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.

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.