Haven't I caught myself a handsome husband?

This was us in Bear Lake at my parents' family reunion last month.

And yes, we wear ties and dresses while on vacation. That's how we stay classy. Especially if we're about to go crash a sacrament meeting. Plus GH knows I can't resist him when he's all dressed up. (Brand new thought: How will I even handle it when he gets to wearing a tie and holding a baby at the same time??? The universe just might implode.)

Happy anniversary!

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Conversation last night as we went to bed

Backstory: I've spent a few nights on the couch in the last couple of weeks. I'll wake up in the night, be unable to fall back asleep, and then head for the couch to see if that works any better. Usually the change of scenery is enough to do the trick. Although really, in what Sick World of Pregnant is a second-hand couch with wonky springs more condusive to sleep than an actual bed with a Sealy Posturepedic mattress purchased at Costco, land from whence all good things come? Really.

But anyway. The conversation.

GH: Do you ever wake up when I touch you in the night?

Me: Wait---what?? You're touching me in the night??

GH, rolling his eyes: Like this. [puts hand on my arm]

Me: Oh. No, I don't think I've ever felt that. I wake up when you elbow me in the face in the middle of the night, or when you begin to roll in such a way that my boob shrieks "INCOMING! UNECESSARY MAMMOGRAM ABOUT TO HAPPEN UNLESS YOU MOVE MOVE MOVE!" Stuff like that, I wake up for. Why are you touching me in the night?

GH: To see if you're still here.

Me: Awww . . . because you're worried about me not being able to sleep?

GH: No. Because if you're gone then there's room to spread out.

Humph.

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Happy Father's Day

To honor my actual father on the blessed day, I pitched in with Jenny to get him a reeeeeaaaal nice pair of Reef sandals.


Dad deemed this an appropriate gift, since I was the reason his $4 Old Navy flip-flops broke in Hawaii two years ago. I sprung a surprise hike on him so he was not prepared with the right footwear and then the strap of the flip-flop busted and he had to limp along on the jungle floor with a sideways flip-flop while the rest of us laughed mercilessly. That's how he tells it, anyway. (Except I'm really laughing now thinking about the sideways flip-flop so maybe that is how it actually happened. Who knows.) Now Dad is prepared, footwise, for his next Hawaiian getaway.

For GH, the soon-to-be father, I gave him the go-ahead to replace the car stereo that was stolen this year. (Our apartment complex is just a lovely place on so many levels, really.) I think he'd given up hope on ever having music in his car again. Also I bought this:







For anyone lucky enough not to recognize this symbol, it's from Lost. And no, just because that show ended this year do not suppose for one moment that GH will ever waver in his devotion to it. Ever. You go ask Buffy the Vampire Slayer if he has ever forgotten to send her a Christmas card. Let's hope this bib tides him over if the Lost poster should ever mysteriously disappears one day . . .


You remember the Lost poster, right? If you don't, then this is what's been hanging on our bedroom wall since we got married:




Yep. The last thing I saw before falling asleep every night was Benjamin Linus's face. And GH wonders why I have bad dreams. (And no, having Sayid's handsome face up there as well did not help the situation as much as you might think it would--especially not during the last few episodes where he went all Ev** Zo**** on me.) I did get a poster frame for the thing, though. Standards, people.

I should report that since completing our Exodus from the Smokers we haven't bothered putting anything back up on the walls. This bodes well for my master plan. Jack Bauer should maybe start watching his back.

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Because I am courteous that way

Recent phone call between GH and myself:

Me: Hi there.

GH: Hey, what's up.

Me: I'm just calling to let you know that when you get home tonight I am going to murder you.

GH: Oh. Why's that?

Me: Remember that time when you did the dishes before we left town for the weekend? And how that was really great of you?

GH: Uh huh.

Me: What was less great, was the part where you put a three-week-old piece of cod in the garbage disposal and then left it there to rot.

GH: (Laughing.)

Me: And then, when I run the disposal to get rid of the cod, I learn that there is ALSO a dessert spoon down there. So now I get to REACH IN WITH MY HAND, into the shredded stinky fish that's been just sitting there all weekend, and get the spoon out.

GH: (More of laughing, because maybe that is his response to imminent death. Very Han Solo of him.) Okay, see. I can't take responsibility for the spoon, but---

Me: ------WITH MY HAND!!!!

GH: Okay. I didn't know about the spoon being down there. But the fish, see, I was just trying to get rid of that garlic smell you were complaining about earlier.

Me: Well, it worked. I don't smell any garlic.

GH: See? There you go.

Me: Uh huh. You're still dying when you get home.

GH: I do appreciate the heads-up on that.

Me: You should.

GH: Okay, I love you.

Me: Love you too.

Seriously though, people? That is stank. Go do that to someone if you hate them. I was roaming all over the kitching, trying to figure out where that goshawful smell was coming from, only to peer down the disposal and see this slab of fish, just hanging out.

One lemon and a bunch of vinegar cleanser later, and the smell is mostly gone. Also I had to go scrub the violated hand with a steel-wool pad until there was nothing left but a nubbin.

shudder

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Man Candy day

Hey, remember that one time when I asked you guys to pray up a job for GH so that he didn't have to work nights anymore and then you totally did it?

Well he started the new job last week and now check out what I get to look at every day.



Aw. Yeah.

Also, pay no attention to the dead tomato plants behind him. And the electronics boxes from Christmas-and-possibly-earlier that we haven't taken down to the dumpster yet. This is not a judging space.

We went to Kohl's over Christmas and kitted GH out with work clothes, including a new black peacoat. I cannot overstate how happy the new coat made me. GH picked it out. He likes it because it still has a hood (detachable, whee!) so he gets to at least feel like he's in a hoodie--albeit a hoodie that actually imparts attractiveness instead of Michael Cera-ness. I like it because hi, it's a man's peacoat and because his other jacket looks like something you'd find on a Vietnam vet. (Thanks for going through some sort of crazed veteran phase, Old Navy.)

Eye candy benefits aside, it has been so incredibly nice to be on the same schedule. We go to bed at the same time, we wake up at the same time, and then we do it again the next day! Like normal people! And about 50% of the time so far I have gotten up at 6:30am with GH and fixed a hot breakfast for us. (The other times I just stay in bed like a comatose slug and glory in the part where I'm not the one who has to get up.)

A highlight for me was when GH came home with his Casual-except-not-really-Friday shirt--a pullover that has the company name on the front. If he wears that on Friday, he doesn't have to wear a tie with it, see. All his coworkers are way excited about this and it's this thing that has been years in the making and now it's like Glenn Beck himself has appeared to cry his salty, salty tears upon them. (Remember, it's Utah County.)

Thing is, they're calling it Casual Friday but come on. I know it's actually Uniform Day. Like you're suddenly McDonalds or Best Buy employees instead of people with dreams and souls. You will recall that I have seen this sort of thing before. Once you have a radar for it, you can never be fooled again.

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Languages of Luuuuuuurve

Some of you may have heard of the 5 Love Languages, as outlined by Dr. Gary Chapman. (I've also heard other people refer to it as "love currency.") The basic idea is that people give and interpret love differently, so it's important to understand how to best show love to those around you and to let them know what kind of gestures are the most meaningful to you.

I started thinking about this a couple of months ago and wondered if it might be helpful to see if GH and I are actually doing the things that mean the most to the other.

SO. Here are the different Languages of Luuuurve, according to this one guy:

Words of Affirmation
Quality Time
Receiving Gifts
Acts of Service
Physical Touch


Turns out my "primary love language" is Physical Touch. I have been suspecting this for a little while. Also this is funny because I'm not an incredibly touchy person normally. But it turns out that in romantic relationships I'm a big toucher, which makes a lot of sense when I think about how as a dater I was always about thiiiisclose to getting myself into trouble. This is probably why Heavenly Father thought it would be best for my eternal soul if I didn't date very much. (Note: it would have been helpful to know if that was the reason my ovaries were spending all that time shriveling.)

Now, it would be nice if GH could be one of the Physical Touch people too. Then we could just spend every day fused to each other and both be happy as clams. He is very good at being married to a toucher, though, and never even says words like, "What the heck, Remora Woman, give me my space!"

But it's not the remora action that makes him feel the most loved and appreciated. Instead, he is an Acts of Service person. Which means that to make him feel special I may actually have to get up off my butt and do stuff for him. To him, nothing says "I love you" more than "Hey, I just took care of your oil change and your car registration so now you don't have to do it."

So here's him: "Wow, if Nem would take care of those errands for me that would be amazing. I would feel so loved."

And here's me: "What am I, your mother? Don't your legs work? I don't ask you to run MY errands, do I? GOOOOooosh!"

This was before I got it about the Love Language thing. Sure, I think it would be easier if I could just, like, touch his knee every now and then. Cuz that's free and I don't actually have to expend much energy to do it.

But I'm trying to be better. I even conducted an experiment last week to see about filling GH's, ahem, "love tank." His younger sister is getting married at the end of the month, and he's doing a video for them (like the one he did for us). She gave us a whole bag of photos, but we needed to pick which ones to use and then scan them. GH was not looking forward to this part. So while he slept I chose the best 40 pictures, scanned them, cropped and edited them, and got them all organized in one folder, which I left open on the computer. I also went to Costco and bought a huge pack of paper towels, which I'd been holding off on doing on account of they kill trees. Except GH loves them and has been sad and mopey and (and this is the real problem) less kitchen-cleany ever since the previous Costco pack wore out. So I bought them and put them in the middle of the living room floor. Because our kitchen table would have collapsed under their bulk.

The plan was that he would wake up and when he went out to get his cereal he would see the paper towels. And THEN when he sat down at the computer to catch up on all his nerd websites, he would see the folder with all the scanned and ready-to-go images. And then he would be all overwhelmed with love for me and might even send me an email at work declaring said love.

Which is pretty much exactly how it happened, so I think I am possible on to something here.

And now am off to work like a busy beaver until I can go home and begin my birthday weekend. I turn 30 tomorrow, y'all! Will be bidding farewell to my twenties with homemade chocolate raspberry cake courtesy of my sister Jenny. Which will take quite a bit of the sting out, I am sure. I hope everyone has a great Labor Day weekend!

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Oh . . . karma. But with a surprise happy ending!

So remember that one time when I talked about how yay and happy I was on account of we just paid off my student loan and how I'm fer shure going to get us living off one income and maybe the Obama administration should call me to get my budgeting advice because I'm Just. That. Awesome at it?

Yeah.

As my dear superstitious GH would say, it's like you're just giving karma the chance to come after you.

Our first month of just-living-on-one-paycheck-except-for-the-part-where-we-treated-ourselves-to-an-anniversary-getaway also turned out to be the month where:

#1. Our electric bill went from $40 to $100, thanks to the freaking A/C that we probably don't even NEED because the pioneers didn't have it and they were fine.

#2. I went over on our cell phone minutes for the first time in EVER, resulting in a bill that was $50 higher than normal. Awesome.

#3. The annual Tivo bill arrived. (See "things we don't need because the pioneers don't have them." Note how I only use this argument on the things I don't care about.)

#4. We drove a whole lot, doubling our gas expenses.

#5. GH's car broke.

This last one was the best. The power window on GH's 1992 Honda Accord has been on the blink a while, causing the window to work its way down until we could force it back up. It decided last week to break down completely, leaving the window stuck in a half-opened position, just begging the many car thieves and smash & grabbers in our area to come take a look.

(Before I continue this story, I have pretty much decided that power windows are of the Devil and are just an excuse to put one more thing into your car that can break and have to be expensively fixed. Cuz really, it's not like much could go wrong with the manual kind. And when you inevitably roll off the road and land in a river and are supposed to swim out through the window because you can't get the door open, are you really sure those power windows are going to work underwater? Yeah. Thanks for letting me just drown there with my hypothetical babies, power windows.)

So we take the car to our usual place and they say the necessary part will need to be ordered and should cost between $110 and $130. And then the labor will cost about $150. Great. Perfect. Except that night GH caught me online while I was at work to have this conversation with me:

GH: pep boys just called, they say that because it's an american car they can only find the piece they need from the dealer and that because of that the total is going to be 600 dollars!!!
me: blink. blink blink.

And that's when my brain completely imploded. This, for a car that is maybe worth $1500.

He asked if he should call them back and tell them to go ahead and I said NONONOnonononono, wait until we could talk about it. Two hours later, he got back online for this conversation

GH: you there?
me: Yep, what's up?
GH: hey I think I just found the part i needed on ebay for forty dollars.
me: Are you for sure serious?
GH: I called the website and he said it was what I needed... then I called pepboys to see if they'd install it if I brought the part in and they say yeah... there just wouldn't be a warranty.
me: Wow. When I get home, [very specific promise that I won't repeat here].

So yeah. He totally found the right part. It arrived in a few days, we drove it over, they installed it, it works, and the peasants rejoiced. And we paid about $100 less than we would have if they'd just found the part initially for the price they first gave us. (Big note to self: Always try this online thing it is awesome.) And now I'm not even so upset about the way our budget went all to crap this month since we dodged such a huge bullet.

I've been telling everyone who will listen about the genius I married. Then GH confessed to me that the only reason he even thought to look online was because he desperately did not want to experience what I would be like if we actually had to dump $600 into his car over a window.

I think that is what is called Being a Good Team.

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Commemorating One Year of the Thermostat War

So it's kind of hard for me to believe it, but the Gentleman Husband and I passed our 1st wedding anniversary on Sunday.

To celebrate we went up to L**** for a little getaway, which was relaxing and lovely and full of good foods, as any self-respecting getaway must be. More to come on that.

A lot of people's first year of marriage, while great, grand, and wonderful, is also a very difficult one. This makes sense because if you think about it, it's kind of a big year.

It's the year you learn to live with this other person who, as it turns out, believes that the inside of the toilet bowl is really only a loose sort of goal rather than an ironclad, electric-current-bordered target. (Seriously, can someone please make an electrified toilet rim? And maybe do the floor, too? I would appreciate it. You know, for a friend of mine. Who you don't know.)

In turn, they learn how to deal with the fact that sometimes you're just going to cry and be a rage beast for no (real) reason, and how to navigate that without losing an arm or other valuable body part.

It's the year you begin learning to balance loyalty and responsibility to each other and your own new family with all of the events, traditions, and expectations of the families you grew up in. (Note: Good luck with that.)

You're learning how to have a good physical relationship, which comes with a significant learning curve and the potential for unrealistic expectations, frustration, and hurt feelings.

If one or both of you are moving to a new town or starting new jobs, there's the stress of those transitions.

You have to deal with things like January. And February. You know--awful, awful cold things.

So yeah. When I think about this, it's not hard to understand why someone would say that their first year of marriage was the hardest. And when I report that for us this has not so much been the case, I am fully aware that this is because it's going to be some other year--maybe even this coming one, that will deliver the real pimp slaps.

But as far as this year goes, it really has been great and fast and surprisingly smooth. GH has been more patient and understanding and kitchen-cleany than I expected or deserve. I like to believe that I have been more silly and less the Enemy of Fun that he was prepared for. (I mean hi, I played Rock Band last night. And I ruled at it.) Our families have been great as we've tried to get our act together and balance our time between them. Rather than pestering us about when we are going to reproduce, our ward members have for the most part ignored us. (Except I will say that whoever reported that they home-taught us for the last two months is going DOWN, because no way is that true. Ignore us all you want but don't pretend otherwise, friend.)

And now this is the part where you can look away because I am going to thank GH for what has been the best year so far of my life. And that's INCLUDING that one time when I lived in England. So, you know, this is serious.

But now I'd like to hear from you, gentle readers. If you are married, what has been your hardest year so far? Which transitions have been the most difficult--and was it something you could have foreseen or did it come as a complete suckerpunch? If you're not married (or you just don't want to talk about your own relationship because you have standards like that), feel free to pass on what you've heard or observed, because I know you know stuff too.

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Conversations that couples probably did not have 50 years ago

Remember how we discussed the part where I tend to think way too much about the too-far-ahead future? And how GH usually humors me? Yeah, I've changed my mind about the humoring part.

Yesterday he decided to be clever and start doing an impression of me. (Note: in his impressions, I sound like I belong on Teen Girl Squad. It is important to know this so that you have a clear mental image.)



So. We have GH, mocking me in Teen Girl Squad voice. (And no, we were not even talking about babies, so don't ask me where this came from.)

GH: And what if one day we have a baby that is half-girl/half-BOY? What then? And we have to just decide right then what it's going to be! And what if we pick the wrong thing and the kid resents us for it. But we have to decide! We HAVE to decide!!!

Me: You think we're going to have a hermaphrodite kid?

GH: No, but it's something YOU probably worry about.

Me: Actually, that one hadn't occurred to me. Okay, I guess we'd have to pray and fast about whether it's actually a boy or a girl and tell the doctor which---

GH: Oh. We're definitely going to have them make it a girl.

Me: How come?

GH: We just are. Because it would look weird later if they started as a boy and then changed over to be a girl.

Me: Weirder than a girl who switched later to be a guy? Like that "guy" on Oprah who had the baby?

GH: What guy on Oprah? I have no idea what you're talking about.

Me: You know, the one who was born a girl but had a sex change but kept his reproductive organs so he could give birth later---

GH: ---Okay see now I'm uncomfortable, I don't want to talk about this any more. I only brought this up to make fun of you and you're taking it seriously and turning it into an actual discussion. This is not okay.

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Look away if you hate the schmoop

But I would be truly ungrateful if I didn't stand here before you today and bear my testimony of how I know my roommate is true.

Last night I slipped into A Funk and wasn't sure what my problem was. I felt sluggish and super-emotional and cranky. GH suggested that I could be getting sick. And since he has been sick of and on for about the last two weeks, and since he was chugging straight out of the bottle of really nice fresh-squeezed orange juice I got us, this was possibly a good guess. (And no, I'm not pregnant, but thanks for playing.)

I took Vitamin C and garlic pills, passed on the Zyrtec swabs because GH said he thought they might possibly have been recalled due to a side-effect of wiping out all sense of smell (which, hi, would hamper my ability to fully appreciate European cheeses), and went to bed hoping for the best. GH went to work.

Woke up this morning when GH peeked in the room and asked how I was feeling. (Answer: cautiously okay.) Was then presented with Starbucks hot chocolate and a big blueberry muffin. Because he is The Sweetest Man in the World III. It was a great way to start a Friday morning. The good feelings have lasted so far through all manner of computer and printer problems at work, with the resultant frustrated patrons, and might even get me through the Friday teen crowd, including the kid who is not supposed to come back today (but most assuredly will try). Turns out I'm not okay with junior high kids who keep shouting the word chlamydia in the library. I'm uptight like that.

Happy Friday, everyone!

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And that's why I was late to work this morning

The back blinker went out on GH's car a couple of weeks ago. I will not tell you how long it took us to realize this. This morning GH went to the store on his way home from work, bought a new light, and installed it in the car BY HIMSELF.

I knew he was doing this because I was awakened as he burst through the bedroom door demanding to know where the tools were.

I told him they were in the same place they always are (under the couch). Then I heard yelling because they were apparently pushed so far back under the couch that he did something to his back while reaching for them. I chose to stay in bed for all of this. After he went back outside I got up and got ready.

He returned victorious, having repaired the blinker. In the cold. In the snow. By himself. Like a handy, handy man of handiness. It was pretty hot, I can tell you. I expressed my pride.

GH: "Well, I figured I could take it in and spend 20 bucks to have someone else do it, or I could try to do it myself for 3."

Me: "I have never desired you more."

(ps question: Is anyone else trying out new money-saving techniques in light of our Current Economic Times?)

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TSMITW

This is the part where I make everyone gag over the embarrassment of riches that was my weekend. If you choose to proceed, keep in mind what my dental hygienist tells me to ward off the dreaded symptoms: Keep your eyes open, breathe deeply through your nose, and raise your right leg by three inches. (I have had better luck with the dental hygienists in the past couple of years--nothing like that one femmebot who tried to drown me and ruin my new skirt.)

The last four days have been lovely. Got home from work Friday night to discover that GH had cleaned the entire death trap apartment (counters included). Which, really, how can that even be topped? Because clean counters + mopped floors = BEST EVER.

The rest of the weekend was lazy and carefree and I even got to do a puzzle! I dearly love me a puzzle, because I am supahcool in that way. GH is not a puzzle fan, so he was excited to find something with the Beatles on it instead of "some lame nature scene." (Yeah. Sometimes I do have to drag my graveyard-shifting, non-nature-loving husband outside at random times during the weekends just so that he can experience sunlight, which I think he probably feels is overrated. There is sunlight on TV, after all.)


We had the thing done in about 24 hours. I think GH thought it would take a bit longer than that. He did not yet know that I go through my puzzles like I go through my books, desserts, and men: in one sitting.

Also there were Godiva chocolates and Porn for Women coupons and every good thing. I got him a small speakers set for his iPod so that he can even listen to it while in the shower and therefore have a complete and happy life not marred by silence. And I made him a marvelous dinner: cream of pumpkin soup, roasted broccoli, and blackberry cobbler with ice cream. The main course was a pepperoni & olive pizza from Pizza Hut, which I'm pretty sure is what GH would request if he were on death row and ordering his last meal. The part where he will sacrifice pizza room in his stomach for things like broccoli and soup and nutrients, however, makes me fall in love with him all over again.

Only then it got even better. (And hey, if you're still with me at this point you might as well keep reading because this part is awesome.) It was our 6-month wedding anniversary yesterday and when I got up I found 1 dozen red roses on the kitchen table. AND, it turns out that he got them on sale during the post-Valentine's Day clearance. The idea of such savings turns me on like nothing else.

Thank you for allowing me to nauseate you. I will return to our regularly-scheduled snarkiness tomorrow, if I'm done crooning and sighing by then.

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Love means keeping your mouth shut sometimes

Today I was looking through Valentine's Day ideas over at Martha Stewart and getting all excited about the possibilities. ("Why yes, I COULD make GH a special breakfast with a heart-shaped UFO, I could!") And then the second thought: "Huh. Except I could have been doing that any time, though, not just on Valentine's Day. Why haven't I been doing that? When was the last time I did something like that?"

And then take GH. He has always been the most thoughtful of men. Even when we weren't dating, he would do things like leave Toblerone chocolates on the hood of my car and cut out articles about Ioan Gruffudd from his Entertainment Weekly for me (I KNOW, RIGHT???). But lately there hasn't been a whole lot of those sorts of surprises.

I thought about it and have come to the conclusion that the thoughtfulness muscles are still getting used by both of us, they're just getting used in some different ways now. It's a little bit more about what we're NOT doing.

Like on the mornings when GH remembers not to wake me up in startling ways that are likely to get him killed (say, by turning lights on or dropping clothes on my face).

And the mornings when I remember not to get within 3 feet of his face without popping a breath mint first.

Or when GH does not complain about the deathly, deathly touch of my ice-cold hands and feet, particularly when he's trying to sleep.

Also all the times I refrain from commenting on his apparent inability to place a fresh roll of toilet paper on the dispenser. (Ask me about the time I found a soggy brand-new roll of toilet paper in the bottom of our shower because it had been left on the side of the tub. Not that I'll be able to discuss it on account of I'm One Who Refrains from Commenting.)

GH, in turn, doesn't say anything when I forget that I started a load of laundry three days ago and have done nothing to it since and all of our clothes are now rotting and producing mutated mold creatures that will rise up and kill us while we sleep.

I have stopped mentioning the peanut-butter-and-jelly-smeared knife he leaves on the kitchen counter after his post-work-before-bed snack. I now just pick it up and set it in the sink.

Nor does he comment much on my habit of spreading my knitting gear all over the couch so that it's impossible and often dangerous to sit down. (He did, however, have words the time he found scissors in his side of the bed.)

Note: Is anyone getting a (very correct) sense of the kind of death trap we live in? I promise we straighten up before company comes over--sometimes with the speed, guilt, and frantic nature of criminals trying to hide hard drugs and kiddie porn.

So it's kind of no wonder that the little thoughtful spontaneous gestures have taken a bit of a back seat--we're already working on quite a lot, and it turns out that it takes a bit of energy to not do or say something that just doesn't need to be said or done. (GH is much better at this than I am, by the way.) But I still really love me a thoughtful spontaneous gesture, so I'm going to see if we can't start working those back into the routine.

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How to do Sundance . . . or should we say FUNDANCE!

Don't blame me for the FUNdance line, that was courtesy of Nick Cannon who is now a dj or something.

Did anybody ever read The Stupids when they were little? They were very funny books about a very nice, stupid family.

I'm pretty sure the title of our day could be summed up as The Stupids Go to Sundance. At certain points of the day I also felt we could identify with these two:



So. Here's the recipe for spending your day at Sundance in the manner of The Stupids:

Spend too much time on your hair that morning in preparation for your photo op with John Krasinski. (See? And we thought I wouldn't have anyone to lust after!) Assume that your husband is still getting ready and so do not go any faster even though that will turn out to be not true and that he was actually waiting for you but didn't want to say anything for fear you'd bite his head off because that's kind of the hormonal place you've been in lately.

Go into a tizzy just as we're leaving about how you can't find your iPod and oh my gosh what will you even DO if you don't have your iPod with you during a film festival. Tear home apart and make wife help you look. Wife will finally say, "Are you sure it isn't on you somewhere?" Locate iPod in your pocket after all of this. Look sheepish.

On the way to the Broadway Theatre in downtown SLC, read the fine print on the back of your ticket which says that you must be in your seats 15 minutes early if you don't want to lose your seat to the waitlist b@$&^(*s.

Arrive 10 minutes early and lose your seat to the waitlist b@$&^(*s. Kiss $30 goodbye. But hey, one of you has great hair and the other has a 60 GB iPod with a plastic nipple attached. And since you were BOTH latemaking, neither one can in fairness be angry with the other. Which is really what it comes down to in life.

Drive to Park City telling yourself that this is nice because you will be there while it's still light outside, which will work better for your camera. And for Jim Halpert.

Catch the recommended free shuttle bus from Kimball Junction, 6 miles from Park City. Spend 120 minutes on this bus. Pass much open parking along the way. Arrive after dark.

Arrive too late to catch Zooey Deschanel's entrance into her movie theatre.

Grab dinner at the site of last year's Relaxation Day Lunch. Dinner will be excellent. Treasure that.

Catch shuttle up to theatre where Michael Cera's movie will be playing in an effort to become waitlist b@$&^(*s yourselves. Arrive to find that they've been handing out waitlist numbers for the last hour. Your numbers are 163 and 164. If you had gone to that theatre first thing, before dinner, you too could have been sashaying your way up to the front of the line waving your ticket in the air like Little Miss Jeans Tucked Into My Boots 11.

Ponder tucking jeans into boots. Remember that while this may make you look stylish, it will also make you look like a very disproportionate dwarf. Or cowgirl.

Finally give up after the movie starts when they've only let in about 20 waitlist people. Find out afterwards that the theatre seats 650 people, so maybe you would have still gotten in. Console yourself with the thought that your tickets might go to the three nice girls from Orange County behind you, who haven't seen anything yet either. Because then it's noble.

See absolutely no famous people. Instead, walk through a cloud of weed so thick that it make you woozy. Because that's almost as good, right?

At the end of the day, even though you got to do none of the things you hoped to, and even though it turns out that you are both marginally functioning adults who will probably have to check yourselves into a care center sooner rather than later, it is a comfort to know that there is no one else you would rather waste a day with.

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My helpmeet

GH is glorying in the winter citrus season, with its bevy of navel oranges and clementines and tangerines and the resultant lack of scurvy. So yesterday at my lover the Sunflower Farmer's Market, I found something fun and brought it home.

"Check it out, I got us tangelos!"

"Do they have seeds?"

"I don't know. They're a cross between an orange and a tangerine."

"I know that, but do they have seeds?"

"Does it really make a difference?"

"I don't want to bother if they have seeds."

"But you really like oranges, I thought."

"I do. But it's not worth it if I have to deal with seeds."

"You know, it's a good thing you weren't one of our evolutionary ancestors. I can just see you, lounging in a cave somewhere . . . 'Ugh, but I'd have to chase it . . . Meh, I just won't eat.'"

"Actually, I'd given up oranges entirely because of the peeling thing. But then I discovered those peeler tools and bought a really great bag of oranges at Lee's last Christmas. Then I was back on."

Only then he flipped it around later when I didn't want to finish the tangelo because it turns out that the skin around the segments was really thick and tough and hard to chew and reminded me of sunburned peeled bits of human skin.

As if that's even the same thing.

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Happy Anniversary!

Today is our three-month wedding anniversary. Since there is no traditional gift for this one, GH is going to be getting the gift of leftover spaghetti. He is one lucky man. One lucky man whose suit pants are too long, I am just now noticing.

My crazy-busy brother-in-law Ed finished processing our wedding pics last month and here are some of my faves from the Big Day.

The red-shoe lineup of hotness. Technically one of the people in the shot is not so much wearing red shoes, but like she was going to be shoved out of the frame.

See how well the flowers-instead-of-veil thing turned out? You can probably also see why I ought to be scheduling monthly rather than yearly scans with the dermatologist.

The lovely cake as decorated in 5 minutes by Jenny and Lady Steed.

GH's cool berry & stephanotis boutonniere. We also have shots of our dads wearing the big girly be-ribboned corsages meant for the two grandmothers in attendance. Do not ask me why this is. Some well-intentioned soul must have seen them and been like, "Here, dads! Put these on!" I didn't notice until all the family pictures were over. So our dads look extra pretty in those.

My bouquet. I actually only had this sucker in my hand for a total of 30 minutes, which is kind of a shame. So pretty, though!





So yeah, it was a pretty great day. But then the days since then have been pretty great too. And now I am inspired to go over to the thermostat and actually turn on the heat as an additional anniversary present to dear GH. Because he deserves it.

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It's not because I'm sick--everyone else is just being stupid

So a little-known fact about me (at least to the people who have never had to be a part of this) is that pain and illness cause me to become:

1. Grouchy
2. Stupid
3. Violent

The best example of this was July '97, The Wisdom Teeth Day, also known as The Day Nem Tried to Kick Through the Dashboard of the Suburban on the Way Home Because Her Ice Pack Melted. It felt totally justified at the time, as did stopping RIGHT THEN for pain medication (which my mother did with a terrified look in her eye) and then hurling said offending ice pack from the front seat into the back window.

Also there was this one time I was home sick in bed on a Sunday afternoon and a guy came over to see my roommates and started demonstrating his clogging moves on the kitchen floor, directly over my bed. I staggered upstairs, killed him, and tacked his body to our front door with a sign that read, "Seriously. I. AM. SLEEPING."

So I suppose it is fitting that the man I married should be my soulmate in this, the pain-induced insanity.

This week GH had a dental appointment to have a crown put in. I have never had this done, but to me it sounded like a significant procedure (or at least the $500 copay was significant). I asked if he was going to be okay or if he would need help.

"Nah, it shouldn't be too bad. I mean, it's not like I'm getting a cavity filled or something like that."

Which . . . should have been my tip-off that maybe the dentist had not adequately impressed upon dear GH what they were going to be doing. That morning at 8:00 I went off to work and he (just returning from his work) went to the dentist. I got a call at the reference desk at 11:00am.

Me: Blankety-blank library, this is Nemesis.

Strange disembodied groaning voice: Nemesiiiiiiiiis . . .

Me: [pause] Um . . .

(Wondering why the heck I always end up with the freaky perverts.)

SDGV: It's your husband.

Me: OH! Hey, are you okay?

GH: You need to give me your direct number because it took like 5 minutes to get through to you.

Me: Um, okay. Sorry about that. So . . .

GH: Where is the ibuprofin. I can't find the ibuprofin.

Me: Are you okay?

GH: NO. No I'm not okay. It's 11:00 o'clock, I'm in pain, I can't sleep, and I can't find the ibuprofin. It's not where it's supposed to be.

Me: It's just in that kitchen cupboard.

GH: It's not in the cupboard. I looked there.

Me: Could it be in the back, maybe?

GH: I pulled everything out, it's not THERE. Did you put it in your purse or something?

Me: Sweetie, it's a Costco-sized bottle of ibuprofin with a missing lid. I promise it's not in my bag. There's nowhere else it would be but in that cabinet.

GH: Wrassle wrassle fargarrreaarreellooooll

Me: I'm so sorry, I don't know what to tell you.

GH:--Fine.

Click.

I couldn't of course say the words I wanted to, which were something like, "I'm sure the bottle is right there but you're not seeing it because your very real pain and tiredness has made you stupid and also blind." People don't like to hear this.

On my lunch break I went home to be sure he wasn't writhing on the floor in agony. First thing I saw on the kitchen counter was the bottle of ibuprofin (had been on the bottom right back shelf in the cupboard) and a pack of sleeping pills. I figured I'd better just leave him alone, because if I woke him up after all that he might try the front door move on me.

The point is, we'd better never be sick at the same time or we may not come out alive.

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Conversation between cultured individuals of taste and refinement

(also known as me and my sister, who are both undergoing cell phone surgery)

Jenny: This is going to be my new phone number on like Monday.
***-***-****

Me: Cool, remind me on Monday.
Also I have no more text messages.

Jenny: Yeah no. I am telling you now.
So you can enter it or store it away somewhere.

Me: blahhhhh

Me: Okay. It is saved under Butt Sniffer.
Hahahahaha

Jenny: hahahah
Your number is saved under cheap ho.
hahaha

me: Sweet!

Because hey, like I can argue with that. I did just get rid of text-messaging while burning furniture legs for warmth and wearing fishnet thigh-highs and nothing else.

I'm merging my phone and GH's into a barest-bones Family Share plan so that not only can we stop spending $100+ a month (on PHONES! SERIOUSLY!) but that our cell phones, too, can be United in Luurve.

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Thoughts on marriage

So now that I'm pretty much a pro at being married (2 months, 1 day, ka-chow!) I would like to talk about this thing a bit. It's been interesting after years and years and then some more years of wondering how and if this would ever, ever, ever happen, to find how easy and normal the transition has been so far. (Note, Universe, that I said "SO FAR" and therefore do NOT need to be struck down for hubris, thank you muchly. Please save that for someone who actually deserves it. I'm sure you can find someone. Check the banks.)

Of course, it does help that I married a great guy. I know everyone says that but I don't think it's always true. I know women who blog about how their husbands are great when really they're just dill-weed jerks. But like you can start a blog entitled "My Husband is a Dill-Weed Jerk and I Wish Someone Had Maybe Pointed This Out to Me Before I Bound Myself to Him Forever, Not That I Would Have Listened." So let me assure you that GH really is good. He is so good that he will wait until I am gone to eat kettle corn so that I do not vomit from the scent or even the idea of kettle corn's disgusting sweet filth wrongness.

It's funny how living in such close quarters with another person teaches you certain things about yourself. For instance, I now know that I apparently have quite strong morning breath. Morning breath so bad, in fact, that it smells like poop. No wait, sorry, it doesn't smell like poop, it's more like what you smell when you walk into the bathroom after someone who has pooped.

Because that's totally better.

So yeah, there are adjustments to living with someone. In fact, now that I remember my past of living with about 42 other people, it was always after the 2 month point that roommate issues would start to crop up and tensions would rise. So it could be that a week from now I will blog to say that I could just not take the whiskers from GH's electric razor on my bathroom counter anymore and so I killed him and fed his remains to my neighbor's dog. And THEN just for spite I killed the dog with my breath. That or seduced him. I don't know which way it will go.

I've gotten used to the fact that my bathroom will never again not smell like boy. GH has learned not to say a word when it's my turn to do dishes and instead I let them sit in the sink for 2 days while I dirty up yet more dishes. (Hi, dishes suck. Also, like the kitchen could ever smell as bad as the bathroom.) Sometimes he will fabulously just do them for me when it reaches that point.

I am learning how to cook without onion (NOT easy, since pretty much everything good calls for onion), and on the days when I, um, forget, GH doesn't make an issue of it. He just picks at his food like a kicked puppy. On the other hand, dude will eat Brussel Sprouts and all manner of vegetables. And then take seconds. Which pretty much makes my loins go up in flames.

I have almost come to accept that we will go into debt supporting GH's Irish Springs habit, even though I have no idea how he goes through a whole bar of soap in 1 week. He, in turn, has stopped wondering aloud how how I make a bottle of Body Shop Satsuma shower gel last 2 years. It's called a loofah, friend.

And, you know, sometimes not bathing.

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Happy Birthday to GH!!!

I would use this post to go on and on about how wonderful my hubby is, and I'm sure none of you would get sick at all from seeing the words "hubby" and "stud" and "angelbabe" used over and over and over. (Am I the only one who hears hubby and thinks chubby? I can't be.) Except there's no time for odes because we're driving up to L**** in a few minutes so that GH's mom can feed him pizza and DQ ice-cream cake, which is what the women who really know and love him do. (Note: One day I'm going to bring home a $5 Hot-and-Ready Little Ceasars for dinner just to blow his mind with how awesome I can actually be.)

I didn't do so badly though, I think. He came home from work this morning to pancakes, bacon, eggs, hot chocolate, and pasteurized fresh-squeezed orange juice. (Note: the juice was not squozen by me. I paid $100 and my left kidney to have these people do it. But my GOSH that stuff is like nectar. It's what I treat myself to when I'm feeling sickish and in need of the finer things. Actually, is that a throat tickle? May need to go have some more . . . ) Also he opened his presents:





See??? Enh??? Not a practical item in sight! And I bet y'all thought I was going to get him a mutual fund or something, which is my idea of a truly hot gift. Not this year, folks. Maybe next time.

(Note: There is also one other gift that will be opened later, and not at all posted or discussed on this site. You're welcome. But think knitted teddies.)

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