I bet you thought I forgot about this, huh? DIDNTJA?! Well I didnt. I just got an eensy bit busy. But I definitely had to find time to share this crap with you. Here goes.
In the course of any relationship there are always running arguments. Discussions that can never be solved and lack any real relevancy or rationality. Take us, for instance. Every night when we go to sleep we will read together in bed for a while. This usually sparks the argument about who left the bed in a disarray, much huffing and puffing over how much room the other person is occupying and who has more blankets. One evening Chris made the snide comment that "I guess it makes complete sense that a miniature tornado forms over the bed after you leave it in the morning." To which I agreed. It certainly does make sense that a small tornado destroys the bed after I get out of it. I would never hog the entire bed immediately after he exits it, twisting up blankets and sheets and pulling all 9 pillows over my head in an effort to shut out all sound and light. Clearly, it is the work of a bored whirlwind.
I am also a bit of a traditionalist. I realize I am a dying breed (I prefer to think of it as a dying breed rather than a dinosaur for obvious reasons) but in this house hold Chris does man stuff and I do woman stuff. I would much rather do dishes, laundry, and toilets than sweat my ass off outside in the heat mowing the lawn and changing oil. If I wanted to do all that noise I would be single, okay? Now, I absolutely have the intelligence to do what I deem 'man stuff' but I like to think of myself as the smarter for getting Chris to do it, instead of me, if you see what I mean. Not only that, but if I let Chris do anything in my kitchen, all manner of bad things happen. He never puts the stuff back the way I have it arranged. Whatever made him think that plastic containers for leftovers go on top of the refrigerator which is a good 6" taller than me, I'll never know. I expect one day he'll feel froggy enough to do dishes and somehow manage to unleash a swarm of locusts in there or something. So in the interest of keeping peace in our house, he stays the hell out of my kitchen and I let him take the garbage out twice a week. To some, it's sexist. To me, it's a fair deal.
Which brings about this latest bout of verbal diarrhea. One evening, a week or so ago, we were snug under the covers when I had a tingling sensation in my feet. I realized that the blankets were starting the thawing process on them and decided to help things along by sticking them on Chris's thigh. After flinching and letting out a very unmanly hiss, he turned to me and this is what happened.
Him: "Is there something I can help you with?"
Me: "Nope, I'm good."
Him: "Your feet are really really cold."
Me: "I know but they're warming up quite nicely."
At this point in the conversation things were getting a bit testy. His thigh was undergoing the same process I imagine peas do when they're frozen into a bag and he was interrupting my very rare but precious reading time.
Him: "Would you please take your feet off my leg. Your feet are freezing."
Well now I had to put the book down and address the situation. (See: Retrain)Me: "Who does all the cooking and cleaning and stuff? I do. So you can warm up my feet when they are cold. It's a man's job and you're the man so suck it up and deal."
Which then sparked an argument about what a man's job consisted off. I'll spare you that and get straight to the insults which lasted long after my feet were nice and toasty and well into the next morning.
I believe he stated that my feet were harkening the ghost of the Titanic, that they kept cheese cold, and I think he threw something about the North Pole in there for good measure. I'll let him weigh in on that.
If you look closely, the shape of the glacier is very similar to my foot. Okay, so it doesnt look like my foot at all, which must mean that Chris was just whining.
In other news, my mother moved in behind me which has been great for me. Between her and my sister, they've given me loads more free time to get important stuff done like organizing my nail polishes by color and playing internet drinking games.
Unfortunately for her, my mother's pets have decided to try to kill her. The dog pulled her out of the house and down the back steps where she landed quite unceremoniously on the ground. The only saving grace was she didnt hit a landmine while lolling about in the grass but is now sporting road rash on various limbs. Both of the cats have bitten her, one for my mother daring to put on a shoe he had been sleeping on, and the other actually bit her hard enough to leave a wicked puncture wound in her right arm complete with swelling and bruising.
My sister's father came to visit my sister after they got moved in and promptly locked his keys in his vehicle. I walked out the back step and slipped, falling on my ass and seriously damaging my street cred. A couple of weeks ago, someone driving a black Honda Civic with factory rims and shitty band stickers tried to run down Chris while he was walking with the baby in the carrier on his chest. They were headed to the neighborhood park when the car gunned the engine over a speed bump and aimed it toward him. He had to jump in the grass to avoid being hit. He sprained his ankle and left some of his skin on the sidewalk. The best part? The cop taking the report didnt even do a drive through of the neighborhood to try and find the driver.
As of this writing no one has been gravely injured but I feel that may change in the near future as some sort of ominous convergence has opened up over our two residences.
The baby and I have been having lots of conversations. I'm not entirely sure what we're saying to each other. Most of what's going on is a lot of "AAAAHHHHHHEEEEEEEEHHHHLLLLLLLLOOURURURUAH's" and the like. I'm either promising her a pony for her 8th birthday or to blow her college fund on margarita mix for my nerves. I'm pretty sure it's the latter. I have the best kid, ever.
The other night Double Indemnity was on and Chris and I got into a discussion about film noir. I told him it was a terrible genre because the women (except for Casablanca - which had a terrible ending by the way) are always backstabbing hoes and that he had no romance in his soul. He's seriously reconsidering his decision to put a ring on my finger. Too late for him, I already popped out his kid. HA!
In the course of any relationship there are always running arguments. Discussions that can never be solved and lack any real relevancy or rationality. Take us, for instance. Every night when we go to sleep we will read together in bed for a while. This usually sparks the argument about who left the bed in a disarray, much huffing and puffing over how much room the other person is occupying and who has more blankets. One evening Chris made the snide comment that "I guess it makes complete sense that a miniature tornado forms over the bed after you leave it in the morning." To which I agreed. It certainly does make sense that a small tornado destroys the bed after I get out of it. I would never hog the entire bed immediately after he exits it, twisting up blankets and sheets and pulling all 9 pillows over my head in an effort to shut out all sound and light. Clearly, it is the work of a bored whirlwind.
I am also a bit of a traditionalist. I realize I am a dying breed (I prefer to think of it as a dying breed rather than a dinosaur for obvious reasons) but in this house hold Chris does man stuff and I do woman stuff. I would much rather do dishes, laundry, and toilets than sweat my ass off outside in the heat mowing the lawn and changing oil. If I wanted to do all that noise I would be single, okay? Now, I absolutely have the intelligence to do what I deem 'man stuff' but I like to think of myself as the smarter for getting Chris to do it, instead of me, if you see what I mean. Not only that, but if I let Chris do anything in my kitchen, all manner of bad things happen. He never puts the stuff back the way I have it arranged. Whatever made him think that plastic containers for leftovers go on top of the refrigerator which is a good 6" taller than me, I'll never know. I expect one day he'll feel froggy enough to do dishes and somehow manage to unleash a swarm of locusts in there or something. So in the interest of keeping peace in our house, he stays the hell out of my kitchen and I let him take the garbage out twice a week. To some, it's sexist. To me, it's a fair deal.
Which brings about this latest bout of verbal diarrhea. One evening, a week or so ago, we were snug under the covers when I had a tingling sensation in my feet. I realized that the blankets were starting the thawing process on them and decided to help things along by sticking them on Chris's thigh. After flinching and letting out a very unmanly hiss, he turned to me and this is what happened.
Him: "Is there something I can help you with?"
Me: "Nope, I'm good."
Him: "Your feet are really really cold."
Me: "I know but they're warming up quite nicely."
At this point in the conversation things were getting a bit testy. His thigh was undergoing the same process I imagine peas do when they're frozen into a bag and he was interrupting my very rare but precious reading time.
Him: "Would you please take your feet off my leg. Your feet are freezing."
Well now I had to put the book down and address the situation. (See: Retrain)Me: "Who does all the cooking and cleaning and stuff? I do. So you can warm up my feet when they are cold. It's a man's job and you're the man so suck it up and deal."
Which then sparked an argument about what a man's job consisted off. I'll spare you that and get straight to the insults which lasted long after my feet were nice and toasty and well into the next morning.
I believe he stated that my feet were harkening the ghost of the Titanic, that they kept cheese cold, and I think he threw something about the North Pole in there for good measure. I'll let him weigh in on that.
If you look closely, the shape of the glacier is very similar to my foot. Okay, so it doesnt look like my foot at all, which must mean that Chris was just whining.
In other news, my mother moved in behind me which has been great for me. Between her and my sister, they've given me loads more free time to get important stuff done like organizing my nail polishes by color and playing internet drinking games.
Unfortunately for her, my mother's pets have decided to try to kill her. The dog pulled her out of the house and down the back steps where she landed quite unceremoniously on the ground. The only saving grace was she didnt hit a landmine while lolling about in the grass but is now sporting road rash on various limbs. Both of the cats have bitten her, one for my mother daring to put on a shoe he had been sleeping on, and the other actually bit her hard enough to leave a wicked puncture wound in her right arm complete with swelling and bruising.
My sister's father came to visit my sister after they got moved in and promptly locked his keys in his vehicle. I walked out the back step and slipped, falling on my ass and seriously damaging my street cred. A couple of weeks ago, someone driving a black Honda Civic with factory rims and shitty band stickers tried to run down Chris while he was walking with the baby in the carrier on his chest. They were headed to the neighborhood park when the car gunned the engine over a speed bump and aimed it toward him. He had to jump in the grass to avoid being hit. He sprained his ankle and left some of his skin on the sidewalk. The best part? The cop taking the report didnt even do a drive through of the neighborhood to try and find the driver.
As of this writing no one has been gravely injured but I feel that may change in the near future as some sort of ominous convergence has opened up over our two residences.
The baby and I have been having lots of conversations. I'm not entirely sure what we're saying to each other. Most of what's going on is a lot of "AAAAHHHHHHEEEEEEEEHHHHLLLLLLLLOOURURURUAH's" and the like. I'm either promising her a pony for her 8th birthday or to blow her college fund on margarita mix for my nerves. I'm pretty sure it's the latter. I have the best kid, ever.
The other night Double Indemnity was on and Chris and I got into a discussion about film noir. I told him it was a terrible genre because the women (except for Casablanca - which had a terrible ending by the way) are always backstabbing hoes and that he had no romance in his soul. He's seriously reconsidering his decision to put a ring on my finger. Too late for him, I already popped out his kid. HA!
P.S. This post is dedicated to Catherine. Her shoe collection is better than mine. I hope she wills it to me.
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