Wednesday, December 31, 2008

I could have married a UPS driver

You may remember that new headboard. I ordered some lights for the inside of it so that I wouldn't miss the functionality of the old skank headboard. I'm sentimental that way.

Off topic, there is a wall switch in our bedroom that I have been asking Mr. Right to replace for... 2 months now. I think he has been too busy being off work because he hasn't been able to fit it into his schedule. He does have a grueling tour with Call of Duty on the Wii so I totally understand.

However, when the lights showed up in the mail today (I know this via the wonderful UPS tracking website), I sent Mr. Right an email from work asking him to leave the box alone because I would like to supervise that installation.

This triggered an argument that I am not the boss of him and he is getting his tools now to do the installing.

This is what I like to call an epiphany. I need to rethink my whole approach. Rubbing meatloaf on items that need repairing is not the way to go.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

An open letter to hair stylists

Dear Husband's Hair Stylist,

When you are cutting Mr. Right's hair, please don't out of the blue say to him "so are you going to go home and take a shower after this?", then just roll your eyes when he looks at you blankly and asks you if that was a suggestion.

Because, then I have to deal with a night of obsessive questions about what he smells like. Of course I didn't help when I said "you don't smell bad, per say...", but I was starting to feel like I have a high maintenance husband, and I'm the only one who is allowed to be high maintenance. Sure, I know you people are just more personal in the way you perform your profession than the average person. I get it because every single time I am getting my hair done, my stylist is on her period and likes to describe it to me in detail. However, Mr. Right is a hetero guy and not street wise in the ways of the stylist.

Thanks, alot.


Monday, December 22, 2008

Emergency purchase

We have been married for 16 months now. From day one, there was something about the headboard that came with Mr. Right's king size water bed that I could not stand. Never could put my finger on it, so I put off buying a new one. I figured it was in our bedroom, out of the way, there were other things that were more important to tackle. A vibrating barcalounger for one.

Still, it haunted me.

I would walk by it, stop. Ponder. Was it the mirror in the middle? No. Well, that wasn't the biggest factor. I was down with that.

Was it the wood grain veneer? Not... exactly.

Was it the built in lights? No, I kinda liked that for reading at night.

Was it the built in shelves? No. I surprisingly had become a bookshelf headboard convert.

Then one day I was cleaning (it happens). I discovered it. CANDLE WAX on our marriage bed. Uh, we have never had candles in the bedroom.

I went online immediately and ordered this. It came and within hours Mr. Right was putting it together and the old headboard is now firewood.

From the Bedrooms N More website I submit to you the Skank Free Bookshelf Headboard:

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Marriage Detroit Style

You are about to read something very personal about my husband. I promised when I started blogging that I would stay away from certain personal topics. But my mood has changed, the economy has gone very sour, and I don't give a crap anymore.

You may have noticed his job was eliminated. Since we live in a Detroit suburb, I will give you 3 guesses who he worked for, indirectly. Funny thing is, his company is in Austin, TX. So no matter where you are, what you are watching on TV has touched us all and is very scary horrifying.

His plan. To work a contract job for 6 months or so until things improve. Our definition of "things improve" has verbage about Mr. Bush leaving office. I say that as kindly as I can, within an hour of taking my meds.

He is a project manager for automotive online marketing. Snooze fest. In other words, he tells website developers what to do. He has a huge ego. He will probably read this comment and only notice the word 'huge', and see a compliment.

Here is a little insight to our marriage, and how we communicate, Detroit style. He was contacted by a recruiter and sent me this email.

I bet oral that I will have this job. I will get called this week for an interview and I will have the assignment by the first of the year.
That is assuming GM gets bailed.

I know. You want to move here and get a piece of that action, don't you.

Monday, December 15, 2008

It's called Frankenmuth

On Saturday, we had our second annual family Christmas outing. Last year it was a Christmas tree farm, but this year in honor of the bad economy we decided to put up our anorexic fake tree. Somehow it seems fitting and not depressing at all. Insert sarcastic smile here.

Side Note: I'm afraid to watch 'It's A Wonderful Life' this year. Last year I smirked at the "run" on a bank scene. This year, uh - not so old school. Is 2008 the new 1929? Is crying the best medicine, or is that laughter? I forget.

So back to my story. We went to Frankenmuth, which is a Bavarian town about 50 miles away (Christmas every day all year but they step it up a notch in December, if that's possible). Famous chicken. Throw me a bone if you have heard of it.

We told Princess she could invite a friend. I'm learning lessons I tell you.

Turns out, she invited a friend who lives 30 minutes in the opposite direction. It was too late. Friend was already way excited. I didn't put much thought into wondering why this friend is able to go to her school when she lives so far away. I was hung up on the fact that Princess has about 13,000 friends right in our neighborhood.

We piled on our winter coats, left the house, and headed for the ghetto to pick her up. A half an hour later, Kayla comes bounding up to the car like a Great Dane and Princess jumps out to run and hug her. Turns out, Kayla is a little black girl. Just an observation, Princess doesn't even know the difference.

I spent the rest of the day reflecting on how Princess doesn't have to listen to the racism I did when I was growing up. When I think about all the stupidity in the world back then, then cut to today and the age of Obama, I can't help but feel warm an fuzzy inside (but that might be the Spanish Coffee I had).

Despite the fact that we are all headed for the brink of a very different disaster and people will soon be killing each other for a can of cat food to feed their family, I was happy we drove the extra hour.

Happy Holidays!

Monday, December 8, 2008

This is what we get

Princess is with us exactly half of the time. The other half, with her biological mother. Well, she is babysat by a TV there, to be more exact.

Yes, we walk around the house naked, make s'mores with the gas burners, and drink beer the whole time she is not at our house. Get over it.

There is a cat ("Kitty") at her mother's.
Oliver, my cat, is at our house.
Mr. Right's job was eliminated last week. Don't worry, we will be fine. I'm practicing walking on my hooker heels as I type this.

Out of the blue, Princess sends Mr. Right an email with simply "sorry about your job daddy". Awe, that's nice. She couldn't possibly want anything, right? She's a 10 year old little girl. Her motives must be pure.

Mr. Right's reply was "don't worry about it honey, but we will just have to be careful with Christmas presents this year".

[ahem, there is a Wii and Guitar Hero sitting in the middle of my living room waiting to be wrapped for her]

Her response, was "that is fine, all I want for Christmas is MY own cat", and this:

Daddy i love playing with oliver but haven't lately much. i would put the litter
box in our bathroom and i would clean it and feed my cat and train it like kitty
i would play with it on my free time and i would do my best to take very good
care of it it will eventualy get used to oliver and oliver would get used to my
cat that is mostly all I want for christmas!

There were some other emails directing him to talk me into it, and more about how much a cat doesn't cost anything. Insert my sideways smile here. Yeah, I sortof look like Elvis with long red hair when I do that.

I had flashbacks to the missing $8,000 I spent in vet bills for my last cat Smokey, over 16 years.

We are both feeling a bit manipulated. What is the deal with her cat at her mother's? What is this "a cat of my own" crap?

I told Mr. Right to keep it simple. Stick to "whose cat would it be when you are not at our house?" because that should be enough to throw her off track. I'm looking for ways to avoid telling her "hell to the no kid".