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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
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?"
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?"
Saturday, August 6, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 1, 2011
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.)
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.)
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