not GAR, so we’re sure to have plane tickets, a place to stay and, of course, tickets to the right concert on the right date at the right venue. Because, of course, unlike my husband I am perfect. And GAR is such a great husband that I bet he wouldn’t even disagree me on that point. And THAT is how I know we’ll make it to anniversary #50 (which will still be held on Sept. 4 darling, which is on a Sunday that year, right at the same time as the next Halley's Comet, in case you need a reminder).
Friday, August 31, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Dirty Old Men
My dog likes it when I’m topless.
I guess I should explain but, somehow, I feel the explanation will also sound a little seedy. You see, it happened like this – my dogs are getting older. The elder (and smaller) of my pupperonis turned 11 in March. This makes him over 80 in the proverbial “dog years” equation. And while he’s still a fairly spry 80, he is showing his age in some areas. He’s cranky about people petting him when he doesn’t feel like it, if you don’t like getting your hand ripped off it’s best to let this sleeping dog lie (and his sleeping time is up to about 22 hours a day vs. the mere 20 hours he slept in his younger years), he takes pain meds for his “bad back” and, most significantly to this story, he can no longer leap tall buildings in a single bound. As a pup he could bounce his way over any obstacle, but now he no longer has the strength (or maybe it’s just the will – he is awfully apathetic nowadays) to hop onto my bed each night.
Now I know what you’re thinking – why does he need to be in my bed? Can’t he just sleep in a dog bed so we can have a normal, non-co-dependent dog/owner relationship? Well, okay, you’re right … but that’s not the point of this story so let’s just stick the point, okay?
And the point is this – I got tired of listening to him whimper and whine each night when he couldn’t get up into bed so I broke down and bought him some doggy steps so that he could climb in that way (because that’s just how dog-gone bad our co-dependence is), even if they are hideous and totally ruin the otherwise perfect décor of my bedroom. But the problem is getting him to actually use these ugly stairs. You know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks – well it isn’t easy. He just sits there and stares at the stairs (see what I did there?) and when you try to force his little paws onto the steps he flips out and runs away. Even when I have doggy crack (better known to you as “cheese”) waiting at the top for him as a reward.
But there is one thing that works. One thing that gets him to climb to the tippy top every time – my naked boobs.
It’s funny because I’ve never really thought they’re much to look at personally. Given the rampant childhood obesity rate we have right now your average third grade boy probably has moobs that are bigger than my pathetic little lady sacks. Nonetheless, my little Munchkin pup runs right up his doggy stairs every time I flash them for him. I mean, not in a creepy way … no really. It happened the first time as I was sitting on the bed changing into my pajamas. It was harmless really – I pulled off my bra and before I even had my sleep shirt on he had scurried up the stairs to greet me. I was excited that he finally did it – I didn’t even think a thing about the circumstances. Until he did it again a few days later, when I sat on the bed after I had gotten out of the shower and my towel slipped down a bit revealing my ta-tas. By the third similar such incident a pattern was emerging – and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the direction it was headed.
So I stopped his training. I let the stairs just sit there unused. But, little did I know, this was just the beginning. His dirty old man tendencies were about to go public.
You know when you see someone who has a giant scar on their face and you totally want to know what that’s all about but, of course, no one is rude enough to actually ASK how he/she got that scar? It’s bad manners, right? Then after awhile you just forget about the scar – it becomes normal to you and you don’t even notice it anymore. Then one day someone new comes in and says “Hey, what’s with Pat’s scar?” And all of a sudden you’re like “Oh, I haven’t even thought about that in ages!” Well my Munchkin’s wiener is sort of like that.
If you’ve met Munchkin before you totally get what I mean. But, if not, let me explain – his willy, johnson, peter, pecker – whatever you call it – hangs out at all times. Most dogs retract theirs unless excited or aroused, but not my Munchkin – he just lets his hang on out there 24-hours a day for the whole world to enjoy. And, while I can’t tell you exactly when this little “problem” of his started, I can say that it’s been this way so long now (at least 10 years) that I can’t even recall a time when this wasn’t the case. And, so, weird as it sounds, his dong hanging out in the open is just “normal” for me. I don’t even notice it anymore, and I never really think about it (unless I’m taking his picture. I’ve become a real master at cropping shots so that his little lipstick doesn’t show. But even then I’ve gotten so accustomed to cropping it out of photos that even that is so natural I don’t even think about it anymore). It’s just always there. Oh sure, I brought it up to the vet a few times but, aside from the “doctor” manipulating it back in there once using a disturbing amount of KY jelly while I just stood there watching my dog be semi-molested by a “trained professional” only to see the whole thing prove unsuccessful as Munchkin popped his red rocket right back out again once the whole thing was over, everyone at the vet’s office seemed to think it was just fine – “If it’s not bothering Munchkin then it shouldn’t bother you” they said. And so I’ve let it be.
Not that it isn’t still disgusting. Especially when he meets (or should I say “meats”) new people. He jumps on them, sits in their lap, begs to be held by them – all while he rests his little prick on them (he also enjoys sitting in the middle of a group of people and just licking it endlessly for hours in plain sight of everyone – but I really think this behavior is just macho showoff mentality that all men would employ if they had the ability). So, yes, playing with my dog does come with a warning – watch out, if he jumps up on your lap you might end up with some naked dog penis resting on your exposed flesh! And the first few times I took him to the groomer they didn’t know how to approach trimming his fur “down there.” But over time it just became a thing that was known. My friends were aware (and knew to be cautious), the groomers learned how to aim their razors at just the right spots, the vets overlooked it and we all pretended we didn’t see it for awhile.
Until one day I took him to a doggy day camp. You know, so he could get out a little – feel like a young pup again. But I didn’t even think – I’m so used to it now that it didn’t even cross my mind – that suddenly I’d be exposing his disgusting display of constantly aroused manliness to a whole new group of people. And they were, apparently, alarmed by it. They thought perhaps the camp was too “stimulating” for him. They were concerned about how he could be THAT EXCITED by camp ALL DAY. In short, they were calling him that dirty old man who lurks around playgrounds and stares just a little too intensely at the children playing there. They thought he was a pervert. And, frankly, given the recent boob incidents I’m not sure I can argue with them. But I will tell you one thing – ever since he came home from camp that day he’s been jumping right up onto the bed again like the old days … no stairs needed. GAR thinks that being at camp with all those younger dogs renewed his sprightliness but I have another theory – much like 50-year-old cougars apply thick makeup and tight leopard print dresses clearly designed to be worn by women half their age in an effort to trick young men into thinking they’re 19 again, I think my Munchkin is in training … preparing for the next time he goes back to doggy camp … so that he can pass for a younger, more athletic dog and maybe bag himself a hot little Pekinese.
Hmph … men … no matter how old they are they always think they can get the young ones.
I guess I should explain but, somehow, I feel the explanation will also sound a little seedy. You see, it happened like this – my dogs are getting older. The elder (and smaller) of my pupperonis turned 11 in March. This makes him over 80 in the proverbial “dog years” equation. And while he’s still a fairly spry 80, he is showing his age in some areas. He’s cranky about people petting him when he doesn’t feel like it, if you don’t like getting your hand ripped off it’s best to let this sleeping dog lie (and his sleeping time is up to about 22 hours a day vs. the mere 20 hours he slept in his younger years), he takes pain meds for his “bad back” and, most significantly to this story, he can no longer leap tall buildings in a single bound. As a pup he could bounce his way over any obstacle, but now he no longer has the strength (or maybe it’s just the will – he is awfully apathetic nowadays) to hop onto my bed each night.
And the point is this – I got tired of listening to him whimper and whine each night when he couldn’t get up into bed so I broke down and bought him some doggy steps so that he could climb in that way (because that’s just how dog-gone bad our co-dependence is), even if they are hideous and totally ruin the otherwise perfect décor of my bedroom. But the problem is getting him to actually use these ugly stairs. You know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks – well it isn’t easy. He just sits there and stares at the stairs (see what I did there?) and when you try to force his little paws onto the steps he flips out and runs away. Even when I have doggy crack (better known to you as “cheese”) waiting at the top for him as a reward.
But there is one thing that works. One thing that gets him to climb to the tippy top every time – my naked boobs.
It’s funny because I’ve never really thought they’re much to look at personally. Given the rampant childhood obesity rate we have right now your average third grade boy probably has moobs that are bigger than my pathetic little lady sacks. Nonetheless, my little Munchkin pup runs right up his doggy stairs every time I flash them for him. I mean, not in a creepy way … no really. It happened the first time as I was sitting on the bed changing into my pajamas. It was harmless really – I pulled off my bra and before I even had my sleep shirt on he had scurried up the stairs to greet me. I was excited that he finally did it – I didn’t even think a thing about the circumstances. Until he did it again a few days later, when I sat on the bed after I had gotten out of the shower and my towel slipped down a bit revealing my ta-tas. By the third similar such incident a pattern was emerging – and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the direction it was headed.
So I stopped his training. I let the stairs just sit there unused. But, little did I know, this was just the beginning. His dirty old man tendencies were about to go public.
You know when you see someone who has a giant scar on their face and you totally want to know what that’s all about but, of course, no one is rude enough to actually ASK how he/she got that scar? It’s bad manners, right? Then after awhile you just forget about the scar – it becomes normal to you and you don’t even notice it anymore. Then one day someone new comes in and says “Hey, what’s with Pat’s scar?” And all of a sudden you’re like “Oh, I haven’t even thought about that in ages!” Well my Munchkin’s wiener is sort of like that.
If you’ve met Munchkin before you totally get what I mean. But, if not, let me explain – his willy, johnson, peter, pecker – whatever you call it – hangs out at all times. Most dogs retract theirs unless excited or aroused, but not my Munchkin – he just lets his hang on out there 24-hours a day for the whole world to enjoy. And, while I can’t tell you exactly when this little “problem” of his started, I can say that it’s been this way so long now (at least 10 years) that I can’t even recall a time when this wasn’t the case. And, so, weird as it sounds, his dong hanging out in the open is just “normal” for me. I don’t even notice it anymore, and I never really think about it (unless I’m taking his picture. I’ve become a real master at cropping shots so that his little lipstick doesn’t show. But even then I’ve gotten so accustomed to cropping it out of photos that even that is so natural I don’t even think about it anymore). It’s just always there. Oh sure, I brought it up to the vet a few times but, aside from the “doctor” manipulating it back in there once using a disturbing amount of KY jelly while I just stood there watching my dog be semi-molested by a “trained professional” only to see the whole thing prove unsuccessful as Munchkin popped his red rocket right back out again once the whole thing was over, everyone at the vet’s office seemed to think it was just fine – “If it’s not bothering Munchkin then it shouldn’t bother you” they said. And so I’ve let it be.
Not that it isn’t still disgusting. Especially when he meets (or should I say “meats”) new people. He jumps on them, sits in their lap, begs to be held by them – all while he rests his little prick on them (he also enjoys sitting in the middle of a group of people and just licking it endlessly for hours in plain sight of everyone – but I really think this behavior is just macho showoff mentality that all men would employ if they had the ability). So, yes, playing with my dog does come with a warning – watch out, if he jumps up on your lap you might end up with some naked dog penis resting on your exposed flesh! And the first few times I took him to the groomer they didn’t know how to approach trimming his fur “down there.” But over time it just became a thing that was known. My friends were aware (and knew to be cautious), the groomers learned how to aim their razors at just the right spots, the vets overlooked it and we all pretended we didn’t see it for awhile.
Until one day I took him to a doggy day camp. You know, so he could get out a little – feel like a young pup again. But I didn’t even think – I’m so used to it now that it didn’t even cross my mind – that suddenly I’d be exposing his disgusting display of constantly aroused manliness to a whole new group of people. And they were, apparently, alarmed by it. They thought perhaps the camp was too “stimulating” for him. They were concerned about how he could be THAT EXCITED by camp ALL DAY. In short, they were calling him that dirty old man who lurks around playgrounds and stares just a little too intensely at the children playing there. They thought he was a pervert. And, frankly, given the recent boob incidents I’m not sure I can argue with them. But I will tell you one thing – ever since he came home from camp that day he’s been jumping right up onto the bed again like the old days … no stairs needed. GAR thinks that being at camp with all those younger dogs renewed his sprightliness but I have another theory – much like 50-year-old cougars apply thick makeup and tight leopard print dresses clearly designed to be worn by women half their age in an effort to trick young men into thinking they’re 19 again, I think my Munchkin is in training … preparing for the next time he goes back to doggy camp … so that he can pass for a younger, more athletic dog and maybe bag himself a hot little Pekinese.
Hmph … men … no matter how old they are they always think they can get the young ones.
Incidentally I’ve recently been turned on to the site Dog Shaming, where people post photos of their pooches next to handwritten signs declaring their wrongdoings. “I eat dirty underwear” and “I crapped in the baby’s crib” – stuff like that. But I wouldn’t dream of doing that to poor Munchkin (no, I only shame him in long form essay style on my personal blog). But my other dog – Mister Mustache – well, I might consider turning him in to the site. That sicko has a fetish for watching ladies do their business on the toilet. But that’s a story for another day.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Peru
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Friday, August 17, 2012
The 7 Evil Xes
Every Valentine’s Day (in recent history anyway), GAR and I stay in, avoid overpriced, overcrowded restaurants and watch our traditional V-Day movie – Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. I guess it’s sort of a love story, though the main character spends the majority of the flick battling his would-be girlfriend’s seven evil exes in an effort to eventually date her himself (even though he already has a girlfriend – okay, so really it’s not so romantic, but we love this movie, so in that way it is a LOVE story… sort of).
For our own love story, GAR and I never had to scale such lofty barriers. Although, at a couple points in our courtship, one or both of us were dating other people and had to play the waiting game for those doomed relationships to meet their end before ours could begin ... and some of those exes hung on a little longer than we would have preferred (that’s sort of like fighting them to the death Scott Pilgrim style, right?) ... but we were patient, and waited, and prevailed. It’s not something we reflect on often – in fact (call me cruel if you must), I never really think about my exes at all (aside from this recent post on my past travel experiences with them). I mean, not unless it comes up in conversation (for example: Who did you go to Venice with?). But other than those small mental triggers, I have no reason to dwell on those who are in the past. Any why should I? I am completely happy in my present life ... In my marriage ... In everything. And back when I was with those guys? Well, let’s just leave them where they belong – in a past place I wouldn’t ever long to go back to.
It’s not a lack of nostalgia, or even of resentment, so much as it is a place of current contentment. And I’ve never been one to complain about my crazy ex (we get it people – your ex was crazy. That’s why you’re not with him/her anymore. Also, I bet he/she is out there complaining about you, who they also call their crazy ex … it’s the circle of breakups if you will). Crazy or not, I just don’t really care – the past is the past – and I’m certainly not wasting a minute of my happiness feeling angry over a former boyfriend. But, okay, I will admit that twice this year this mantra of mine has been tested when I saw my two least favorite exes (because, even if I’m not angry at them, I still know which ones I’d least want to ever see again – that’s just logic) – one at a mutual friend’s wedding (and we mutually agreed to pretend we didn’t see each other in that small reception room) and again yesterday when I saw the craziest (because, let’s be honest, I still know he’s crazy even if I don’t shoot my mouth off about it all the time) of my exes at a sports bar (and he appeared to be out on a first date – you can always spot a first date a mile away. A crazy ex would have gone up to his table and warned the girl what she was getting herself into. Not me. I’m the type of ex who’s just crazy enough to let her find out for herself). And honestly I didn’t feel an ounce of anything at all toward these boys (yes boys, not men … I can still make some jabs, right?) Plus, okay, it did help to see that they’re both still single – just like I knew they would be – because, while I always say there’s a lid for every pot, some pots are just warped and bent and misshapen over time so finding the right fit requires some serious shape shifting abilities on the part of the lid and, really, what self respecting lid is going to change herself THAT much for such a worthless pot …
But I seem to have gotten off topic. Where was I again? Oh yes, I DO have a point to all this. It’s coming up next.
Despite my playful barbs at the expense of my exes, I really believe that part of why GAR and I worked so well as a couple from day 1 of our relationship is that we didn’t drag all that extra baggage – anger, resentment, damage – from our past into our future together. Just like at an airport, there’s a hefty price to pay for bringing all that junk with you, so it’s best to just carry the bare minimum. Oh sure, Adele may have made millions off of dwelling on the wrongdoings of her former lover, but unless your singing voice sounds like an angel knitting a sweater made of pure gold (and I’m guessing it doesn’t), there’s nothing to gain from this sort of unhealthy loathing. GAR recently shared his “rooting effect” – the guidelines that he believes govern your ability to root for certain college teams. Well I have my own rules – 8 Simple Rules for Dating (it’s a title that really just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?). I won’t bother with them all now because, eh, I’m just the type of gal who’s crazy enough to let you figure it out for yourself if you haven’t already. BUT, I will sell you on the overarching premise on which they are based: Finding love is all about timing.
Okay, that was perhaps a little oversimplified, let me delve a little deeper: It’s not so much about finding “the one,” it’s about finding “the one” at the right time in his or her life. Well, and your life too (I am always dubious of relationships where one person is still bitching extensively about someone they dated in the past … aren’t you ready to be happy in the future?) – but for the purposes of my rules it’s all about it being the right time for him/her (just this one time – after that you can try to make it about you you you again. I wish you luck in that, honestly). Meet him (I’m just going to use the word “him” from now on, it’s just easier, don’t you think? You can sub out “her” if that’s what applies to you) too early in his life and he’s not yet ready to settle down. Meet him too late and either he’s acquired all sorts of that nasty baggage I referenced earlier, or he’s become too independent and set in his ways to make room for you (he needs to still be somewhat pliable, moldable, flexible. No, we’re not trying to “change” you, we’re just trying to adapt to each other’s preferences … and, okay, yeah, we’re also trying to change you), or both. I believe that I met my GAR just a smidge too late. Not so late that it didn’t work out, but had I met him a year or two earlier I think he might have been a little less stubborn and I would have been able to get better results out of changing him (but I can work with what I’m given). That said, I am nearly positive that had I met him 5+ years earlier, it wouldn’t have worked at all – the place he was in at that moment would not have connected with me. I would have ruled him out as too immature, too arrogant, too much of a player. See what I mean, it’s really NOT about you, it’s about him … and, of course, it’s about timing.
Or let’s have this video put it another way …
While I’m glad that GAR and I managed to get our timing right, the truth is that it’s not as hard as it seems. And it’s never going to be the right time if you’re still mentally fighting those 7 evil exes – or expecting the next guy (or gal – you get it) in your life to battle those demons for you. But, yeah, sure, you can still hope they die alone in a cat carcass infested hoarder house like you see on tv – that’s okay. Just don’t bother dwelling on it too much, okay?
For our own love story, GAR and I never had to scale such lofty barriers. Although, at a couple points in our courtship, one or both of us were dating other people and had to play the waiting game for those doomed relationships to meet their end before ours could begin ... and some of those exes hung on a little longer than we would have preferred (that’s sort of like fighting them to the death Scott Pilgrim style, right?) ... but we were patient, and waited, and prevailed. It’s not something we reflect on often – in fact (call me cruel if you must), I never really think about my exes at all (aside from this recent post on my past travel experiences with them). I mean, not unless it comes up in conversation (for example: Who did you go to Venice with?). But other than those small mental triggers, I have no reason to dwell on those who are in the past. Any why should I? I am completely happy in my present life ... In my marriage ... In everything. And back when I was with those guys? Well, let’s just leave them where they belong – in a past place I wouldn’t ever long to go back to.
It’s not a lack of nostalgia, or even of resentment, so much as it is a place of current contentment. And I’ve never been one to complain about my crazy ex (we get it people – your ex was crazy. That’s why you’re not with him/her anymore. Also, I bet he/she is out there complaining about you, who they also call their crazy ex … it’s the circle of breakups if you will). Crazy or not, I just don’t really care – the past is the past – and I’m certainly not wasting a minute of my happiness feeling angry over a former boyfriend. But, okay, I will admit that twice this year this mantra of mine has been tested when I saw my two least favorite exes (because, even if I’m not angry at them, I still know which ones I’d least want to ever see again – that’s just logic) – one at a mutual friend’s wedding (and we mutually agreed to pretend we didn’t see each other in that small reception room) and again yesterday when I saw the craziest (because, let’s be honest, I still know he’s crazy even if I don’t shoot my mouth off about it all the time) of my exes at a sports bar (and he appeared to be out on a first date – you can always spot a first date a mile away. A crazy ex would have gone up to his table and warned the girl what she was getting herself into. Not me. I’m the type of ex who’s just crazy enough to let her find out for herself). And honestly I didn’t feel an ounce of anything at all toward these boys (yes boys, not men … I can still make some jabs, right?) Plus, okay, it did help to see that they’re both still single – just like I knew they would be – because, while I always say there’s a lid for every pot, some pots are just warped and bent and misshapen over time so finding the right fit requires some serious shape shifting abilities on the part of the lid and, really, what self respecting lid is going to change herself THAT much for such a worthless pot …
But I seem to have gotten off topic. Where was I again? Oh yes, I DO have a point to all this. It’s coming up next.
Despite my playful barbs at the expense of my exes, I really believe that part of why GAR and I worked so well as a couple from day 1 of our relationship is that we didn’t drag all that extra baggage – anger, resentment, damage – from our past into our future together. Just like at an airport, there’s a hefty price to pay for bringing all that junk with you, so it’s best to just carry the bare minimum. Oh sure, Adele may have made millions off of dwelling on the wrongdoings of her former lover, but unless your singing voice sounds like an angel knitting a sweater made of pure gold (and I’m guessing it doesn’t), there’s nothing to gain from this sort of unhealthy loathing. GAR recently shared his “rooting effect” – the guidelines that he believes govern your ability to root for certain college teams. Well I have my own rules – 8 Simple Rules for Dating (it’s a title that really just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?). I won’t bother with them all now because, eh, I’m just the type of gal who’s crazy enough to let you figure it out for yourself if you haven’t already. BUT, I will sell you on the overarching premise on which they are based: Finding love is all about timing.
Okay, that was perhaps a little oversimplified, let me delve a little deeper: It’s not so much about finding “the one,” it’s about finding “the one” at the right time in his or her life. Well, and your life too (I am always dubious of relationships where one person is still bitching extensively about someone they dated in the past … aren’t you ready to be happy in the future?) – but for the purposes of my rules it’s all about it being the right time for him/her (just this one time – after that you can try to make it about you you you again. I wish you luck in that, honestly). Meet him (I’m just going to use the word “him” from now on, it’s just easier, don’t you think? You can sub out “her” if that’s what applies to you) too early in his life and he’s not yet ready to settle down. Meet him too late and either he’s acquired all sorts of that nasty baggage I referenced earlier, or he’s become too independent and set in his ways to make room for you (he needs to still be somewhat pliable, moldable, flexible. No, we’re not trying to “change” you, we’re just trying to adapt to each other’s preferences … and, okay, yeah, we’re also trying to change you), or both. I believe that I met my GAR just a smidge too late. Not so late that it didn’t work out, but had I met him a year or two earlier I think he might have been a little less stubborn and I would have been able to get better results out of changing him (but I can work with what I’m given). That said, I am nearly positive that had I met him 5+ years earlier, it wouldn’t have worked at all – the place he was in at that moment would not have connected with me. I would have ruled him out as too immature, too arrogant, too much of a player. See what I mean, it’s really NOT about you, it’s about him … and, of course, it’s about timing.
Or let’s have this video put it another way …
While I’m glad that GAR and I managed to get our timing right, the truth is that it’s not as hard as it seems. And it’s never going to be the right time if you’re still mentally fighting those 7 evil exes – or expecting the next guy (or gal – you get it) in your life to battle those demons for you. But, yeah, sure, you can still hope they die alone in a cat carcass infested hoarder house like you see on tv – that’s okay. Just don’t bother dwelling on it too much, okay?
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Got Wood?
In Peru I would wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. The high altitude made it so that very little oxygen made it into my lungs, which left me feeling woozy and light headed – with a piercing headache to boot.
Last night I awoke with that same feeling in my own house.
No, it wasn’t some sort of trippy vacation flashback. Nor did I travel back in time or magically transport to a high altitude location while I slept (I know, that was totally what you were thinking it MUST be). No, I really was choking – struggling to breathe. But this time I’m fairly certain it’s due to all the dust I ingested.
It’s not like we normally live like Pig Pen from the Peanuts, with a constant flurry of filth encircling us (seriously, why did no one ever call CPS? I’m fairly certain that child needed to be removed from whatever disgusting home he was living in), normally our house is only a healthy amount of messy (you know, the kind of messy where you’d be embarrassed if someone dropped by unexpectedly, even though, honestly, all that’s “wrong” are some dirty dishes in the sink and unopened mail on the counter). But right now it looks more like some sort of bomb went off – concrete floors, doors off the hinges, furniture all stacked up and shoved together, rubble all around and, as I mentioned earlier, lots and lots and lots of dust all over everything (so much that I’ve taken to writing little messages in all the powder. Think of it like a love note written in lipstick on a mirror … just far, far less romantic). And all the dust is also, it seems, settling into my lungs while I sleep.
But it’s all for a good cause – at the end of all this madness we’ll have gorgeous wood flooring throughout much of our home (except the bedrooms. While I agree that it looks nice in bedrooms as well there’s just something totally “homey” about having carpet under your bed. And I need – NEED – to be able to dig my toes into the carpet as I plunk my feet down onto the ground each morning. And, no, a rug won’t do – it has to be carpet. Also, notice how I used the word “need” – repeatedly even? This seems to be a recurring problem in our household – not knowing the difference between “need” and “want.” Actually, this is HUGE problem in America in general, but let me get back to my digression before I digress even further. Earlier this year, after spending an entire week in a cruise ship hot tub on a vacation we “needed” to the Mexican Riviera, we decided that, suddenly, we “needed” to shell out top dollar to fix the broken heater on our hot tub at home. Since then we have used that bad boy approximately half a dozen times. Money well spent. And, now, of course we “need” this wood flooring to replace our perfectly good carpet and tile much in the same way I “needed” to get our fully functional pool resurfaced last year instead of buying a new car – something I actually did need and ended up buying as well … and, of course, I bought a ridiculous Mustang with virtually no leg room in the back because who “needs” a backseat – or a practical car – anyway? But perhaps I should get back to how fabulous these much “needed” wood floors are).
Nonetheless, unlike in Peru – where we drank coca tea to help with the altitude sickness (coca tea, incidentally, is not the same as cocoa, which I originally thought … and hoped. No, this stuff is very bitter. Perhaps that’s because it’s made from the same leaves that produce cocaine. Which I’m fairly certain explains why it helps with altitude sickness – or, let’s be honest, any sickness really – because YOU’RE DRINKING COCAINE. And now that I have Googled it I know that, because I drank it, I could test positive for a drug test. File that under the heading “Things I wish I’d know before I went to South America.” See what I mean about Europeans being pussies in comparison?) – there is no remedy for this sort of breathing ailment. All I can do is wait for the dust to (literally) settle and then scrub every inch of everything.
Now it’s not like we’ve never lived “life under construction” before (in case you never noticed that is actually the name of this blog – go figure). After demolishing and completely renovating two bathrooms and one custom built master closet, power sanding and cutting and kicking up dust from what felt like miles of baseboards and trim, GAR constructing a new mantle for our fireplace from scratch (an accomplishment he’s incredibly proud of but, because no one realizes how much work went into it, gets little to no praise from people who visit us – hint, hint … keep this in mind next time you see him. His ego “needs” this), and pretty much living in a constant state of tearing things down and rebuilding them from the (dusty) ground up since we moved in, we’ve certainly had our fair share of debris floating about before. But this is more all encompassing – more dustier than ever before … and with more life displacement than ever before as our furniture, tv, appliances and whatnot remain unusable (or at least that’s the excuse we use for eating gluttonous takeout every night while lying in bed in our pjs watching Olympic water polo for hours on end. I stand to lose several thousand dollars while simultaneously gaining several thousand pounds by the time this refurb is over).
Even the pups are unsure where to sleep. All their normal resting spots have been covered in cold, hard wood (apparently they too enjoy fluffy carpet beneath their paws as they wake each morning). And I’m constantly hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet (no, I’m not pregnant, but dog claws make quite a clatter. We’ve had to crank the Olympic water polo up to 11 just to drown out the enhanced sound that their walking makes on our new ground). But, mostly they’re just pissed off that they’re being locked up all day during the construction when normally they have free reign of this hippie compound we carelessly allow them to wander in and out of at their leisure. And to placate them we’re taking drastic measures – we signed them up for doggy day camp. Oh yes, we’ve become THOSE people … the type of pretentious yuppies who pay for their pampered pooches to play with other privileged pets because they simply can’t be left alone for even a moment.
Or, well, that was the plan anyway. But, as it turns out, it wasn’t quite as simple as I had hoped. Apparently getting into a posh pet playgroup has quite the qualification process. It starts with trips to the vet to acquire the mandatory paperwork, test and shots; followed by an introductory “interview” process and assessment (which both pups passed with flying colors. It seems my dogs are perfectly behaved when they’re trying to impress others whereas their behavior is more along the lines of deranged, barking prison escapee when in my presence); which is then followed up by a “test” day where one dog at a time is slowly introduced to the pooches lucky enough to have already been accepted into this canine cult. At this rate my dogs might finally get a day camp visit by the time we’ve moved on to our next home project, or the one after that.
So I guess, for now, they’ll continue to suffer as their world of squeaky toys and free reign doggy door visits is turned upside down. And, thanks to being fresh out of drinkable liquid cocaine, I guess I’ll continue to suffer – and cough up some dust – a bit longer too. But it will totally be worth it. See – how pretty!
I sooooo NEEDED these floors.
Last night I awoke with that same feeling in my own house.
No, it wasn’t some sort of trippy vacation flashback. Nor did I travel back in time or magically transport to a high altitude location while I slept (I know, that was totally what you were thinking it MUST be). No, I really was choking – struggling to breathe. But this time I’m fairly certain it’s due to all the dust I ingested.
It’s not like we normally live like Pig Pen from the Peanuts, with a constant flurry of filth encircling us (seriously, why did no one ever call CPS? I’m fairly certain that child needed to be removed from whatever disgusting home he was living in), normally our house is only a healthy amount of messy (you know, the kind of messy where you’d be embarrassed if someone dropped by unexpectedly, even though, honestly, all that’s “wrong” are some dirty dishes in the sink and unopened mail on the counter). But right now it looks more like some sort of bomb went off – concrete floors, doors off the hinges, furniture all stacked up and shoved together, rubble all around and, as I mentioned earlier, lots and lots and lots of dust all over everything (so much that I’ve taken to writing little messages in all the powder. Think of it like a love note written in lipstick on a mirror … just far, far less romantic). And all the dust is also, it seems, settling into my lungs while I sleep.
But it’s all for a good cause – at the end of all this madness we’ll have gorgeous wood flooring throughout much of our home (except the bedrooms. While I agree that it looks nice in bedrooms as well there’s just something totally “homey” about having carpet under your bed. And I need – NEED – to be able to dig my toes into the carpet as I plunk my feet down onto the ground each morning. And, no, a rug won’t do – it has to be carpet. Also, notice how I used the word “need” – repeatedly even? This seems to be a recurring problem in our household – not knowing the difference between “need” and “want.” Actually, this is HUGE problem in America in general, but let me get back to my digression before I digress even further. Earlier this year, after spending an entire week in a cruise ship hot tub on a vacation we “needed” to the Mexican Riviera, we decided that, suddenly, we “needed” to shell out top dollar to fix the broken heater on our hot tub at home. Since then we have used that bad boy approximately half a dozen times. Money well spent. And, now, of course we “need” this wood flooring to replace our perfectly good carpet and tile much in the same way I “needed” to get our fully functional pool resurfaced last year instead of buying a new car – something I actually did need and ended up buying as well … and, of course, I bought a ridiculous Mustang with virtually no leg room in the back because who “needs” a backseat – or a practical car – anyway? But perhaps I should get back to how fabulous these much “needed” wood floors are).
Nonetheless, unlike in Peru – where we drank coca tea to help with the altitude sickness (coca tea, incidentally, is not the same as cocoa, which I originally thought … and hoped. No, this stuff is very bitter. Perhaps that’s because it’s made from the same leaves that produce cocaine. Which I’m fairly certain explains why it helps with altitude sickness – or, let’s be honest, any sickness really – because YOU’RE DRINKING COCAINE. And now that I have Googled it I know that, because I drank it, I could test positive for a drug test. File that under the heading “Things I wish I’d know before I went to South America.” See what I mean about Europeans being pussies in comparison?) – there is no remedy for this sort of breathing ailment. All I can do is wait for the dust to (literally) settle and then scrub every inch of everything.
Now it’s not like we’ve never lived “life under construction” before (in case you never noticed that is actually the name of this blog – go figure). After demolishing and completely renovating two bathrooms and one custom built master closet, power sanding and cutting and kicking up dust from what felt like miles of baseboards and trim, GAR constructing a new mantle for our fireplace from scratch (an accomplishment he’s incredibly proud of but, because no one realizes how much work went into it, gets little to no praise from people who visit us – hint, hint … keep this in mind next time you see him. His ego “needs” this), and pretty much living in a constant state of tearing things down and rebuilding them from the (dusty) ground up since we moved in, we’ve certainly had our fair share of debris floating about before. But this is more all encompassing – more dustier than ever before … and with more life displacement than ever before as our furniture, tv, appliances and whatnot remain unusable (or at least that’s the excuse we use for eating gluttonous takeout every night while lying in bed in our pjs watching Olympic water polo for hours on end. I stand to lose several thousand dollars while simultaneously gaining several thousand pounds by the time this refurb is over).
Even the pups are unsure where to sleep. All their normal resting spots have been covered in cold, hard wood (apparently they too enjoy fluffy carpet beneath their paws as they wake each morning). And I’m constantly hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet (no, I’m not pregnant, but dog claws make quite a clatter. We’ve had to crank the Olympic water polo up to 11 just to drown out the enhanced sound that their walking makes on our new ground). But, mostly they’re just pissed off that they’re being locked up all day during the construction when normally they have free reign of this hippie compound we carelessly allow them to wander in and out of at their leisure. And to placate them we’re taking drastic measures – we signed them up for doggy day camp. Oh yes, we’ve become THOSE people … the type of pretentious yuppies who pay for their pampered pooches to play with other privileged pets because they simply can’t be left alone for even a moment.
Or, well, that was the plan anyway. But, as it turns out, it wasn’t quite as simple as I had hoped. Apparently getting into a posh pet playgroup has quite the qualification process. It starts with trips to the vet to acquire the mandatory paperwork, test and shots; followed by an introductory “interview” process and assessment (which both pups passed with flying colors. It seems my dogs are perfectly behaved when they’re trying to impress others whereas their behavior is more along the lines of deranged, barking prison escapee when in my presence); which is then followed up by a “test” day where one dog at a time is slowly introduced to the pooches lucky enough to have already been accepted into this canine cult. At this rate my dogs might finally get a day camp visit by the time we’ve moved on to our next home project, or the one after that.
So I guess, for now, they’ll continue to suffer as their world of squeaky toys and free reign doggy door visits is turned upside down. And, thanks to being fresh out of drinkable liquid cocaine, I guess I’ll continue to suffer – and cough up some dust – a bit longer too. But it will totally be worth it. See – how pretty!
I sooooo NEEDED these floors.
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