Pregnant Women Are Smug

You guys (and by "guys" I actually, really, mean "gals"), I have a serious talent – I can tell when you are pregnant. I know it long before you tell anyone about it. Call it my own personal 6th sense if you will, but I am rarely wrong. I place my wager as early as possible and then weeks, often months later, you’ll announce what I already knew. Now, I know this won’t make me any real money. There are no Vegas odds for me to bet on. But I am really damn good at this (and I just got confirmation on my latest bet – pay up … says me to no one because the only payment I ever get is the victory of knowing I’m right. But, hey, I’ll take it. I really, really love being right).

How do I know? Is it your growing belly? Perhaps, though not generally. Despite the tabloids latching onto a celebrity’s “bump” (which was more likely caused by a heavier than usual lunch … which, in a celebs case, probably just means they actually ate lunch at all for a change), that’s not the earliest giveaway. It’s more subtle than that. It’s the way you dress – no, you’re not showing yet, but you are wearing roomier clothing. It’s the way you’re always drinking water when I used to see you drinking Diet Coke. It’s the way I see you touching your stomach more … even though it doesn’t yet “look” pregnant. But, many times, it’s because you’re so damn smug.

Now I know I’m going to take a lot of shit for saying that. Especially given that some of my very favorite people in the world are pregnant right now – at this very moment – including my very own (and very beloved) sister. But hear me out on this anyway (besides, I’m not talking about YOU. I know, you don’t believe me because, honestly, so much IS focused on YOU right now, but I’m honestly not. But you – and everyone else in the entire world that I know right now – being pregnant has got me thinking).

As someone who’s never been pregnant I have to admit that I, of course, don’t really know what happens to you emotionally, on the inside, when you pee on that little stick and some lines pop up or it says “Pregnant” or whatever that little stick does when you’ve got a bun in the oven. But, I do have 35 years experience watching you and seeing how it changes you on the outside. And that change is noticeable almost immediately. Yes, it’s all the things I mentioned above, but it’s so much more. The one thing that’s really the dead giveaway is the way you talk. Within days of getting a positive pregnancy reading (and sometimes even prior to) your demeanor changes. You get a little more serious and reserved without even noticing it. You talk more long term and are more concerned about things you never gave a second thought about before. You don’t find my snarky quips and unabashed sarcasm nearly as funny as you used to (even though I KNOW I’m just as hilarious as ever). You’re more peaceful in a way but often times you’re also much more emotionally charged (hormones, right? Who’s with me?) It’s lots of little changes really, but if you pay attention to them like I do you’ll soon figure it out – this smug chick is pregnant!

Okay, there I said it (and then said it again). You sound smug. All of a sudden you start talking like Mother Theresa. You’re all concerned about what’s right and what’s just and talking about craving a utopian style society even though we all saw you smoke pot and five finger discount some CDs back in college. I guess what I’m saying is this – I know you’re pregnant because you stop acting entirely like “you” (to some degree anyway. Some preggos suffer far worse smugness afflictions than others). But, honestly, and I mean this in all sincerity (and I’m totally not just saying this to avoid a third-trimester lynch mob on my doorstep), it’s not really your fault. You change because you’re preparing for motherhood. You realize it’s time to crack down and be serious. After all, this is another human life we’re talking about here – it’s SERIOUS business. But, mostly, you change because society has modeled for you what it considers to be “appropriate” pregnant woman behavior and, not wanting to stray from the strict norms set forth by EVERY OTHER pregnant woman you’ve ever seen – EVER – lest you be labeled an unfit future mother, you do … and most importantly “say” … all the things you’re supposed to.

What types of things you ask? I find this video (which, okay, you caught me, I stole the title from to create this post) sums it up pretty nicely.

Okay, so you don’t ALL talk in clichés. But we’ve all heard them … a million times … and it’s that sort of gibberish that makes for great pregnant lady fodder. But, hey, what other choice do you have? You can’t really admit to everyone that you’re ONLY having that third child because your husband is crazy obsessed with having a boy this time around, can you? How will that look when it turns out it’s a girl … TWIN girls … after all? Okay, yeah, so sometimes you sound a little smug and self-important but, eh, it’s your right goshdarnit (see how I kept it clean for you – that’s because I know you want your baby to grow up in a nice place, not one that curses at the Lord) – after all, you can’t drink for 9 months (by the way I have some great evidence proving otherwise but it really doesn’t matter, you still can’t do it because you’ll be shunned by every person in America), you swell up to the size of an RV, your lady parts will never look quite right again, the entire world feels like they can butt into your personal business and tell you all the things you’re doing wrong and, at the end of it all, you give birth to a really painful but gorgeous baby who is, let’s be honest here, not at all grateful for what you just went through and will suffer through on their behalf for the rest of your life.

So, okay, fine. Enjoy your 9 months of smugness while you can. I get it. I understand. And I still love you. But, come on, tell me the truth. You kind of hate it that you HAVE to buy an ugly minivan, right? And, fess up, you don’t REALLY believe that a natural childbirth is the best option, do you? But, hear me on this one – I know you can’t tell off that bitchy woman at work who’s always telling you what a horrible person you are if you don’t breastfeed for at least 18 months and puree all your baby food yourself, etc, etc – you know, because that’s not the kind of behavior that’s acceptable for pregnant women. But I’m under no such limitations … and I have nooo problem whatsoever doing that for you.

See ladies. I DO have your (aching) back!

Note to men everywhere: The viewpoints stated here will, no doubt, ostracize me from a good portion of the entire population of women everywhere. But, as bad as saying everything I said here is for me, a fellow woman, trust me when I say that if you were to ever say any of this, as a man, it would be far, far, far worse for you. So don’t. Just don’t. We already know you feel the same way so why dig that hole you’re already in any deeper, okay?

Breaking Pointe (and Breaking My Back)

On my third date with GAR we went mini golfing. He looked so cute and my nerves were high so I did what I always do in these types of situations – I made a total ass out of myself. I flailed my club wildly, fumbled with my brightly colored ball and landed it in some really tricky spots. As I tried to putt the wayward ball back towards the hole I stood on some rocks for better leverage and then, as I’m prone to do, tripped and nearly fell into the water hazard. Thankfully though GAR was there to prevent this from happening and he pulled me back to safety – 3 different times. I’m sure he must have thought it was a fake out move … that I was only pretending to be hopelessly clumsy so that he’d be forced to “rescue” me. Classic early date material. But then we went to dinner and I spilled and entire cup of marinara down the front of my cream colored sweater. And I’m pretty sure that by then he had figured it out: This is not a desperate ploy for attention … this woman is clearly devoid of any and all traces of grace.

And so I did what any gal in this position would do – I never called him again. Somehow, miraculously, this man still wanted to talk to me – he called and emailed and texted … and yet I ignored him … for an entire year. And I thought that would be just long enough for him to forget how completely uncoordinated I am. I could get a fresh start. Try again. Not make a fool of myself this time around.

So 13 months later I called him up and invited him out to dinner again. And it went awesome. Then we went for beers at the bar next door and I spilled all 20 ounces of mine all over GAR … and then I leapt to my feet to get napkins … which resulted in me tipping his over as well – into his lap. I guess he found that charming because now we’re married. The end.

Just kidding – we’re still a looooong way away from the end of this story (and you should really know me better than that by now). But I guess my point is this – while my lack my lack of grace is the often the subject of playful barbs at my expense it’s never really bothered me that I am missing all basic skills of coordination and steady control. After all, I still got the guy, right? So what if I’m spastic and my movements are completely uncontrolled? Other than ruining every piece of clothing I’ve ever owned by spilling something on it, snagging it when I bump into something or just generally scuffing it in a manner that I can’t clearly identify, how does this negatively harm my life? It hasn’t. It doesn’t. It won’t. Unless I want to pursue a career in dancing or something ridiculous like that (cue the waltz, or maybe the tango. Or, I don’t know, what’s another dance? I’m not so familiar with this sort of thing. What music do they play during a ballet? Something Black Swan-ish maybe? But without the bulimia and Natalie Portman cutting herself. Thanks).

Okay, maybe I’ve built it up too much. After all, I’m not really considering dancing on a professional level (I can’t even stomach watching “Dancing with the Stars” so it’s clearly not a passion of mine), but I have been taking ballet classes … or really, to be more specific, barre classes.

At this point you might be asking yourself “Why? What would possess this clumsy awkward woman to do such a thing?” Well I have one word for you – Groupon. I do love myself a sweet deal. But that’s only half of it. The other half is – The CW Network. And if you’re now saying “Aren’t you 35? Isn’t that a little old to be watching anything on CW? Do you have no taste level at all?” You’re right. It’s despicable. And it’s totally GAR’s fault. Over the summer he got hooked on this show called “Breaking Pointe” – the “pointe” being a literary wink at the fact the show follows the professional (but mostly the personal) lives of several ballerinas who are part of a highly regarded company in Salt Lake City. I have no idea what implored him to watch this show in the first place but he quickly got sucked into watching petty people discuss their self-made problems (with the occasional ballet number thrown in on the side) and it became our summer tv guilty pleasure (we have one each summer and I’m less proud of some than others. Worst summer ever: 2009’s “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.” I’m still shaming myself over that one).The “characters” in the show (it’s supposedly “reality” but, honestly, who’s buying that?) were vapid and actually a little boring. But it nonetheless inspired me to get bangs (it turns out they don’t look as good on me as they do on someone who weighs 90 pounds) and gave me the fantasy that I too could try my hand at a plie or two. After all, I do have photos of myself as a child decked out in a tu-tu at recitals. Did I need to quit ballet at age 6? Maybe I could have unlocked some hidden potential … maybe I still can!

Spoiler alert – I can’t. But it goes beyond my lack of ability. Much like many things in life, my barre class is nothing like I expected. I was picturing ladies rockin’ some hot legwarmers while they gracefully bend, dip and twirl – all with the barre as support. I thought that, if nothing else, I could hold onto that barre with a grip stronger than the jaws of life and keep myself from falling flat on my ass. But it’s not that simple … and we weren’t doing any of those things I imagined. Instead I found myself in some sort of twisted fitness boot camp where the barre hardly ever comes into play unless you’re using it to pull your entire body weight up again after you’ve crumpled to the ground in exhaustion as the instructor cries out for 10 more leg kicks while you’ve got a tension band binding your ankles together.

Where are the pretty pink flats? The sequins? The slicked back hair? The tulle? I have never cried out for anything so girly in my whole life but, for the love of all that’s holy, where are the leotards? Talk about false advertising.

Instead I’m suffering my way through another 50 crunches before using the barre as support for some sort of sick modified standing push-up, my newly sheared bangs slick and sticking to my forehead thanks to all the sweat, as I accidentally slide into the person next to me as my palms lose traction … or kick them during our tension band exercises … or fall on them during the lunges. Hey listen - I can handle tough workouts. I'm no stranger to pain. But I wasn't looking for this ... I wanted to feel dainty and lithe and, at the very least, just a smidge sophisticated. But how am I ever going to get more graceful if we haven’t even attempted a single pirouette? Still, unlike 6-year-old me, I’m not quitting yet. Nope. Not until I’ve completed my last 4 classes. Because, let’s face it, I’d rather suffer through this than let a perfectly good Groupon go to waste.

But, damn it, next week I am totally rockin’ some legwarmers. If I'm going to suffer through this I'm going to do it in high ballerina style!

Snakes on a Plain (a.k.a. Snakes. Why’d it Have to Be Snakes?) (a.k.a. Just When You Thought it Was Safe to Go Back in Your House)

I should never, ever be left home alone. I’ve talked at length here about all the bad things that seem to happen when GAR goes out of town – from being attacked by flying bugs in my bathroom to tarantula sized spiders crawling through my living room to certain death by a serial killer (incidentally I can momentarily rest easy knowing that Drew Peterson, my would-be assassin, was recently found guilty of murdering his third wife and is now in jail. I say “momentarily” because his conviction was based purely on circumstantial evidence and the ruling will no doubt be overthrown at the Supreme Court level and then I’ll be ill at ease again. Incidentally to my initial incidental comment, on our trip to Peru we met a man who was also named Drew Peterson and, while he seemed like a perfectly nice chap, I kept one eye on him the whole trip lest he get any funny ideas. I still can’t conclusively link him to my food poisoning but he was there – just like he was there when every other mysterious thing happened on that vacation. Coincidence? Probably. But you can never be too sure … never be too sure). So, when GAR recently left for his annual “All Guy’s Weekend” I held my breath and waited for something terrible to happen. But, to my shock, nothing did (unless you count cleaning all weekend as tragic, which I do, but many adult responsibilities seem downright cruel to me). I even successfully used the hot tub without accidentally turning it into an Old Faithful style eruption like I did last time I attempted it without GAR around (this time he made me a helpful pictorial, step-by-step instruction guide on how to use it. Even I couldn’t screw that up). At last victory was mine!

Or so I thought.

After GAR returned my elder pup, Munchkin, started limping and whining. I had seen similar behavior in him before, when he had seriously injured his back, and so I was concerned. Since GAR was busy with work I decided to come home early one day to check on him and work from home. After checking him out (and loading him up with pain pills) I went to the kitchen to make myself some lunch, and that’s when I saw it – a snake … in my dining room … (in case you’re still unsure where my dining room is located) IN MY HOUSE!!

Okay, seriously, when is enough enough already? Honestly. Flying termites, mold infestations, giant wolf spiders, smaller but even more deadly black widow spiders, wasps, a fire, flooding, possum attacks (oh yeah, did I not tell you that story? Well apparently I can’t possibly fit in all my angry creature stories before the next one pops up so I’ll cut to the chase on this one – a few months ago our yard was infested with an angry possum who dueled Munchkin in a battle to the death … or else the nasty vermin was just playing possum which, really, was likely the more probable outcome), dangerous electrical wiring, and that cockroach that attached itself to the side of my shampoo bottle and then crawled all over me in the shower while I wailed and beat it senseless wasn’t enough? Now I need snakes too?

Well alright universe, if that’s the game we’re playing this week – bring it on! Because, let’s face it, this house has made me a master of dealing with unwanted intruders. So I did what any gal in my position would do – I grabbed a pot from the kitchen, snuck up on the bastard, and trapped him under it … and then I stacked a shitload of books on top of it (the complete works of Shakespeare and Jane Austen, as well as a copy of former American Idol hopeful Sanjaya’s memoir “Dancing to the Music in My Head.” You know, just for variety). Which isn’t to say this was an easy task – snakes are quite stealthy and fast you know … and, naturally, on top of that, I am scared shitless of them. Also, since the dogs follow me everywhere, “sneaking up” on this snake was not really a quiet affair. My bigger pooch, Mustache, just kept laying down right next to him while I whispered/screamed “Watch out!! That’s a snake!” And yet the pups did nothing to help me out here … absolutely worthless. But I managed the capture anyhow … and then I left the snake trapped there for GAR to deal with when he got home many hours later. Ha – take that! Think you can leave me home alone to face another critter in our home? Nope. This one is all yours …

Not that I wasn’t convinced throughout those next few hours that somehow the snake would miraculously find a way out from his makeshift enclosure (spoiler alert – it didn’t). And I spent hours Googling what type of snake this might be to see if I should be concerned. But online snake identification is rather useless. Case in point, here is a sample question: What color is the snake’s belly? Oh yeah, let me just pick it up and find out … Or, how about this one: Is the snake blind? Oh, hmmm … hang on, let me ask him how many fingers I’m holding up and see what he says … before he bites them off. So, yeah, I never did find out the answer.

Eventually GAR came home and devised a plan for getting the creature out of our home. It wasn’t graceful but we slid his enclosure towards the door and then, as quickly as humanly possible, flung him out the door in one giant toss. But oh my was he pissed off! So very, very angry. Apparently I had accidentally clipped the end of his tale when I trapped him and he was in serious angry pain. He lunged at GAR, striking but never making contact, throughout the whole removal process. And, of course, like the total sap I am I’ve felt terrible about injuring the poor snake ever since. Like totally guilty. And I wouldn’t let GAR kill him either

So off he slithered … into our front bushes. Awesome.

But it’s okay. Last weekend I turned the tables on GAR and, for once, I went out of town, leaving him home alone to deal with matters of the homestead … and #1 on his honey do list was finding out whatever keeps snakes away and applying it liberally around the house. Done and done.

So now we are once again protected from every manner of creepy and crawly that we can currently think of (though I’m sure there’s some I’ve forgotten … there always are). But I’m hoping that we’re able to keep the house free of varmints for awhile anyway … if not for my sake, at least for theirs. You see, this weekend we’re heading out of town for our anniversary trip and we’re leaving our house under watch by a renowned toad slayer. That’s right, our friend Sapphire has her own problem with critter infestations and she has quite the method for dealing with them … and her way ain’t pretty. I can assure you, woodland pests, that you don’t want to mess with our abode while Sapphire is in charge because, if there’s one thing I can promise you, there will be no tears shed over your demise … no “catch and release” policy on her watch. You wanna try something lizards? How about you palmetto bugs? Go ahead, make her day …

The Dorkiest Day of My Life

I have never been “cool.” In fact, I have no idea if it’s even “cool” to use the word “cool” anymore. For awhile during my high school years I tried to embrace this fact but I went too far the other direction, trying too hard to be counterculture that it just looked sad – you know, sort of how hipsters look now. Until, finally, I just learned to be “me,” who, it turns out, is a gal who rocks a lot of t-shirts from the college she hasn’t attended since the 90s, still thinks boot cut jeans are perfectly acceptable, wears the same sneakers she’s been wearing since age 12, and continues to listen to grunge on the radio while acting confused when they refer to it as “Friday flashbacks” or “old school hits” because, wait, isn’t this still what everyone is into? Explain to me again who Devi Lovato is? Wait, never mind, I don’t really care and I’m not going to remember.

Not that I don’t occasionally buy into something that’s trendy … or read the “it” book of the summer. I do. But only if it sounds appealing to me. And it’s very freeing to just feel comfortable with not pretending for everyone else’s sake.

But, as you can likely imagine, my life has been filled with many a geek out moment. Many times where I have been “outed” for the lame person I really am. And while many people turn beet red or look down or embarrassedly apologize for these moments I am not one of them. Perhaps the sheer volume of embarrassing situations I’ve been in have made me immune … or I was born with some gene that made me just more naturally inclined to roll with anything humiliating that happens … but, in any case, I’m the type of person who not only accepts this dorkiness, I embrace it. And, furthermore, I not only admit to it, I go one step further I call attention to it. I shout it from the rooftops in fact. And then I tell all of you about it on my blog.

And so here it is – the dorkiest day of my (adult) life: February 15, 2009

I had spent the evening prior to this – Valentine’s Day – at the county fair with my friends. We rode the rickety Ferris Wheel, ate deep friend Twinkies and I won (and by “I” what I really mean is that I got my friend who’s better than me at carnival games to win for me) a stuffed koala for GAR, who I was not yet dating “officially,” to help cheer him up since he was bedridden after throwing out his back at the gym. But, in reality, I got him the koala so that he’d still like me the next day because I already knew – KNEW – that the dorkiest day of my life was just about to happen – after all, my friend Wizard had been planning it for months – and I wasn’t sure how GAR was going to respond to the major geekfest that is my life.

On the morning of Feb. 15, three friends and I set off on adventure. The goal was easily stated but not so easily accomplished – visit all 7 Orlando theme parks in one day. No, not just “visit,” also ride one roller coaster at each park and (though this last bit was perhaps just my own personal addition to the challenge) consume at least one food or beverage item at each park. And while the four of us were all geeky enough to be excited about our planned expedition, we also understood the immense dorkiness that comes along with planning such a feat. Thus our emotions were strained somewhere between secretly knowing that what we were doing was totally awesome, but hiding that feeling of glee deep down inside so that the rest of the world would not expose us for being complete and utter losers.

And thusly we began our quest with coffee and Dueling Dragons (now known as Dragon Challenge, which is part of the new Harry Potter World – a geek lovers paradise to be sure) at Universal’s Islands of Adventure park.



Before making a jaunt next door to the original Universal Studios park to ride the Mummy and enjoy lunch at the park’s Irish pub.



Next up was SeaWorld, where we tamed the Kraken and cooled off with some drinks.



Then the Disney leg of the trip kicked off, starting with Disney’s Animal Kingdom.



We were supposed to climb to the top of Everest, but this is where we suffered our first “setback.” The one and only coaster at this park had an incredibly long wait, something we had feared might happen due to the fact that we were visiting during President’s Day Weekend. While the holiday had caused Disney to adjust park operating hours, keeping the parks open much later than usual and, therefore, making our ambitious endeavor possible in the first place, it also meant that we were facing some crowd control issues. With three parks yet to complete after this one we knew we’d have to alter our course and instead headed for an attraction that could still have been categorized as “thrilling” (to some), even if it wasn’t a coaster – Dinosaur. The wait here was also long but we secured FastPass tickets, played some more carnivaal games for some reason, sucked down some frozen Yak Attacks, and then let the ride shake us all about while we tried not to throw it all back up.



But it was lots of fun. We were all laughing and smiling and joking about what good times these were.



At Disney’s Hollywood Studios (or was it still Disney-MGM Studios at that time, I’ve forgotten) we were supposed to Rock and Roll with Aerosmith but, once again, faced long lines and had to improvise.



Instead we got more FastPasses, this time for Star Tours (Star Wars come to life! Another geek dream). We enjoyed a greasy pizza dinner before hopping onboard.



Darkness was looming as we made it to Epcot and that’s when it happened – we ran into someone Wizard knows. And we were cutting time too short to stop and chat. So, rather than be rude, Wizard quickly told him what we were doing … that we were on park #6 out of 7 … and that we didn’t have time to delay. And suddenly the weight of our ridiculousness hit us like a ton of bricks. We were exposed, and now we felt silly – especially since Epcot doesn’t even have a roller coaster … so we had to ride the Maelstrom instead, a ride that is not even remotely “thrilling” other than some trolls threaten to throw you (back, back) backwards over some waterfalls. And it was a little deflating. I could barely suffer through my margarita (and no one else even drank anything at all).

We were running out of steam as we boarded the monorail for our last stop – the Magic Kingdom. But, seeing our final destination in sight, we rallied and prepared ourselves for victory.


Upon entering this happy place we were greeted with fireworks. We stopped. We watched. We danced dorkily while old ladies cursed us for stepping on their toes.



And we once again embraced our adventure, suiting up with cheesy matching buttons that declared to the world that we had made it to 7 parks in 1 day. But it was late and our mission was not yet accomplished. And, worse yet, we hit another snag at Space Mountain … and Splash Mountain … and Big Thunder Mountain – more long waits. But this time we did have another coaster to chose from – The Barnstormer (now relocated to New Fantasyland, another place that will no doubt become a paradise for dorky women who, despite being far too old for this sort of thing, will dress themselves in full blown princess ensembles and line up to meet Ariel). Granted it’s technically a “kiddie coaster,” but it’s a coaster nonetheless. And, at long last, geeky victory was ours!



We even had leftover time for an additional ride here - Pirates of the Caribbean.



And I scarfed down a Dole Whip I didn’t even want just to complete that part of the challenge too. But it was totally worth it – we had conquered 7 parks in 1 day. And on the boat ride back to our car we reminisced about what a great time we had and how we should do it every year!



False promises that of course we didn’t keep because, while we may be dorks, we do have a life, and this bout of geekdom was more of one-time thing … an alignment of the stars when we all happened to have easy, free access to each of these theme parks that now is no longer possible without shelling out big bucks for tickets. No, this moment of geeked out glory was meant to be just that – a single moment in time to look back upon and smile (but not too much lest anyone actually call us out on what lame people we are).



Just a few days later I went out on my first date with GAR (well actually it was our fourth date, but since it had been more than a year since our third date I guess you could call it our second first date) to see a local production of “A Midsummer’s Night Dream.” Then two days later he took me to see “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” and I knew, right then and there, that I never really needed to worry about what a dork I am for clearly, I had found an equally geeky mate.

A Beautiful Mind (is a Terrible Thing to Waste)

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).

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.

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.

Peru

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