A word of advice

I know I’ve visited this topic before, but I’m going there again.

Recently I read an article in Cosmopolitan magazine about the #1 lie you shouldn’t tell your boyfriend.  My friends, this advice, couldn’t be more on point. I broke the cardinal rule (no pun intended) many, many years ago.

Cosmopolitan says that you should never, ever lie to your significant other about enjoying the same hobbies that they do. It’s perfectly natural and normal to have habits outside of your partner’s interests and to even *GASP* not be interested in some of his or her hobbies.

Well, no one told me this sliver of advice six years ago. I vaguely remember on our first date telling Bobby that I liked baseball. Which, to be honest, I do. I think it’s a great atmosphere for taking the perfect nap after a couple of cold beers on a nice spring day. Well, that’s what we did at the Royals games anyway. Doesn’t reflect poorly on my hometown favorite, it’s just a much more relaxed, non-rabid atmosphere.

Most people tell you that they don’t have any regrets in life. There are things they wish they would have done differently, but not regrets.

In my solemn 26 years of life. I have a huge regret. And that is over exaggerating that I like baseball. I just wanted Bobby to like me, and if I would have known that a mere few months later he basically was stalking me, I would have kept my trap shut, but it’s too late to go back now.

The Cardinals Baseball organization is basically the other woman in my life. I become a crazy, jealous wife and naturally, the cool, calm and collected baseball team commands my husband’s attention. She is naturally athletic and in great shape; she’s smart, she’s witty and guess what else? She is always around and available. On demand, even. Night, day, doesn’t matter. Even if she is traveling…she can easily be found. She always strokes my husband’s ego with the dumb shit like “I have the best fan in the entire world…” and “this win is for you” and “I’m giving away more worthless crap for your hoarding pleasure this weekend… make sure you get here early ;)”  What…. a slut.

It’s too late to go back now; I’ve told him that I like baseball, so I have to keep up the game. I can keep score and always bring a pencil and some change to buy a score card. I’ve even gone as far as learning the names and positions of the players. I’ll even go so far as get dressed up in a clown suit and parade around in a jersey with my name on it. Every man gets the cheap thrill of seeing his wife with his mistress… “Will she figure it out? Does she know?”  Keep your enemies closer, ladies.

I’ve also learned an even more valuable lesson, and that is…..one can only buy the extreme nachos at certain parts of the stadium. I refuse to sit anywhere else, than near these elusive locations.

The only time I give a real hoot about the Cardinals is if they score more than six runs so I can get a 50 cent Dr. Pepper slurpee at the gas station the next day. And even then, the gas station I go to, they make you say “Go Cards!” when you buy the slurpee. Forget it. Take the whole dollar.

Ladies and gentlemen, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not lie about your interests when you are dating someone. It will only make for pure heart ache later. Eventually, your spouse or significant other will leave you behind to pursue his other passion. It might be baseball. It might be golf. It might be shoe shopping, declining to take the shoe box (too bulky and visible in recycle) and then pretending you’ve always had them (well, the cat’s out of the bag on that one)

Bob and I usually try to schedule a date night sometime during the week. Oddly, whenever he has to come up with a suggestion from the months of March-October, its “let’s go to the Cardinals game!!!!!!!!!!!”

This Friday… is our date night. Again, as suspected, Bobby suggested going to the Cardinals game. I've decided a sexy way to introduce him to one of my favorite things. I think I'll use my sleeping mask to seduce him into the car and drive him to a uninhabited location, full of passion and color. He'll be able to barely contain himself. It's time he got to know one of my favorite, naughty hobbies..........

The craft store has all of its ribbon 50% off this week. There is a bonus coupon on Friday night from 7-10 pm. We'll be there for the full three hours and we will keep ourselves busy for the equivalent of nine innings. After that, my dear husband will have the pleasure of learning proper flower arrangments, seasonal blooms and the correct way to make a ribbon bow.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scored.

The Magic Dishwasher

Growing up, I was expected to do chores around the house. I was responsible for either doing the dishes, or, emptying the dishwasher. No big deal, it’s a pretty mindless task and frankly, my personality isn’t suited for mowing the lawn or other manual labors. Call me old fashioned.  

Since we’ve gotten married, and after extensive training, Bobby helps out around the house, which I so appreciate. He does the yard work, and takes out the trash on Wednesday morning. I’ll let him vacuum even though he claims it takes him an hour and a half.  When he realizes (and when I’m passive aggressive and retaliating) that there is no silverware, he’ll empty the dishwasher.

“Doing” the actual dishes, now that’s a different story.

Not sure how the word “dishwasher” and the idea of “magic” got mixed up in Bobby’s head, but somehow they did. I’m sure it was in between thinking of the true meaning of the infield fly rule and what’s for dinner.  Somewhere, it has been deeply rooted in his thought process that this machine is clearly the answer to everyone’s prayers. It’s magic. It does everything. There is no work, to putting a dirty dish into the dishwasher.

WRONG.

Earlier in the year I was convinced that our dishwasher was broken. It was starting to smell after the dishes were “clean” to the point of gagging when you walked into the kitchen. It was leaving particles of food left on the plate. I had resorted to hand washing the dishes because frankly, I don’t like my clean dishes smelling like dead trout.

It was then that out of process of elimination, white vinegar, cups of bleach and baking soda that I figured out the problem.

I set up for my experiment one night after a messy meal of spaghetti and meat sauce, and a house salad with thick, creamy, garlic-y dressing.

Bobby took our plates and walked them over to our sink.

I watched, curiously sipping a glass of my pinot grigo, at this mammal in his most unnatural habitat.

The room stood still, Barley asleep at my feet when the dishwasher door opened. There was a quiet tinkering of the forks dancing as they made their way into the small plastic basket.

And then, the plates came.

Dirty plates.

One by one placed in the bottom rack, next to each other, festering in their own mess.  A combination of leftover noodle, hamburger, and spicy ranch dressing, swirled and mixed together on a beautiful gray and white plate from Crate and Barrel. It was like I could hear them screaming “Please, don’t let him do this to us”.

I watched as each plate was loaded. I felt bad for the plates, a life of never being clean. Talk about a horrible way to go through life. The plates, as our humble servants, really only want one thing in return in this life, and that is to be clean.

If I’ve learned one thing about being married so far, it’s that men don’t like nagging. Men are nagged as children, so when they grow up, the last thing they want to do is hear about how they don’t do the dishes right from their wife. I let this kind of stuff slide. And I just bitch it out on the internet. And then I come up with a clever plan.

First off, the dish, must be cleaned, with soap, water and a dish brush before put into the dishwasher.

This goes also for all utensils.

I know that some people have really fancy dishwashers that do all the work for them, including helping out with taxes and spewing out winning lotto numbers on their screen. But we don’t have this kind of dishwasher. Whoever came up with the nasty rumor that the dishwasher washes your dishes without any effort, is a bonehead.

Guess what happens when you leave food on the dish in the dishwasher?

Have you ever cleaned a dishwasher filter?

I googled it, thinking it would solve my problems. The blog I found suggested that you breathe out of your nose and get some sturdy gloves before you start. It also mentioned that sometimes small rodents find their way under the dishwasher and choose that as their final resting place.

I’m a firm believer in classical conditioning. Once something negative happens, you are reluctant to do it again.

One of our chores this month is to tackle the dishwasher filter and you better believe it will be on a Saturday that Bobby doesn’t have to work.

Ask me next month how Bobby does the dishes.   

I've lost... my identity.

One of the really big conversations that Bobby and I had before we got married was about money. Obviously, we decided that Bobby would manage all of our accounts and bills, and I would bring home the bacon (Probably the only time in my life I’ll ever be able to say that, so I rub it in, just a bit).

Last week, we finally merged our accounts. We are both now proud owners of a joint checking account, which means that my financial freedom is now over. Anytime something pops up out of the ordinary like “GAP” or “Victoria’s Secret” (oh who are we kidding, he wouldn’t bitch about that one) I will get an immediate reprimanding phone call because there has been a transaction debit on our account. I can see the conversation going a little bit like this:

Bob: Where are you?

Me: At the grocery store

Bob: No you aren’t

Me: Yes I am. I’m at the grocery store

Bob: Target doesn’t count as the grocery store and you were at the mall

Me: Okay, yes, I was.

Bob: What did you buy at the GAP?

Me: A shirt

Bob: Why do you need a shirt?

Me: Because it’s not socially acceptable to go out in a bra in public.

Bob: You have a shirt.

Me: I wanted a new one.

Bob: Kelsey, remember we have to afford Cardinals tickets this year, there is simply no spare income for shirts.

So while at Bank of America, we are setting up our accounts. For as long as I remember, I have had the same debit card since debit cards were invented. I love my Texas Longhorns card. It’s a conversation starter, people give me trouble, I give them trouble back, and it’s great. Bobby has a lame Cardinals baseball debit card. And credit card. I hate them. It’s not cool to carry a St. Louis Cardinals debit card, in St. Louis. If we lived somewhere else, it might be somewhat cool, but it’s an MLB team. Let’s call a spade a spade.

Apparently, when you have a joint checking account, serious choices have to be made regarding your own personal identity. It was last Thursday, when I lost mine.

Personal Banker: “So, which team would you like to choose for your debit card”

Me: “Well I would like to keep my Texas Longhorns card, please”

Bob: “And I’ll just keep the Cardinals card”

……….

Personal Banker: “Well you have to choose one team, you can’t have both”

Me: “Come again?”

Personal Banker: “We can’t give you two different cards for the same account. You have to choose one or the other”

Hey! Brian Moynihan! Don’t you think a huge corporation like Bank of America could figure out how husbands and wives can have different themed debit cards?  I already have to deal with the spew of Cardinals crap in my life, not to mention having it shoved down my throat because I live here, don’t you think that someone could throw a girl a bone so she can continue to carry her beloved Texas Longhorns card?

To quote James Brown, This is Man’s World.

Guess what came in the mail yesterday? A St. Louis Cardinals debit card with my name on it. If that is not an incentive to stop spending money, I don’t know what is.

Music

Okay, so the 12 days of Bob didn’t really work out.

I could have come up with a lame excuse like “Bobby hasn’t done anything stupid lately, so I couldn’t blog, and then Barley spilled coke all over the keyboard so I had to take it to be repaired and then while I was there I found that I really like Mac’s better so I bought a new one, but I don’t know how to figure out how to work the word processor…”  We all know that each part of that excuse is not true (except for the Mac part, I really want a MacBook)

Sorry, but if you know me at all, I am terrible at follow through, in my personal life. My parents called it doing something “half assed”. Everyone has their own vice. This is definitely mine. I don’t follow through. So, if I promise I’m going to do something.. You’ll figure out in time that whatever I said I was going to do…that’s probably not going to happen. When people don’t expect much of you, you’ll find that life is much easier.  I put most of my energy in at work. After I come home, I just want to sit and let my brain mush in front of my new favorite iPad app, Slotomania. You do the math. A monkey could play a slot machine. There is no thinking involved. Except when you get to the bonus round, that takes complete skill.

Most women really complain that their husbands don’t listen or follow through. I’m happy to report that Bobby usually completes 75% of the tasks that I give him on any given day. That is a solid C, and friends, at UMKC, that was considered passing. He is a guy; obviously some of the things I tell him to do or remember are going to slip out. Its human nature.

So last month when he finally took my car to get the tail light fixed and my oil changed, I was elated. I hate getting my oil changed and really everything related to cars in general.

We traded cars and I drove off to work for another day. The mines don’t sweep themselves, folks.

In the middle of my drive, I scanned all the stations twice. Bobby hasn’t changed his favorites from the KC channels which tells me subconsciously he knows were going to move back someday. What a sneaky little fella. I’ll admit that I am completely spoiled and have gotten incredibly used to having satellite radio in my car, as well as a six disc CD changer, so there is never a lull in something good on the radio. I figured now would be a good time to check what kind music is tempting Bob’s musical palate. I pressed the mode button to switch to a CD and for the first time in our marriage, I was scared.

First, “Party Rock Anthem”. Okay, I can get on board with that. Bobby loves LMFAO.

Second, Britney Spears “I Wanna Go”. UGH woof. Like that hasn’t been overplayed

Third, Ke$ha.

Fourth, some song that says “sex drive push to start”

Miley Cyrus was definitely well represented on this CD as well.

And then a frightening thought. This CD was clearly made by a woman.  With sweaty hands I pushed the eject button, waiting to see scribbled love messages and pink sharpie hearts.

“That bastard is cheating on me” I thought to myself, plotting my obvious revenge. Maybe I would play the CD in the house, and when he would come home that day, I would be blaring it and I would be packing my suitcase.

As the CD slowly and reluctantly crawled out of the player, I saw something more shocking.

Bob’s Mix #1

In his own handwriting.

I should have known really. Bobby has literally the worst taste in music out of anyone I’ve ever met. Don’t ask Bobby to make you a mixed tape ever, unless you want to set the mood to “we’re shopping at Hollister”. If you would have to picture what someone looks like based on their type of music, Bobby would be wearing a graphic t, Justin Beib’s hair, skinny jeans and black nail polish. No judgment. Trust me; my taste in music is just as terrible. I would look like a 60 year old woman, in a DMB t shirt, with dreadlocks, wearing neon Nike shoes from the 80’s.  Obviously my PF flyer soles were worn out.

In fact, one of the worst fights that we had leading up to the wedding was picking music for the ceremony. As I suggested old time favorites such as Van Morrison and maybe even U2, his suggestion was something like NSYNC and “God must have spent a little more time on you”.  We eventually compromised, choosing Jack Johnson, Queen, Ray LaMontange and Plain White T’s. A little Hollister, but you gotta compromise.

Sometimes, you rediscover things about your significant other that you put on the “con list” when you were dating. I’m sure Bobby does this every time he gets a wire hanger and snakes our drains.  Doesn’t mean we don’t love them less, actually, I think it makes us love them more.

The other day I found the first mixed CD Bob ever made for me and popped it in, for old time’s sake.

Here are some of the selected lyrics:

“She’s almost perfect, but she’s not”

“Where are we going to go from here”

“Muster up all the confidence I have”

“Hate that I love you”

Wow. I really effed him up back then, huh?

Dear Albert

Dear Albert,

Some people in this area are saying, “they’re not mad at you”

Well I am.

I now live with (what I now refer to my husband as), the crankiest roommate ever.

Today, when I was supposed to be watching the Today show while getting ready for work, my television was taken hostage by MLB network.  At one point, when asking my husband a question I was “shushed” until the segment about your ridiculous contract was done. At one point, one of the sports casters said that the likelihood of us seeing another player to your caliber may not happen for another 50 years. He’ll be 75. Thanks in advance.

I get it, you want money, and I can appreciate that. I get that the weather is nicer, the people are more beautiful and you can probably do naked yoga on your 22,000 square foot porch if you want to. I would definitely leave St. Louis as well if someone offered me that kind of money (who are we kidding, I would leave without any money involved whatsoever.. actually now that we are thinking about it, tell me, what is your secret? How does one “get traded” per se? I digress.)

But now, this is getting personal. I don’t think you understand what kind of implications your decisions have done to my personal life. He has compared you to several less than flattering political figures... and Bobby doesn't know anything about politcs.

Yesterday, said husband asked me if whether the first signs of depression are denial, sadness and then anger or denial, anger and then sadness. Your career choices, this is what he chooses to be upset about…well that and when no one offers him pizza at free lunches at the hospital.

The Cardinals Christmas tree I decorated for my husband is now tarnished. I have now wasted time and money on Cardinals ornaments, and my own hand painted baseball ornaments. I actually considered painting more with the players' jersey numbers. At least you saved me from doing that. For the record, I was in favor for another “owl” tree.

The hundreds of dollars that he spent in October to see you at the NCLS, NDLS, WS, (and the equivalent acronym for myself), FML games, are now tainted memories of lies that you told him. You realize, that he took a picture every time you were at bat, foreshadowing the fact that “this could be his last at bat in a Cardinals uniform”. Thanks for proving him right, might be the first time in history.

In a couple of years, you will just be a footnote in the history of the Cardinals baseball program. But 2012 is going to be the worst year ever. Each time the Cardinals lose; guess whose fault it will be, according to the Gospel of Bob? Yours. Guess what will happen with the 4^th player in the batting line up strikes out? “Albert would have hit that”

On top of it all, I can’t give Bobby the one thing he asked for, for Christmas. He wanted you to stay.

FYI, we’re talking about an almost 26 year old man-child.

And now, I have to track down an Ipad 2 in less than 15 days. You owe me $500.

Sincerely,

Disgruntled Wife and Kansas City transplant who doesn’t give a hoot about baseball.

Romance has left the building

Forget sweetie, honey, pumpkin muffin. Most of our pet names revolve around feces. Or fecal matter. Why is that? Where did the rule come from that once you get married, it’s okay to talk about Poop on a regular basis? Not to mention, calling your significant other a name such as “poop brain”.

When my picture text notification goes off, and I see that it’s from Bobby, I cringe a little before I open it. I cautiously open it, worried that what I’m about to download will show me his biggest accomplishment for the day. Yep, romance is gone. We’re legally married now, and I have to love him, even if he forgets to flush the toilet.

Here are our favorite pet names we use on a daily basis.

*note, all of the poop prefixes can be interchanged with turd, for variety.

Poop nugget

Poop brain

Poop turdlet

Poop pickle

Pooooooopsicle

Poop tip

Poop prairie

Poop breath

Poop lips

Poop biscuit

On top of the poop nick names, we also have these true affectionate monikers:

Wench

Wenchilla

Wenchilla Factor

Clown

Clown wench

Snot Noser

Snot Brain

And because we’re both sick and stupid, we like to make up completely random songs and rhymes about our nick names. I’m not even going to bother trying to write/sing them for you. That’s something you can ask Bob about. He does have one song called “Clown” that only uses one word. Guess what word that is?

Clown.

Guess we live in our own little world. I’m okay with that.

Budget

I am a complete advocate that you should never, ever, under any circumstances enter marriage without having a serious discussion about money. 

Who handles the money, what are the expectations around money, who is responsible for what, etc, so on and so forth.

Bobby and I had these conversations, and we’re on the same page and all, but it doesn’t ever make it any easier. While he has always put everything on a credit card and paid it off at the end of the month, I would rather just pay out of my checking account. Bobby is more of a saver. I am definitely more of a spender. 

So this week, we sat down and really went through our expenses. 

Not before Bobby had to create a formula ridden excel spreadsheet complete with borders and highlighted boxes.

“That’s not important that the box is highlighted, let s move on”

“It is important; it shows that this is our household income”

“Its obvious that is our household income, the row on top says Bobby and Kelsey’s income”

“Well this way we can see what our take away income is after bills”

“And we wouldn’t know that before because the box isn’t yellow?”

“Exactly”

So, after we finally got the margins to match, the correct shade of yellow in all of the sum boxes and the font to automatically write in red for debits, we looked at our spending budget.

“$50.00 per week should be enough”

“Yeah I think I can do that… so that is undisclosed, no reporting to the other, mani pedi shoe or splurge on a new makeup budget”

“The whole idea, is that you don’t have to spend it just because you have it”

“Well then why even give me $50.00?”

“No, no, no, that is total. $25.00 per person, per week”

“WHAT?!?!”

“You can do it, $25.00 per week”

First off, I’m not sure who lives on $25.00 a week anymore. Not to mention that as the breadwinner in our household, how someone can dictate specifically how much spending money I get in a week. I was appalled. Shocked even. Trust me, I fancy myself the thrifty shopper and usually buy things when they are on sale, but let’s call a spade a spade, I do enjoy my Kate Spade handbags and designer jeans. Neither of which, cost $25.00.

“No, nuh uh. I need $50.00”

“$50.00 for what?”

“Emergencies”

“You have the credit card for emergencies”

…and just as I was about to leave it at that…

“Not fashion emergencies.”

I read somewhere once that financial differences and struggles are one of the main reasons couples fight, and I can definitely see why. Living with Bobby is like living with a communist big brother when it comes to our finances. Thank God our accounts haven’t merged yet, because I can kiss any kind of financial freedom goodbye.  Here’s the other thing that really irks me. Bobby gets really pissed that I don’t have millions of dollars in my savings account. Yet, he fails to realize that for the past 4 years, I’ve been putting in the max deduction of my salary into my 401k (well, what’s left of it after the European debt crisis). He says “that doesn’t count” Like, WTF is that about? Ask him what he is doing to prepare for our retirement, because I sure as hell know that social security won’t be there for us. 

We’re probably never, ever, going to be on the same page when it comes to money. I can’t pass up one of those little red Salvation Army buckets outside of Target. Bobby on the other hand, opens his wallet and moths gently float out into the air. Going out to eat with Bobby is a whole new experience…

“Let’s to that new restaurant tonight”

“Do you have a coupon?”

“Uh. No. But I think they have happy hour specials”

“Well we can’t go unless we have a coupon”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. No coupon, we don’t go”

“You used a coupon on our first date and I thought it was some poor med school student thing”

“Nope, I won’t go out to eat unless we have a coupon”

“Well I’m not in the mood for IHOP or Jack in the box, which are the only restaurants that I know of that still pass out coupons so…. Let’s go.”

****silence****

“OH MY GOD BOBBY, FINE. MY TREAT”

“oh well then fine, why didn’t you say so, I’ll get my coat.”

Bobby tells me that I over indulge, that I don’t need name brand handbags or I don’t need to get my nails done. HA. 

Exhibit A: What costs close to $1,000 dollars, gets you 8 hours of entertainment and so many god damn rally towels that one doesn’t know what to do with?

Answer: Cardinals playoff tickets. My stupid monthly manicure and pedicures don’t look so bad now, huh?

So… we definitely are much different about money.  I tell Bobby when he is being a cheap, grown ass man, and he tells me that if I don’t stop spending money we won’t be able to afford mortgage.  Just another lesson that I am slowly learning, in our first couple months of marriage.