Grandma Bos, The Mob Boss

The next woman I'm writing about is my Grandma Bos, the toughest woman I've ever known.  She died at 92, but only after a car accident.  Grandma was just too sturdy and resilient to go of old age.  She made it through the Great Depression, World War II, and raising three sons and a daughter.  Her husband died when my mom was a little girl, leaving her with the kids and a large farm.
Grandma Bos was the kind of woman who always told the truth, whether you were expecting (or wanting) it or not.  For example, about a year before the accident we were moving her out of the condo she had lived in since I was a little girl.  I was packing up some of her old dishes when she said to me, "You can keep those.  Consider them a wedding gift.  I want to be dead by then."  She thought things like that were funny!  We were playing with Barbies once and she asked me why Ken's pants closed in the back instead of the front.   As an elementary school girl, I was stumped.
Don't get me wrong, she wasn't a cranky old woman, she was just an honest one.
Grandma Bos was extremely talented when it came to quilt making.  My sisters, my mom, and I each have a Grandma Bos quilt on our beds.  It's one of those keepsakes we each protect with our lives.  Those questions about what you would grab in a house fire?  We would each grab our Grandma Bos quilts.
She was an extreme baseball fan, especially when it came to the Detroit Tigers.  In memory of her my family goes to a baseball game every year, where my older cousin Adam boomingly hollars for the Tigers each time.  It's a bit nerve-racking, considering none of us would be very useful in a fight.  Adam is tall and lanky, and the rest of us are girls.
From her I get my viscousness in board games.  There was no mercy when playing games against that woman.  She's smash you into the ground and then laugh in your face.  It didn't matter I was six with cute pigtails.  I remember once when I was little my mom found out that my grandma had been driving to play cards with other women late into the night.  The funny part was that her excuse for not going to church on Sunday mornings because she didn't like to drive.  I'm like this when it comes to certain board games.  Monopoly is one of those.  The mere mention of Monopoly and everyone will ignore me for the next two hours, sneers on their faces.  Sore losers, if you ask me.
Thinking about Grandma Bos in heaven makes me smile every time.  It's crazy thinking that she's back with the husband she lost so long ago and my Uncle Gary, who passed away when I was in middle school.  I'm sure she's busy making the best applesauce for them and quilting for Jesus.

Momma Sprik

In regards to Breast Cancer Month, I'm going to spend a few posts this October writing about a few of the sensational women I'm lucky enough to have surrounding me.  The obvious place to start, and the only person I could dream to begin with, is my beautiful mother.
If you get my mom and I in the right mood, you'll see exactly where much of my personality comes from.  It's a perfectly balanced relationship.  We can sit and talk for hours about issues or problems in our life, or we can laugh so hard our toes hurt.
Yes, it's possible.  And yes, it's happened.
The family dog, Son, is the only man in my mom's house.  Does his name make sense now?  When all the daughters are home, any poor bystander is innocently crushed by the exceedingly rising level of noise coming from the four of us.  We don't eat out often because of this.
When we get into these situations, where we all talk at one and Son hides because his poor ears can't handle that many decibels, we tend to think that extremely irrational things are a good idea.  It's like a gang of drunks trying to skydive.  Except we're sober.
The perfect example: Two days before Nick and my wedding, I still hadn't gotten my eyebrows waxed.  Money was tight.  And by tight I mean nonexistent.  My mom thought it would be a brilliant idea to wax my eyebrows herself.  Here's problemo numero uno: careless waxing leads to missing eyebrows.  You don't accidentally pluck off someone's eyebrow.  As she warms up the waxing kit we both have a few glasses of wine.  The second bad idea.  I may have had a glass of wine for my nerves and the pain to come, but my mother probably should not have.  As the time comes, I'm sitting on the toilet seat anxious.  My mom is stirring the wax giggling.  The five or so people at the house are crammed into the doorway, each with the kind of smile you see on people's faces when watching "America's Dumbest Criminals".  Mom goops the wax on my face, smashes the strip on top of that, and then turns around to giggle at everyone watching.  She then violently whips back and rips it off.  My mom's way of waxing: whip and rip.  As I'm screaming on the floor, everyone else is laughing on the floor.
Needless to say, we plucked the rest.
In all seriousness, my mom has taught me many important parts of being a woman.  Strength and forgiveness in times of great despair.  How to laugh at the good and bad in life, but that it's still ok to cry every so often.  She's implanted in me the importance of honor within your friendships, such as keeping their secrets and being there when they need you, not just expecting them to be there for you.  I know that when I'm at the lowest place of a valley the only place to look is up, and if you just keep walking you'll get there.
My mom is truly my best friend.  I cannot explain to you how lucky I am to have such a relationship with her.  I tell her everything, which may get on my husbands nerves.  Emily, my younger sister, and I had a conversation recently about this fact, and we both agreed that we hope to connect with our own daughters in the same way someday.
So thank you mom, for being the kind of woman that they write about in books.  The kind of mom that has my back through everything.  The kind I inspire to be someday.

I Love Lucy

My sensitive husband recently brought to my attention that I tend to make fun of him a little too often on my blog.  My personal opinion is that in his little secret world he's the king.  So when I bring up certain topics or stories where he is in fact NOT the king, he is forced to step off his porcelain throne.  To make him cry a little less tonight, I've decided to wholly dedicate this post to making fun of myself.
I'm the first person to admit my own faults.  That's where we'll start...all the things I'm bad at.
I can't snap my fingers. (do ya step, you can do it all by yourself, let me see you do it...sorry lil' jon.)  When it does happen, which is infrequent and less than exciting, it is only on my right hand and under very precise conditions.  My fingers cannot be sweaty, sticky, or too dry.  The sun has to be out and the wind blowing in the eastward direction.  On the note of making unusual noises with your body, (which my husband is GREAT at) I also cannot whistle.  When I try it's high-pitched and spit goes everywhere. I'm like the llama in the zoo everyone is scared to get too close to.
As my husband points out, I'm extremely impatient when it comes to stop signs.  I like to roll with it. I didn't realize until he pointed it out that I also go out of turn on a regular basis.  It makes me wonder how many times I've been flipped off in the last six years.
About this time of year my legs go into 'winter-mode'.  A lot of you women already know what I'm referring to.  It's as if they hibernate, no one sees them for about four months.  This obviously means there is absolutely no reason for me to shave them more than once every 6-8 weeks.  My husband has vowed to love me through sickness and health, so how would a little hairy leg syndrome change that?  Plus, I have to put up with his...oh wait, this isn't about him.
And then there's my cooking.  Watching me cook is like watching the Kardashians.  You just can't believe it could get any worse, and then it does.  And yet you just don't stop watching.  I'm not very good at bartending either.  Part of the problem is that I didn't drink until I was 21, so I missed years of experience others have. (I never regret not drinking, just FYI.)  When I do drink now, it's a few specific drinks.  I can whip you up about eight different margaritas, but I've never heard of anything called a Zombie.  And I always thought Pina Colada were just some goofy words in a song.
Flamenco dancing should also be put on the list, considering it requires a large amount of coordination.  That's why I ran cross country in high school.  Just one foot in front of the other, something I'd been doing my whole life.  No worries about anyone through balls at my face.
This isn't one I have ever tried before, but I'm pretty sure I would be bad at an eating disorder.  First, I love food way too much.  Give up ice cream?  I'll still eat it if it expired a week ago.  Of course, in our house, ice cream never lasts longer than a day and half.  Plus, puking grosses me out.
The amazing thing is that even though I'm pretty sour at all of these things, my husband loves me anyways.  He still kisses me before he leaves for work.  He'll still cuddle at night, whether it's his kind of cuddling or mine.  He's never stopped taking me out on a date.
So I guess my point is that even though I may rag on him every so often, he's still my fuzzy wuzzy.  Nothing will ever change that, not even his...oh crap.  There I go again.

My Beagle is One Large Irony

While my husband and I both love our beagle, when someone asks us if they should get one we both immediately respond with a resounding NO!  He's loud, hyperactive, sheds like a grizzly bear in the springtime, and has resolved to destroy everything in his path.  For every 3 minutes we spend loving him, there's about 30 minutes we spend chasing him around with a broom or forcefully extracting him from under the bed.
There are many ironies that come with owning a beagle.  Let me give you a few examples.
1. If we're on a run or walk, he ABSOLUTELY MUST stop and pee on every single mailbox, trashcan, political sign, stick, groove in the sidewalk, and trunk.  It doesn't matter if there's no more pee coming out.  He'll still stand there with his leg pointed towards the sun for a few seconds.   It makes exercising somewhat...difficult.  But when I take him out at 5:30 in the morning because he's been whining since 5 and it's 45 degrees outside and raining, he must exhaustively smell out each bush and tree until he finds the perfect one.  How dare I expect him to urinate on the first greenish object we come across??
2. Nick and I spend money on extremely solid and bright rubber toys.  (Anything less than an inch thick won't make it through the next hour, which also rules out all cloth toys.  Not only do they not last more than 20 minutes, but the pieces end up all over the carpet.)  Toys that bounce, toys that squeek, toys with special handles for tug-of-war, toys that are supposed to make his breath smell better.  There's a pile in our living room right now.  But no matter how bouncy or squeaky the toy is, he would much rather play with a wine bottle cork, my film containers, or the pen left under the couch.  There are two things in particular that we cannot leave on the floor, because he will destroy them.  The first is my underwear.  Not anyone else's underwear, not my sister's or old roommate's or Nick's, only mine.  And the only part he tears out is the crotch.  (I was going to make some dirty joke relating him and Nick here, but I though my poor mother would have a heart attack.)  The second item is water bottles.  His fascination with water bottles in unexplainable.  If he hears one of us drinking from a bottle he will race over and sit underneath you with a light in his eye and his tail wagging so fast you think he's going to start to fly.
3. Like any other beagle or hound, his nose is the most important thing to him.  When he is in your car he expects you to have the windows down so he can stuff as much as his body out of it.  If you leave the window up, he cries and howls.  When you put the window down, he cries and howls because of all the things I'm not letting him smell.  We terribly scared a nice old couple walking their nice old dog at the beach one day.  Let's just say Rudy really wanted to play.
4. He will only poop if you take him on a walk.  If you're just walking outside our apartment building, he will pee, but never ever poop.  If you don't take him on a walk he poops right next to our bookcase.  When we do take him out on 'adventure' he'll poop three to four times, because he's just been holding it in for the last few days.  We always prepare appropriately and bring many many bags.
5. On the thought of walks, when you're outside with him he's trying to be the full length of the leash away from you.  I walked half a mile once with him only on his back feet because I was trying to get him to walk next to me.  But when Nick and I go to bed at night and we leave him in the hallway, he'll whine and bark and scratch at the door until we let him in.  He would rather be in his cage in our room that free in the rest of the apartment.

And I could go on much longer!  He's a puppy that doesn't make any sense, which may be one of the reasons he'll always have a special place in my heart.

Five Ways Movies and Television Lied to My Husband

1. I'm not sure was Victoria told you her secret was, but I promise that lacy thongs and brassieres are not comfortable. We will never wear them just for kicks. If I had it my way, I would never wear them period.

2. I understand that in a lot of movies, when Hot Guy A picks up Smokin Chick X at a bar, they go back to his place she is always wearing sexy black lingerie under her dress. I'm not sure if this means she went to the bar expecting to get picked up or not, but don't expect that to happen. I'm probably wearing granny panties and a sports bra under my clothes.

3. Your secretary will never be that hot. And I'll never hire a nanny with blonde hair, shorts that show off her tight buns, and a cleavage problem.

4. If you use (insert name brand) shampoo, girls will like you more. Actually, if we edit this one a little, it's not a lie. If you use shampoo, girls will like you more because you won't smell like the rotting food on your nightstand. So I take this one back.

4b. I will never wake up with my hair all curled and pretty and my make-up nice and fresh. When I get out of bed I look like a Steven Tyler raccoon mix. And my breath stinks like I've been eating trash all night.

5. If the world ever ends in a zombie apocalypse (and my husband is pretty determined that it will), you will not suddenly become a Bruce Lee master of zombie killing. You will get us eaten by taking a wrong turn out of the city, trapping us in some desolate barn in the middle of nowhere where the farmer, the farmer's wife, and their thirteen children have all got the hunger for fresh meat.

I Am A Killer Whale

There are quite a few things I like about our apartment.  Since it's new, we are the first people to live in our unit.  There are (fake) wood floors throughout most of the space, which are easy to keep clean and almost look expensive.  It came with all the appliances, including the washer and dryer.  Lord knows I don't have time to lug all of Nick's dirty underwear to my mother's.
Those are the nice things you notice when you get the tour.
But then you move in and begin to spot the smaller stuff.  Like the fact that the floors are crooked.  Our fridge actually leans away from wall.  Or the completely irrational arrangement of cabinets.  Bathroom counter space is so non-existent we had to buy an over-the-toilet organizer.  It was the best part of my week.
The latest annoyance is our continual and completely random lack of hot water.  It just happens every so often.  Of course, we only know it's not working when fifteen minutes into a shower it still feels like you're swimming in the arctic.  I become delirious,  screaming, "I'll never let go, Jack! I'll never let go!"  Wait, that's just Rudy crawling under the shower curtain to eat my loofa.   Nick finally figured out that the breaker was switching itself off.  In the 2 1/2 months that we have lived here, he has had to switch it back eleven times.
I seem to have an all-over bad experience with showers.  (Maybe that's my inner-psych reason for only taking one 3 times a week.  Sorry...TMI.)  I lived in one of the oldest dorms at Ball State, which meant sharing a shower with your entire floor. I never did specific research on the topic, but I'm convinced  people must have averaged about 5'2" at the time they built the dorm, because if I wanted to wash more the just my kneecaps I had to bend in strange ways, limited by the small space there was.  Imagine trying to shave your armpits.
Then I spent a few summers working at a summer camp, where you had to walk to the showers (sometimes quite a distance).  These were the kind with the button, so if you were stuck in the second shower on the right side you had to press it every three seconds in order to receive a steady stream of water.  The temperature of the showers were controlled behind the building, meaning you just had to take what you could get, blisters or frostbite. 
The rest of the time I lived at home, where my younger sister (we'll keep her anonymous and name her Schmemily) is determined to use approximately as much water as God did right after Noah built the ark.  I could be in bed, happily snoring, but if I hear Schmemily heading towards the bathroom I would do whatever it took to get there first.
Even when our hot water at the apartment isn't turned off, the shower never reaches hot, or even lukewarm.  It's just not cold enough to keep the goose bumps off of you.  It's like being in high school gym class again.  Including the part where you're being stared at by the strangely hairy senior girl.  Except it's my husband.
It takes me about 2 minutes to shampoo, condition, and wash my body when it's cold water.  I've become quite the earth-friendly gal.  When I finally do shiver my way out into the bedroom, I mutter something around the likes of, "I'm freezing my buns off in here!"  My husband, suddenly alert from killing zombies with a chainsaw (his new videogame addiction), screams back, "I'll come warm them up for you!"
At least there's one thing that always stays turned on around here.

My Own Cooking Show

I bartend a lot of mornings during the week.  There are three televisions in the bar, and even though they are turned off every single night, some mysterious person has turned them back on before I get there in the morning.  Since it's early and I am way to tired and lazy to try and get the remote to work, I am stuck watching whatever they have turned on.
One particular morning this past week the choice was the food network.  For the entirety of the six hours I was there that morning, it was one good-looking woman teaching me "How to Cook A Great Dinner in Less Than 30 Minutes" or "A Tasty Dinner for Less Than $15" after another.  By my third hour of Rachael Ray or Paula Dean, I was extremely irked for many reasons.
Every single woman was in a kitchen that looks like it came from a "Better Homes" article.  They were all dreamy.  No matter how well I can cook, it won't look the same just because my cupboards happen to be fake wood.  If I did work in something that beautiful, I wouldn't need to worry about only spending $15 on dinner.
On that note, each kitchen I saw was unbelievably clean.  Where are the breakfast bowls and coffee stains?  Do you think these ladies wash their own dishes?  I kind of doubt it.  My kitchen is still a mess from the meal I cooked two nights ago.
My third complaint is that everything looks so easy! (And I guess it would be if all the food was pre-prepared for you.)  A few nights ago I cooked monterey chicken, an idea I stole from work.  The chicken is in the oven, and I'm trying to fry the bacon and cook the pasta at the same time.  The bacon is steaming and fizzing like crazy, making our small apartment look like the inside of an angry storm cloud.  My husband is quite literally running around waving a towel, attempting to push all the steam out the window so our over-reactive fire alarm doesn't freak.  Just to spite us, (and to make my husband exercise more), it does.  This makes the dog howl.  This makes me yell at the dog, diving past my husband who is trying to run and wave faster.
At the same time my pasta is going crazy.  I'm so busy trying to shut Rudy up that I don't notice when the water/milk/butter combination boils over.  When I do see it, there's gunk covering the stove.
Ever seen something like that in a TV cooking episode that wasn't called "America's Worst Cook?"
Speaking of my animated little beagle, none of those cooks in the TV shows have dogs!  I read something today that says there are 73 MILLION owned dogs in the US today, and each of those dogs are extremely in tune with their master's meal times.  Like Barron says, beagles work for food.  Even when I'm threatening him with a knife.  There is no wrath like a dog begging for table scraps.
While Rudy, like any other canine,  goes gaga for all meat products, his obsession is apples and bananas.  He has a special sense to apples coming out of the fridge and onto a cutting board.  When he begs for meat he looks ravenous, but when he begs for fruits he looks innocent and sweet, as if he is saying "But mom, they're so good for me!"  I must say, when it comes to colorful snacks he always gets his way.  I hope our kids are as into eating healthy as he is.
Maybe I'll sell a cooking show idea to Food Network.  Me in my small two-bedroom apartment kitchen, with so little storage we use a closet as a pantry.  Regular topics would be "How to Keep Your Dog From Licking Your Breasts," (chicken breasts, you dirty you), and "Your Husband Will Still Love You Even If You Burn the Place Down."
Ahhh what a dream.  But until that day comes along, we're going to keep the fire station on speed dial.

Bedtime Part Dos

Sharing a bed with a significant other is nothing like it's hyped up to be.  Movies, television, and even commercials show happy couples peacefully at rest with a slight mocking smirk on their face, as if they even know they are lying to the rest of us!
Let me explain what it's like sleeping next to Nick:
I know I've mentioned this before, but THE MAN SNORES.  Not even a consistent, always the same snore.  Some nights it's whiney like air being let out of a balloon the size of my car.  Other nights its deep and sturdy like the echoes of a bear fight in a cave.  Other times it's high-def, so you can hear all the saliva and extra food particles floating around in his mouth.  Last night he decided to be creative and mix them all together.  Balloon roar saliva balloon.
Onto the next point, that he does not understand HIS side of the bed, which means he completely disregards MY side of the bed.  He comprehends BED, which he is usually taking full advantage of.  When we got married we bought a queen thinking it would be big enough.  Hear me snort at that thought now.  When we got married we also believed all those lies about cuddling at night.
Which brings me to my next point, cuddles.  Don't get me wrong, there's nothing that warms my heart more than when he embraces me in his arms and we talk the night away.  But as soon as the talking turns to the grumbles of snoring, his whole body transforms.  He becomes limp and heavy, making it harder to push him back to his side.  He sweats like he's running a marathon.  Then he smells like he's running a marathon.  My solution to this has been to keep a body pillow around.  It's long enough to spoon, and there's always the cool flip side.
Speaking of stink, we saw an actual commercial for a 'fart blanket' awhile ago.  It's actual title is the Better Marriage Blanket.  I'm not sure if it would make our marriage better, but I would complain less.  (Click here to see it for yourself.)
To make the next point you need to know that my snoring, stinking, sweating husband sleeps through anything.  You would think he was dead if not for the snoring part.  To wake him up in the morning he has an alarm that meets the same decibels as the Chicago Bulls horn.  It doesn't even start gentle or quiet.  There I lay, finally peacefully at sleep when
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
The first few times it happened I was basically hanging off the ceiling it terrified me so much.  My husband stumbles over to it (because it can't just sit on his nightstand), and hits snooze, which means that five minutes later I'm on the ceiling again.  Needless to say, I am now my husbands alarm clock.
Isn't it crazy, then, how I absolutely cannot fall asleep anymore without Nick next to me.  I've tried multiple times to sneak into bed while he's still in Michael Jordan land, and each time I crawl back out thirty minutes later to ask, "When are you coming to bed?"

My Life as a Twilight Novel

I married a werewolf.
And where my husband lacks in shedding my beagle easily makes up for it.
I always understood that hairy men were, well, full of hair.  I have seen the stereotypical lumberjack, but I was also always under the impression that teachers were supposed to be more clean.  When Nick shaves his face (which is becoming less and less frequent recently) the sink looks like a forrest grew in its place.  He has to sleep with his shirt on, otherwise when we cuddle I wake up with chest hairs in my teeth, nose, and ears.
There are quite a few things about being married that have been less than easy to adjust to.  Such as sharing a bed with someone who snores like a moose.  Or the way his breath smells after eating raw hot dogs.  Or his determination to wear the same pair of shorts 10 days in a row.
I can't exactly play innocent, however.  I know there is a list of things I do that drive Nick crazy.  I stick my stray hairs to the shower wall.  I never refill the britah pitcher, so he always finds it in the fridge empty.  I can drink a gallon of milk in three days.
While it appears there are many things about being married that seem hard to handle, there are many more parts that I love.  As a newly married couple everyone is always asking what the best part is.  My personal favorite is simply the companionship.  I love being with Nick every day, waking up next to him, eating next to him, and especially coming home from work to him.  It is very different from before when we would have to plan out what time of day we could spend together.  It seems so much easier now.
In many ways, there are perks to marrying a werewolf.  He is great at keeping me warm at night.  I always feel very protected and safe.  Plus, as Twilight promises, he is very good-looking.

Barron's Wisdom

When talking about Rudy, you may hear me reference to Barron quite a bit.  Barron's Dog Bible: Beagles, as it is officially called.
I bought this book awhile ago because I knew a knowledge-filled book was the perfect tool to use in order to get the 'stubborn-stupid' part out of Rudy.
Perfect tool as in the way of whacking him when he's chewing apart my underwear, that is.
Of all the dog-training books I have glanced at, I like this one the best.  It was wrote about beagles, which is MUCH different that a book written for dogs.  A dog book says, "Your dog lives to please his master.  It is his greatest reward."  A beagle book (such as Barron) says things like, "The Beagle's stubborn streak is legendary.  Ask a beagle to come and you may or may not get a response, unless of course, you are waving a treat in the air.  Tell a Beagle to sit, and he'll do it if he feels like it.  Or not.  As for stay, well, just hope your Beagle doesn't get wind of something interesting, or he'll forget the meaning of the word."
Ain't that the truth.
Last night I made an italian dish that required chicken.  The styrofoam container it came in was safely tucked away in the trash.
We caught Rudy dashing away with it THREE times before Nick buried it deep enough he couldn't reach it.  Each time we caught him with it we would sternly say 'no' and take it away, as any dog book would tell you to do.
Each time we put it back in the trash it was as if Rudy's mind was telling him, "Maybe this time it will be alright," or "If I get under the table fast enough they'll never know."  As soon as he had it in his mouth he would bolt to the coffee table and squeeze under it.

I was thinking about Rudy's stubborn-stupid streak when I realized that the same could be said about my husband.  I bake cookies and tell him, "Do not eat the cookies.  They are not for you."  I go to the bathroom and come back to find crumbs all over his face.  I tell him "My stomach hurts." And so he pushes on it.  I move his beer around in the fridge and he doesn't understand why the milk is where it use to be.

So maybe all the men in my life suffer from the same thing.  Good thing I'm around to continue hitting them in the face with books.

Bedtime

My absolute favorite part of being married happens in bed at the end of a grueling day.
Pillow talk.
Nick and I have our best conversations at night in bed.  It's when we both listen best, and because of that we are both more willing to open up.
While we talk about a vast array of things at night, the one question I always ask is, "What was the best part of your day?" This is so important to me because I like knowing what went for my husband in the last 24 hours.  Plus, if the day ended rough, it reminds us that at least something made us smile.
Sometimes our favorites are the same, and sometimes they are different.  I like knowing he's always honest with me. He never tells me what he thinks I want to hear.
This is the reason I don't sleep as well if Nick is already in dreamland when I get home.  Once the man is asleep, there is no waking him back up for a conversation.  My early attempts taught me something very interesting: jibberish will come back as answers to my questions.  It's as if he's awake, because he can hear my questions and will answer them, but I get a front-row view of whatever he's dreaming about at the moment.
For example: (and I solemnly swear these are not changed or tampered with.  They are word-for-word what he said.  I started writing it down.)

Me: What was the best part of your day?
Nick: December 1947.

Me: Can I have my pillow back?
Nick: Just fill your own case.
Me: What case?
Nick: The bank-robbery case.

Once I realized the potential of these conversations.  I started egging them on.

Me: What was the best part of your day?
Nick: Going to Grandma's. (which we hadn't)
Me: And what was Grandma doing?
Nick: Beating up all the children.

Me: What was the best part of your day?
Nick: Fishing. (also which he hadn't)
Me: What did you fish for?
Nick: Goats.
Me: The goats were in the water?
Nick: No, they were in the air.
Me: Oohh.  What else was in the air?
Nick: Farts. (That's probably pretty accurate.)

Five Ways Television and Movies Have Lied to Me

1. Scenes of my life aren't nearly as funny or dramatic without background music. Especially when the scene is being retold to someone who wasn't there.
2. In movies, husbands and wives go to bed at night and commence something I have decided must be a myth: they cuddle. My husband is under the impression that cuddling and groping are synonyms. I ask if he wants to cuddle, and all of a sudden I'm in the middle of an attack from all sides. A few nights ago there was a storm going on while we were falling asleep. I told him I was scared. To calm me he put his hand on my ass.
3. There aren't any monsters or faceless men under the bed OR in the closet. And I know for sure, because I make Nick check every night.
4. Brad Pitt and some hot actor get in a huge fight, resulting with someone slamming the door on their way out. Later that night, when the girl gets home from work or drinking the night away, Brad Pitt has bought her an entire new wardrobe. Without a job, nonetheless. When Nick and I get in a fight I'm lucky if he even remembers when I get home.
5. I will not age like Demi Moore. When I am 50 I will droop everywhere and the phrase 'putting on my face' won't just meaning putting on my make-up in the morning.

Love Ain't Cheap

Our honeymoon was exactly what we had in mind. The day after the wedding, we headed into Chicago to cheer on the cubs and fiesta at the block party.
After a few days there we headed to Florida, which we could only do because of the generosity of a good friend with a condo in Ft. Myers.
We were determined to spend our time in Chicago and Florida without (barely) any hold. We did something exciting every day, none of which were free. We were still careful while away not to spend too much. We always called around for the best prices, and ruled out the outrageous stuff.
My personal favorite was the morning we went on a jet ski dolphin tour. We were sitting on the beach waiting for the rest of the tour when our guide started a conversation with us. He was quite informational. He explained to us that the people swimming this early in the morning this time of year were idiots, (his word, not mine) because it is the time that sharks feed.
At this point I turn to my new husband, who was the designated driver, and told him, "You dump me from the jet ski and you'll be sleeping on the couch until I stop having nightmares."
But it gets better.
"They come to feed on the sting rays that hide under the sand," he explained to us.
This is where another guide felt the need to join in.
"I've been stung quite a few times," he told us. "Since they hide under the sand you can step on them and they snap up and sting you with their venom."
So let's get this straight.
It is the time if year that sharks come to this part of Florida. They feed close to the beach I'm sitting on because of the stingrays that hide under the sand of the shallow water.
That's all dandy while I'm sitting on the sand, but then they tell me it is my turn to wade to our jetski.
You may as well have called me Jesus, because I was walking on water the whole way out there.
Just in case you were worried, we survived the day incident free.
We've been back for about a month now, with the sweet memories and the photo album on the coffee table.
And then the credit card bill came in the mail.
Needless to stay, it took more than one cup of cold water to unfreeze Nick.
While we don't regret any penny of our honeymoon, we certainly will not be vacationing anytime soon again.

My Husband, the Stay-At-home Wife

My husband and I truly enjoy living in our new apartment. There is a certain snug feeling to driving home from work, and not to your parent's home. Even if it is a home with crooked floors. Seriously, the floors in our apartment is so off-balance the refrigerator leans.
Since my husband, Nick, is an elementary school teacher, he has spent the better part of the last few months on the couch. While I am working nearly forty hours a week as a waitress, Nick is mastering the gameplay of something called NBA 2K11. I fall asleep and wake up to the sound of a fake pair of announcers yelling fake gameplay as a fake crowd goes wild. But don't tell my husband I said that, because how dare I call something engineered so realistically fake?
As he plays, he somehow earns classic Jordans, as in the shoes. I'm still a little bit foggy on how he gets them, but I've seen the collection multiple times. This is due to the fact that he'll explain each of their special powers to whoever will stand still for more than a second.
And he says I'm obsessed with shoes?
It's so bad that when we are with friends you will hear him boastingly state things such as "Yeah, I finally made it to the finals, with a really tough win against the Pacers."
When Nick is not covering as the next Michael Jordan, he is being extremely helpful as a housewife. I have come home repeatedly to the once pile of crusty dishes not only scrubbed but put away correctly in the limited cupboard space we have.
If there is one chore he prefers above all others it is vacuuming. This is because of two main reasons.
A: The very first thing he registered for after he proposed was our Dyson Ball. It was his favorite gift. By far above all the pretty plates and vases. Since our apartment is mainly crooked wood floors, he uses every excuse he can to use it on the rug in our living room or the small carpet space surrounding our bed.
Reason B is that our extremely vocal and hyperactive beagle is terrified of it. After being terrorized by Rudy all day to play play feed play pet potty play feed...Nick looks forward to the revenge of chasing him around the apartment.
So while my life may not be quiet or peaceful, at least it is clean.