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.

The fashion show

There is one night a year where I really just let myself go. I sit, eat, and wallow in my own self destruction in regards to the genes I was never given.  I usually am really accepting of my looks, and know that no one in the world is perfect.
 
Except for that one night, when obviously I realize, that there are, to my dismay, displays of utter perfection.
 
Last night….. was the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  
 
First off, watching it when I was single was much more enjoyable. I would be able to sit on my couch, glass of wine in hand, other hand in a bowl of peanut M&Ms. Then, during commercials, stand up, on tip toes of course, and look sideways in my full length mirror. Then facing front wards. Then facing backwards, fully extending my neck so that I could get the full picture of my backside that is no way comparable to Adriana Lima’s
 
Last night was different. I had to watch the fashion show with Bobby. Obviously he didn’t protest. He even suggested we tape it and start watching it 30 minutes late so that we could fast forward the commercials. Typical man… can’t wait until the half-naked ladies come back.
 
As soon as it came on, I knew that it would be a problem watching it together. It started and literally, you could tell that Bobby was salivating, like a fresh porter house steak was in front of him.
 
“She’s hot”
 
“She’s from St. Louis”
 
“She’s got nice legs”
 
“Damn”
 
“That sucks! They blurred out her backside!”
 
This was going to be a long hour. Well, technically 45 minutes without the commercials.
 
At one point, Miranda Kerr was walking in the $2.5 million dollar bra and her husband stood up, giving her a standing ovation! Not once, have I walked in the door after dealing with hundreds of sick, angry people and gotten a standing ovation.
 
When I come home, the only expression I get are looks that say “What are we having for dinner?”
 
Even during the Pink portion of the fashion show where they are wearing HOODIES, he was in complete awe. I wear a hoodie every day after work and Bobby usually only notices it if there happens to be some kind of salsa stain on it.
After it was over, I was in our room, doing my usual ritual. Standing, twirling, critiquing, and completely regretting the Monterey Jack cream cheese dip I had an hour before.  
 
I knew Bobby was coming in, as I could feel the earthquake of the thundering herd that is Barley, our lab.
 
“Alright, this is your one shot; give me your best model walk”
 
Even though I was in baggy pajamas, and didn’t have time to grab my six inch heels, I tried my best, even using my arms as wings, for emphasis.
 
“Where are you flying to?”
 
“Shut up, this is what they do. You can give me my standing ovation now”
 
 
Today is the morning after.
 
I woke up the same 5’6”, brown eyed, big eared, socially awkward girl that I was last night. I can’t wear pink, it’s not really in my color wheel and I don’t like push up bras because I think that they make everyone, including myself, chunkier than they actually are.  
 
I woke up next to Bob, (and Barles, of course) who I know, that despite the one night of the year when he is treated to truly amazing feat of impeccable genes, the other 364 days of the year, he appreciates and loves me for who I am.
 
I think, and I hope, most men are like Bob. He loves that I can put back a few Rolling Rock fatty’s, eat hot wings and bask in my 122-125 pound (depending on the day, and if Chipotle was involved ) glory. Try having Chanel or Bhavinaila or whatever their names are over for happy hour. Enjoy your organic celery and cleansing enemas. I’ll take the extra 15 pounds, and one night of hating my body, for the other 364 days of pure, wonderful and gluttonous life. I’m glad I can share those days with a guy who really doesn’t give a damn that the only six pack I have on a regular basis, is that of Boulevard Wheat beer.
 
 
 
 

Lobster tail toasts and Honda CRVs

“GAMETIME OH YEAH” “TAILGATE OH YEAH”
 
“I BELIEVE THAT WE CAN WIN. I BELIEVE THAT WE CAN WIN”
 
“GAMETIME OH YEAH” “TAILGATE TIME OH YEAH”
 
Iz was a little “upset” when our weekend of fun kicked off with tums and bedtime at 10:15 thanks to the Shakespeare’s pizza incident.
 
How does he “repay” us? He screams at 15 minute intervals starting at 4:00 am.
 
What happened from 7:45-2:30 is really irrelevant in my opinion. “Football” was played, beers were had. The end.
 
Since we were all reunited, (and to give Columbia one last chance to win us over with decent food) we felt it was only appropriate to go out in something other than a hoodie and treat ourselves to a fancy steakhouse dinner to celebrate a good weekend.
 
We’re not talking about going to Ponderosa, people. This was a really nice place. They actually turn people away after a certain time because the wait gets so long. Lucky for us, we made it in the exclusive steakhouse. So this was our opportunity to really put on our classy pants and have a good meal.
 
Until the wine happened.
 
It wasn’t until Izzy was singing into his wine glass, and then the subsequent “toasting” with the lobster meat that I realized we probably belonged at Ponderosa.  It was shameful.  In vino veritas is clearly an accurate statement because at dinner, I think I asked TK if he was an accident. Oops.
 
This night, Izzy would be the one who turned in at 10:30.
 
The next morning, of course we had to go out the old tradition of Sunday Funday. Breakfast at Lulu’s or Lucy’s or whatever was great. Although I’m not sure I trust a restaurant that charges 25 cents extra for “crispy” hash browns, it was fine. Sleeping on TK’s adoptive grandmother’s bed (who he claims didn’t die in the house but I think we all know better) did a number on my lumbar region. After pleading, they took me to Wal Mart for mentholated back patches (which normally I buy in bulk at www.imgettingold.com , but didn’t happen to have my back up supply with me)
 
As we completely backed out of the parking space to go home, there was an obvious “crunch” coming from the back passenger side, right where Bobby was sitting. Good thing we updated his beneficiaries last week.
 
Shit.
 
As we got out of the car, a 60 something year old lady got out, clearly shaken by the whole incident.
 

“I’m sorry, normally I pull through so I don’t have to back up”
 
TK gets his insurance information out and his business card (ha ha) to give her the information.
 
“I’m just going to call my husband to make sure that I get all of the right information”
 
We are all standing around the cars, realizing the little Honda CRV took most of the beating. And then, she had the audacity to say this:
 
“I don’t want to scare you boys, but my husband is a judge”
 
First off, Ma’am, I realize that we’re all wearing sweats, we look like punk, homeless college kids and I’m in an owl trapper hat and sparkly Sperry’s, but you threaten my friends with a statement like that, then you threaten me.
 
“Yeah, well, they’re doctors” (true, even though TK is a Pharm D)
 
Just because I didn’t go for a rigorous curriculum, I felt I should be recognized too, so I added
 
“and I work in the disability insurance industry”
 
This would have been the opportune time to bring up the back ache, but I’m not that quick or witty.
 
Not sure why I thought those would be excellent retorts to her husband being a judge, but it really pissed me off. I got hot about it for a good hour.
 
After all was said and done, we drove home. Only to find that TK’s wallet was missing as we got into the garage. As we got back into the car to retrace the steps, we found the little lone wallet, on the corner of Broadway and itstimetogohome, completely intact. TK was so shaken; he forgot to take it off the roof as we drove away. Poor lil fella.
 
All is well that ends well, except for that CRV that has an indentation the size of a basketball in the back driver side. We all gave TK written statements in case this ended up in the hands of her circuit court judge husband.
 
It actually was kind of sad going home on Sunday. Izzy proposed marriage to TK so that they could get discounted medical benefits and we could all spend holidays together.
 
TK is thinking about it.  
 
 
 
 
 

"How is that my problem?"

This really isn’t a story about being married.

It’s more of a story of when you get married, you marry your spouse’s friends.

I consider Bobby’s BFF’s my brothers, and therefore, I relentlessly make fun of them.

Funny thing is that when you are in college, I always took for granted having them around. It felt like the party was never going to end… But because of a complicated algorithm, called “match”, we are literally spread out like points of a star in the Midwest. Unluckily for me, I ended up in the murder capital of the United States, St. Louis, Missouri. Oh what joy. Did you know that Missouri is one of the top 11 most depressing states to live in? Seriously, it was on www.health.com .On that sunny June day when Bobby is done with residency, I will follow the yellow brick road all the way down the best thing that has come out of Missouri, I – 70 west. Until then, I digress.

Bobby, Kelsey, Iz and TK’s weekend of fun started with a road trip to Columbia, Missouri for the Missouri Texas game (which Missouri gets no love in my blog so outcome of the “game” is therefore considered nonexistent in my world).

TK lives in a little grandma’s house in Columbia. Immediately I was jealous of his high vaulted ceilings, bathrooms that didn’t have blue toilets and lovely sitting room complete with crocheted coasters and a plastic parrot for conversation. This pharmacist was clearly living the good life. Once we arrived, we decided to experience the famous town fare: Shakespeare’s pizza and Truman’s sports bar.

I can clearly be really bitchy when I haven’t eaten in a long time. Apparently, so is TK. There was what we thought was an open table at the bar, so we sat down. We did notice a empty pack of KOOL cigarettes (classy establishment) but figured those people have left. A nice, innocent, college aged waitress came over to inform us that the table was actually taken, and the patrons had simply stepped outside.

TK’s fluffy response?

“How is that my problem?”

And we finally solved the mystery of why TK doesn’t have a girlfriend.

So after a couple of drinks and goldschlager shots, we went back to casa de TK and consumed the world famous Shakespeare’s pizza.

Sorry Columbia, you should not brag about this place.  I’m no foodie, but I am a human and I’m here to tell you that the food there was not edible.  Half of us threw up. The other half had heart burn and indigestion.  Thus our big weekend of fun kickoff promptly ended at approximately 10:15 pm.

Until 4:00 am the next morning……………

The 12 days of Bob

I've been gone for awhile, and I know that. Consider this an early Christmas gift. I am going to write for 12 days about Bob. He definitely gives me the material, that's for sure.

First up.... the fated trip to Columbia, Missouri. Stay tuned.

Worst. Day. Ever

Do you ever wonder why some people get their panties in a wad over different things? Some people get heated over politics. Others get froggy when it comes to banks and their overdraft fees. For some of us, it takes some asshole in a GMC Yukon to pull in front of us on 270 and 44 when it’s raining and there is a cluster F of traffic (These St. Louis drivers…. I digress)

Not Bob. He doesn’t really care about politics, is good enough with a checkbook that he doesn’t overdraft and he always has at least two car lengths in front of him, so bad drivers aren’t an issue. But on this particular Wednesday, one would have thought that world war three had just started at SLU hospital.

This telephone call happened at approximately 1:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon.

Bob: “I am so mad”

Me: “What happened?”

Bob: “This is the worst day ever”

Me: “Why, what happened?”

Bob: “Well you know how SLU got its accreditation renewed for the program?”

Me: “Yeah”

Bob: “And they were going to provide lunch for the Anesthesia residents”

Me: “Uh Huh”

Bob: “Well, I’m at Cardinal Glennon this month”

Me: “Okay….”

Bob: “No one called me over for the free pizza”

Me: “What?”

Bob: “Yeah, they had free pizza today and no one called me. So I missed lunch and had to get something at Cardinal Glennon. I’m so mad! I can’t believe that no one called me or even thought to save me a slice of pizza”

………. A pregnant pause later

Me: “You’re upset."

Bob: "Yup"

Me: "Over pizza"

Bob: “Well I’m upset that no one thought to page me about the pizza”

Me: “What kind of pizza?”

Bob: “Pizza Hut pizza”

Me: “Stuffed crust I bet”

Bob: “You aren’t making this better. I’m really pissed off.”

Me: “I guess I just don’t understand. War and famine in the world and you’re upset over pizza?”

Bob: “Pizza Hut pizza”

Worst. Day. Ever.

To each their own I guess.

Guess what we had for dinner that night.

Baseball and it's victim(s)

It’s been two days since our Halloween party and one day since the worst hangover I’ve had in recent memory.

Bob had a good night too.

On October 27, 2006, Bobby officially asked me out on a date after the Cardinals won the World Series. Little did I know what I was getting myself into. I think at the time I found it cute and endearing. Now it’s just plain annoying. And guess what? It’s not like football season. OH NO. It lasts from February 14^th (when pitchers and catchers report and I start plotting how to disconnect MLB TV without him knowing) to sometimes late OCTOBER.  The cardinals played 180 (give or take) games this year. In an 8 month span.  SO, when girls bitch and moan about their boyfriends or husbands watching football all day, one day out of the week for 13 weeks out of the year, I smile and loathe in my own self pity.  

I think baseball is one of the most boring things to watch on T.V. in the entire universe. Call me crazy, but I’d rather sit and watch the weather channel without sound than watch a baseball game on TV.  I’d rather watch the same episode of Jersey Shore over and over, rather than watch a baseball game on T.V.  I don’t mind watching it in person, but on TV, it’s awful.  So you can imagine my dismay when it’s on 3-4 times per week from April to October.  Forget “Dancing with the Vaguely Familiar”, we get the pleasure of watching baseball. And Bobby is completely useless for nine innings. “Can you get me a beer?” “What did you say about work?” “Can you throw my laundry in the dryer?” Great. Grand. Wonderful.

Now, I’m not going to lie, but this year’s World Series was pretty cool. Despite all of my prayers and Hail Mary’s, all seven games were played. The Cardinals came back in extra innings to win Game Six and then forced Game Seven as the Championship game.  However, it just so happened that the final game of the World Series happened on our Halloween party.

I knew we were going to have a somewhat slim crowd anyway based on the facebook responses (see post below), but now with the Cardinals playing, I knew that it would just be worse.  And you know what bored black swan + keg beer + crying –husband- when- the- cardinals- win equals? You guessed it, a hot mess.  

Don’t get me wrong. I love guys who show emotion, especially my big fella who is sitting next to me right now. But over a baseball game? Really?  This man didn’t even cry at our wedding, once.  When that stupid Humane Society commercial comes on, he is stone cold. But the Cardinals win the World Series and ol’ water works drops to his knees like he was the one who pitched the damn game! And then he “masks” it by pretending its just champagne in his eyes. Yeah, right Jackie.

So at approximately 2:00 a.m. when the fog machine finally turned off and I finished an entire bowl of organic brown rice as a snack, I finally crawled into bed. I looked over at him (because of course Bobby cannot handle his liquor as well as I can, and he was asleep an hour after the game), and in his dead sleep, he has the goofiest smile on his face.  You would have thought someone told him that Chris Carpenter was our next door neighbor and Sam Bradford was our mailman.

I realized at that moment (well, maybe the next morning) that Bobby is one of the most loyal people I know. He never cheers for the Cubs, he will always take your side even though you may be blindly leading him in the wrong direction and he always understands why your enemies are your enemies.  I guess the World Series wins in 2006 and 2011 were nice bookends to where we started, and where we begin again. Call me crazy, but I could get used to that idea. Well, I can get used to the end result, but not the one hundred and eighty something in between BS time sucks in between.

So tonight, while watching T.V, I lovingly suggested maybe we tape “Dancing with the Vaguely familiar” and watch it when we go to bed.

This is the response I got:

“Sorry, David Freese is on Leno and LaRussa is on Letterman”

And the countdown to Valentine ’s Day begins at our house.

The big party

I admit it was my idea to have the Halloween party. I drove home that September afternoon with grandiose thoughts of the parties we used to have from keggers past. I jumped in front of my new husband with my developing idea

Me: “Lets throw a halloween party! We can invite all of our new friends and our old friends. We have all this space we might as well use it!” Note- how we acquired this space is for another time when I have a cocktail in hand and a blood pressure machine ready.

Husband: “okay, put it on facebook”



Now, I’d like to call out all of the other sad saps like myself in what I’m about to describe as the “facebook effect”. I sat at my computer for literally an hour, creating a facebook event that only 12 people responded to. Out of 60. I literally poured my most creative wording, hilarious references to our college pasts and promises of a great buzzy night. In my opinion, there are four different kinds of people on facebook.

Consider the exhibits:

MySpacer: lets examine the evidence. This person only posts pictures of themselves. Usually at an odd angle or in a bathroom. Usually a female. Usually has some kind of puckered up smile and showing cleavage. Hair is almost always down. Has some kind of stupid caption such as “getting ready for a night out with my GIRRRRRLLLSSSSSSSS” And yes, there is always more than one “s” at the end of girls.

Status Whore: Probably my least favorite person. At least with MySpacer we can enjoy hilarity in grammatical errors. Status Whore is much worse. He/she is literally, always posting on facebook. And their damn little green light is always on in the “chat bar” (which PS is the most annoying thing about facebook. What happened to the good ol’ days where we could just stalk our exes and their new girlfriends? I digress.)

Now, there are several garden varieties of status whores. My husband is one of them. There is the sports status whore:(Warning, this is an actual status post from my Husbands facebook. Let's go Cards! Let's go Cards!!! Chuck Norris was a Texas Ranger but Jesus was a CARPENTER!!! Go get 'em Carp! #WorldSeries #RedOctober) This was the first post of the night. There were six more in the period of nine innings. And yes, he compared a baseball player to Jesus. Now when I get pissed and want to swear at him, I just say “CARPENTER BOBBY YOU NEVER LISTEN”. You’ll see an example later on.

There is sick status whore: Monday: “I am so sick today!!! Woke up with a runny nose and a stuffy head, going back to sleep” Tuesday: “Can’t believe I still don’t feel good!! Need someone sweet to make me some chicken soup!” Wednesday: Guess its another day of Real Housewives of New York marathon on the couch and kleenex!” Thursday: “Ny Quill is the bomb dot com” Friday: “still needed one more day of rest, but definitely looking forward lunch and shopping tomorrow!” Rinse, lather and repeat for another 26 weeks out of the year. Beware, most of the time this is a woman and when she is between the years of 25-30, the “sick” status updates will turn into WEDDING status updates. Oh joy. “just ordered invitations! 213 days to go!” just picked out our china pattern! Can’t wait for someone to buy us that platter! 142 days to go!” These, are much, much worse. I actually had someone post her wedding registry links in a status update. Wait until said woman becomes pregnant. “My baby is the size of a squash! 20 more weeks to go!”

Conversely, we also have the facebook ghosts. Or Facebook anonymous. You know that they are there, but we never see them. You know that they check facebook every day, but they just don’t leave any tracks, those sly little bastards. There is no status update, no updated pictures. Once in awhile you will get a “like” but then just in a flash, they are gone again. This is the facebook person I strive to be. So cool, in fact, I am too cool for facebook. But I’m not, so let’s move into the final category of facebook friends….

The premeditated facebooker:
Ah yes, and this is how the facebook Halloween event started. I will post something, and before I press “share” I double check wording, maybe change an adjective, add a smiley, etc. I can’t make up my mind. Pictures are personally chosen, checked meticulously and only added as long as they are not a profile shot. If I’m going to post on facebook, its gotta be good. So you can understand my dilemma when I was trying to convey the type of feeling for what our Halloween party was destined to be. I finally decided on wording that was quirky, yet cute, yet funny. After a couple of weeks, we had hardly any responses. And then I realized. We are friends with a bunch of facebook ghosts. They are seemingly too important to be bothered with the idea of a facebook invite. HA! The sad little 12 who are “attending” were close friends, people who we talk with on a semi frequent basis. The other fifty something in the “awaiting reply” box didn’t fool me, and they will be charged double when they walk into my door requesting a solo cup and a glow necklace.

So…. Preparing for this party was going to be a big task. I’d been carefully searching Halloween decorations and even convincing Bobby to let me buy a fog machine for the dance portion of the evening. I had to do business in Kansas City the week before the party and made a sweet deal with my husband. In exchange for writing ALL of the thank you notes for the wedding, he, in turn, was in charge of taking down the wall paper in the dining room. As I gave myself carpal tunnel writing the same sentence over and over (“thank you so much for sharing our special day with us, we had a blast, even though it was a little rainy!!!’”), I would periodically check in with my beloved on his progress with the wall paper.

ME: “How’s the wallpaper coming”
BOB: “ Uh, haven’t started yet, but don’t worry, it will be done by the time you get home”

ME: via text: what are you doing tonight
BOB: nothing, going to watch the game with some people at sports zone
ME: well don’t forget about the wall paper, I’m coming back on Monday.
BOB: don’t worry it will be done!
ME: But its Saturday, you only have one day left
BOB: Sunday funday with wallpaper its all good.

Come Monday when I came home from the office at approximately 4:15 pm, I found Bobby, scrapping and sweating on a step ladder. His hat was tilted towards the side like a little rascal. The music was on and the dog was outside. There were THREE walls left to be stripped, sanded and primed before we could paint.

ME: “I see that the wall paper is on the walls”
BOB: “ruh roh… guess this glue on the walls was a little tougher than I anticipated”
ME: “You have got to be kidding me”
BOB: “Its no problem, I can work on it Wednesday when I’m POST CALL”

When he said post call, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. If you ever are in a law binding relationship with a physician, God bless your little soul. Post call means one thing and one thing only. Sleep. It doesn’t matter if he slept from 10:00-6:00 throughout the night. It’s not actual “sleep”. Yeah, right. It’s also not called “sleep” when the dog that I’m watching when he’s on call barks at the slightest noise, giving me a half heart attack while I reach for my epi pen as some kind of defense against a rapist.

ME: “I’ll take off Wednesday and we can do it together”

Fast forward to Wednesday…. Sleeping beauty had woken up, we bought paint, took a slight detour to Steak and Shake and were back at home ready to get that damn stuff off of my walls.

Whoever invented wallpaper should be drugged out to the street, and bludgeoned in front of the town.

Its obscene how sticky and glue-y this stuff is. Luckily, we had a little steam tool that we would slowly press on the walls to melt the glue and pull off the paper. Now I know I can be a little stupid sometimes and I know that steam obviously is hot, but what Bobby failed to tell me is that you have to “lightly” press on the button when you start to steam. Otherwise hot scalding water comes flying out. Third degree burns later, I had finally gotten the hang of it. I was pulling that paper off of the walls like it was MY JOB. I was kind of getting into it too, its like pulling off a scab, and the thrill of getting it off in one piece (anyone else like this? no? The cheese stands alone I guess).

Finally, we get to the priming of the walls, which if you haven’t primed the walls before in an unventilated area, you are in for a treat! After helping Bobby peel off the little booger goops of what can only be described as old primer icky ness, I was feeling pretty loopy. I had forgotten to wear socks on the drop cloth so that if paint dropped and I stepped in it, I would be able to take off the socks and onto dry land. Mistake number 1. So when it was time to move the drop cloth Bobby would chant “1, 2, 3, jump” and I would jump as he moved the cloth. So considerate. He knew he couldn’t just pull the drop cloth with my weight on it, and didn’t even bother embarrassing me with that. After we were done, he went to go get me a fresh pair of socks so that I could prepare for debarkation. He lovingly put the socks on my feet, and since they were his socks, they were high up on my calves and very loose past my toes. As I was lunging into my best “risky business” pose, Barley, our lab, joined in on the fun and PUSHED me into the wet wall. I fell over, laughed, and of course acted like a child in a hot mess. Bobby of course cleaned my feet with paint thinner in another unventilated area which added to the fuzzy feeling in my brain.



After it was all said and done, I learned some valuable lessons about our marriage.

Sometimes men don’t do shit right. And that is why women are here on this earth. To remind our husbands that wallpaper from the 80’s is not only unacceptable, but creates judgement from our other female friends. However, when you have a husband that at least helps, he is a keeper.

Bobby whispers very quietly when he is working on a home improvement project.

No matter how high you get from primer on your walls, you have to have someone that will use paint thinner on your odd shaped toes to get rid of the primer, and catch you when you fall on your ass.

After two months of wedded bliss, our marriage isn’t perfect, our life isn’t perfect. There are flaws that each of us carries that cramps up each of our styles. But sometimes, all it takes is a little steam, a little grit from sand paper, and some primer to keep our lives interesting.


.... The party was Saturday... And that is a whole different story.

Yep, this is happening.

Little girls grow up thinking about their wedding day.

We dream of ball gowns, the dancing and the cake.

We picture that perfect prince charming at the end of the church aisle, who will promise, in front of our family and friends, to take care of us for the rest of our lives.  

Woof.

Growing up, my thoughts were usually pre occupied around collecting rocks, the new Ace of Base CD and what trouble Archie and friends were getting into that week. I got my jolly’s on new microscope slides and the projector mount on my microscope. I didn’t have time to be bothered with silly ideas of pretend weddings. And if you would have told me at the tender age of 9 that I would marry a guy named BOB of all names, I would have laughed in your face and gone back to eating my fun dip pack, hold the dip.

I wonder if I would have gotten the balls to go to school out of state, like I originally planned, would be sitting here typing what I am typing today?  What if that creepy med school freshman with the worst pick up line in the entire UNIVERSE (“Wanna see my water polo video?”) never came up to me?  Interesting isn’t it?

I’ve been married for one month, three weeks and 5 days. It has been interesting, to say the least. I never lived with Bobby before we got married, so dealing with someone else’s odd habits has been beyond unnerving. I’m sure he feels the same way about me.

A friend of mine suggested that I write a letter to my new husband each week for the first year we are married. She gave me a notebook and told me to give him the notebook filled with letters on our one year anniversary. She described things that she wrote to her new husband and possible topics.

“Well shit” I thought to myself, “why not broadcast this across the information superhighway?”

And that is where I am today.

Sorry friends, but you aren’t going to find any sappy love notes on this blog. Mostly this is a place to come and vent because honestly, Bobby annoys me at one point in the day, every day. Literally. And I’d like to think I do the same to him. We are polar opposites, which leads to interesting conversation with topics ranging from the correct way to boil water, how to sort mail and bills and baseball towns who have bat shit crazy fans (in case you didn’t realize, the cardinals won game six last night to go to the game seven of the world series tomorrow. Bobby literally got up from our couch to check his pants in the bathroom after David Freese hit a walk off home run in the 11^th.)

So, this is my first year of marriage. The good, the bad and the dutch oven ugly.