Uncreative Expression

    We did it! The apartment is rented and the couple we chose will sign the lease and make the first payment tomorrow. Sure, there was the speech impediment, the limp, and the flaky skin disease (far be it for me to judge a list of legitimate health concerns), but I'm pretty sure they have all their teeth, they smelled clean, and they appear to be very sweet and excited about the rental space. I must admit, I am rather glad to have this task behind us.... it's fairly cumbersome trying to juggle all of those emails, keeping everyone's information straight and setting up appointments that people will inevitably no-show. And when the prospective tenants did arrive for their look at the apartment, it was taxing trying to sell them on the bright fuscia, old-school baby blue, and canary yellow rooms ("creative expression" should be limited to those tentants who aren't blind.... literally, our last renter only had one working eye).

    My husband continually referred to the bathroom as Big Bird's dressing room when viewers cringed and shielded their eyes from the radiant color that was used to "brighten the place up a bit". After staring at any one of the colors for too long, you could see how the rest of the rooms didn't look too bad, afterall. I was still able to put a positive spin on the place as having "great bones" and "unique touches" while pointing out it's usable space. My husband? Not so much. One couple walked through and wasn't seeming very excited about the unit and having to repaint. My husband responded with "Yeah, I wouldn't blame you if you don't want the place...."  This was after he went into lengthy stories that seemed to have no bearing on the renter, apartment, or task at hand. After that, he was instructed to keep his mouth shut unless asked a specific question, and even then, he was to give only short, direct answers.

    Furthermore, it has to be said that people who refuse to clean out ovens, allowing mold to grow on top of old grease (which I didn't even know was possible), should be forced to sit in a bathtub of the greasy mold, allowing it to cake their skin like it did my hands as I was elbow deep in their old gunk this weekend. I rolled over in the middle of the night and woke up, still smelling the citrusy aroma of Goo Gone clinging to me like a damp sweat... But no matter. It's over, we're landlords again. As a nice gesture, I'll even bring the new tenants a housewarming gift... two pairs of ultra-dark sunglasses for each of them to wear in the "special" colored rooms.

For Rent By Owners

    My husband and I own a house in a small town with an apartment above the garage out back, both of which we rent out. Our apartment tenants had to move out suddenly and we were left scrambling to get it re-occupied at the last minute. So, last night I posted the rental online (complete with pictures, like a good landlady) around 10:00pm.... and in 24 hours I have had nearly 55 emails inquiring about the post! Now, why these 55 emailers felt it was necessary to explain their entire life stories to me was beyond reason.... Honey, telling me that you're on disability and going through a messy divorce with your 5 cats isn't exactly a selling point. Another fellow explained that he has terrible credit, but he's just looking for a chance to prove himself.... this is not the Oprah show. We don't do handouts, sir, please move on. Then there's the man that spelled just about every word wrong in his message. Call me passive aggressive, but I couldn't help emailing him back, saying that the apratment was still availlable and culd be redy bye Argust 1st.

    My husband and I decided to stagger some times in the next few days to show the place off to those wishing to see it (and there are many). We even had one woman offer to "make it worth our while" to move her application to the top of our list.... she's either loaded (I'm ok with a bribe) or twisted (please be loaded, please be loaded), but we will find out this weekend! I'm starting to think we may be asking too little for the place.... perhaps we should make an apple pie (who cares about the old realtor trick.... I just like pie), host an open house, and then I'll pull out a gavel and start the bidding at asking price, going up by $50 increments until all but one lucky renter folds (and if they have most of their teeth, smell decent, and their credit check proves worthy, we'll take them!) It may seem odd to have a teeth and odor clause, but we've learned our lesson the hard way. Come August 1st, we WILL have our place rented.... let's just hope our nutcase-repellant is working.

Terrible, No Good, Rotten Human Being

   My husband is a terrible, no good, rotten, human being. Techinically, I could end the entry there and call it a day. However, I feel that the women of the world have a right to know what kind of miscreant walks among them. I was just sitting down to watch television after a long day at work AND after cooking two meals (one for today and one for tomorrow.... turkey burgers with blue cheese and crab meat quiche, just in case anyone is interested) when my husband calls me on the phone from the backyard. Of course, this is his usual ritual. If he knows that I am home, he calls every 20 minutes and says (I quote), "Whatcha doin?" Generally, I respond that it's the same thing I was doing the last time he called, but it's without fail that he will call as soon as it's most inconvenient or undesirable (I'm tempted to block his number...no, I'm not joking).

    So, putting my annoyance aside that he called (again) for no particular reason, he proceded to insult me (UNPROVOKED), sending this nearly-30 woman into a tizzy. My husband (the man I chose....chose....for better or for worse) told me that he has a picture of me that comes up when I call his phone. The picture is from a few years back....my hair was long, I was about 20 pounds lighter, and I looked my mid-20s age instead of teetering into the next decade of life. This man that I "love" had the nerve to say, "I like to remember what you looked like when you were pretty." (!!!!)

    After I fed his supper to the dogs, I decided to inform the world that my husband is indeed a terrible, no good, rotten human being.

Lamb Flops

    Despite the horrendous heatwave of the summer, tonight I braved the kitchen and cooked up a stupendous dinner that even Shari Lewis would be tempted by. Lamb chops marinated in greek herbs and oils and then grilled in its own juices, fresh oregano, and garlic until lightly charred on the outside. The lamb was accompanied by sauteed green beans and followed by a refreshing strawberry/banana/chocolate malt for dessert. I set out the grape leaves and hummus to make mini lamb rolls.... absolutely divine (if I do say so myself). However, my husband took that beautifully marinated meat, neglected the hummus and grape leaves, choosing instead to douse his lamb chop in A-1 sauce. All of the mediterranen flavors that took hours to infuse into that juicy little sheep flew right out the window when he poured that Texan sauce all over his meal. I mean, it's not like we spent the day herding the cattle onto the ranch, slaughtering us up a big ole' bull, and then grilling it over an open fire. There was hummus for crying out loud. He took my gorgeous lamb chop and turned it into a lamb flop! As he would tell it, "You eat it your way, I'll eat it mine." I should've just made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because the art of intricate flavors is completely lost on that caveman of mine.

"Will Cuddle For Food"

    I don't know if it was PMS, this insufferable heat, or just plain being cranky, but last night, no matter what he did, my husband drove me crazy! First off, he LIKES to get under my skin, so much of his antics were intentional I'm sure. After being in 95 degree heat the entire day, I found a modicum of solace in our one air-conditioned room (where it was probably only 10 degrees cooler at best)....that is until my husband and dogs entered the room and proceded to lay all over me, covering my body like a furry blanket. My guy ALSO found it hysterical that I nearly took his head off each time he asked to "cuddle".... as if! It's 95 flippin' degrees and he wants me to let a large, sweaty man smother me? I continued to tell him exactly what I thought of his idea, until the urge hit me that I seriously HAD to have pizza.... AND chocolate.... immediately! So I quickly ended my nastiness and turned on my whiney sweetness, slathering on my request for pizza like a thick coat of syrup. (Oh come on, he wanted it, too.) We argued about who would go downstairs (to what was beginning to feel like the center of Hell itself) to get the checkbook. In the end, I won.... I had to agree to a morning smothering, but at least I got pizza and a mini chocolate lava crunch cake.

Smart Vs. Stupid

    No, I'm not talking about the difference between our IQs, but I AM talking about mine and my husband's difference in opinion between phones. Having lost a gazillion calls on my cell today, I decided to give my wireless provider a ring to see what the trouble may be. Sure enough, a tower is out.... AND a new phone upgrade is available to me this month! These words cause the average electronics spaz to quiver with excitement, salivating all over the shiny new toys that could be theirs with a simple click of a button. But to me, it's yet another horrendously difficult decision I have to make regarding something I understand NOTHING about.
    My husband is a smart phoner. I, on the other hand, have chosen to bury my head in the sand and pretend that the world ISN'T being taken over by these obsessive little computer devices. So I spent an hour plugging in the different phones that looked pretty to me (yes, because this is how I choose my cell phone), comparing and contrasting the various capabilities of the darn contraptions.... touchscreen... touchscreen slider... 3G, 4G, mobile hotspot, skype mobile, GLOBAL TETHERING!!!! Oh my gosh, does the phone even make phone calls????? 'Cause that's not mentioned anywhere! The only exciting thing I saw was a candybar feature.... not sure what it is, but if someone throws in a Snickers, I'd buy any phone it's added to at this point just to get the decision over with!
    As I sit here with my stupid phone lying next to me on the desk, my husband's comments of coming into the 21st century ringing in my ear, and my frustration with paying for features I don't even understand building within me... I think I need some more advice. So if you have any input, please feel free to settle this silly debate in our house between Smart vs. Stupid phones. (All comments or emails are encouraged.... however, you will be promptly deleted from my social networking world if you use any sort of complex computer language that makes you sound intelligent and me sound as stupid as my Stupid phone.)

Sgt. Costa

    I couldn't take it anymore, I had to cut my hair. Now, for me, this is a run of the mill activity. I used to get my hair cut whenever the whim hit me (and it hit me a lot.... generally after a bad test grade, argument, or if I got up on the wrong side of the bed). Hair cuts are a girl's go-to when she feels down. Nothing says, "You look gorgeous!" like a new do when you're depressed or having a fat day. Don't get me wrong, chocolate works wonders, but getting my hair done doesn't leave me feeling guilty, nauseous, or self-loathing. Although I adore chopping, coloring, and styling my hair in new and fun ways, my hubby is less than thrilled when he sees my day planner marked with a trip to the salon. Like most men, he prefers long hair. He also prefers straight hair (I should've warned him when he met me that my hair was not naturally flat.... in fact, in it's natural state, I bear a strong resemblance to a teased-out chia pet), but needless to say, I refuse to keep my hair in a state of annoyance just to keep my picky husband happy.
    During the week leading up to the big day, my man made the usual comments of not wanting me to look "butch" or like I'm joining the marines, nor does he want to hear the word "sassy" come from my lips to describe my upcoming chop. Alas, hair cut day arrived and I gave my stylist the go-ahead to remove the unnecessary 4 inches that were creeping down my back in frizzy spirals. She snipped and cut, gelled and dried, straightened and styled. I left feeling sleek and light-headed (literally, my head felt lighter). I arrived home and my anxious husband summoned me to the kitchen so he could yell at me for being a huge disappointment in the hair realm. I strutted into the room with all the confidence of a rock-star, wrapped my arms around him, and planted a big kiss right on his lips. Sergeant Costa reporting for duty! A coy smiled crept across my guy's face as he showed me (in no certain words) that he did, indeed, like my cut.

Kinda Clean

    Before I begin this post, it's important to understand that my husband is very intelligent. (Got it?) That being said, he's a complete moron. I'm standing at the sink this morning, washing dishes, and I see his protein shake bottle sitting on the counter. It looks a little cloudy, so I ask him if it's clean or dirty. He says, "It's kinda clean." Hmmm. So what he's REALLY trying to say is that he rinsed it out but didn't actually wash it. I chose to call him out on this. "You just rinsed it out didn't you." (My mind started to wander to all the times he's "done the dishes" for me and how many dishes have been put back into the cupboards that were "kinda clean".) Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, my husband smiled shyly and said, "Well, I was gonna use it again...." Ok, here's the thing, DEAR, we use ALL of our dishes again! That's why we don't throw them away after we've dirtied them. We WASH them (not kinda, but all the way) so that we don't have to buy new dishes every day. After I explained that to him, I added "You're gonna use it again.... that's the stupidest thing I've heard." His response? "Oh honey, give me a couple minutes and I bet I can come up with something stupider." And THAT'S my morning in a nutshell.

Flying Pigs

    The most miraculous thing happened! My husband, seeing that I was struggling to catch up on the cleaning after our long weekend out of town, offered to help me clean. (That's awesome in and of itselt, but that's not even the most amazing part!) I thanked him for his offer but didn't take him up on it because I know he has to do "manly stuff" in the yard. But he brought it up AGAIN and then said (and I quote), "Why don't you make me a list of things to do around the house? I think I work better from a list."
    And it was at that moment that the sky opened up and a herd of pigs with wings began flying this way and that way; ice began forming on the surface of the sun, and I could have sworn that I saw the tiniest of hundred dollar bills beginning to bud on the tree outside of our front door! After my ears stopped ringing and I wiped the tears of joy from my eyes, I sat down to make up a list.... and ya know what? I couldn't think of a thing. Ha! It was as if I had writer's block.... husband-helpers anxiety.... something! After an hour I was able to come up with a scarce to-do list that will have to hold him over until I can think of more tasks that need to be done (or until my REAL husband returns), whichever comes first. All I can say is that my husband has made my week and I love this alternate reality that I'm currently finding myself in.

Nanny In Shining Armor

    My husband and I just returned from four action-packed days in Michigan. I spent the better part of our stay playing M.O.H. (maid of honor, for those slow on the abbreviations) for my friend's wedding and then attended my brother's bridal shower (well, his fiance's shower.... even though I'm pretty sure he was just as excited by some of the gifts as she was!). During these four days, I highly anticipated a fight of some sort. Afterall, we do enjoy our alone time and there was none of that to be had for either of us (and one of us can handle that better than the other... you know who you are). But instead of a fight, I had the wonderful priveledge of observing my husband play Daddy Day Care to one of the bridesmaid's children all weekend long.
    Baby Luna loved her Uncle Pat. (And Uncle Pat, it has to be said, loved baby Luna.) During the rehearsal, he was the king of the swingset, manning all the little rascals that were in attendance. At the wedding and reception, in between his runs as a parking attendant (in which he was hit on by an elderly lady... well, sort of, because she told him he was only "kind of handsome" and now my husband has a complex) he spent time bouncing the baby around the site to keep her happy and to give her mama a much-needed break. Even the next morning when we went to the post-wedding party, after several days of non-stop action and little sleep, he managed to find the energy to push the little ones back and forth in an oversized gift box that had been emptied of it's presents and discarded. The entire weekend, he was sweet, romantic, helpful to everyone he met, and he didn't even complain once. My husband is truly my Prince Charming; my Nanny in shining armor.

My Toad In Shining Armor

    After being gone to work for almost 14 hours today, I got home and realized that I really haven't seen my husband for more than 5 minutes. So when I sat down to write tonight, I summoned him for some much needed inspiration for the blog. As we sat thinking, he blurts out, "You could write about my toad!" I sighed and responded, "Honey, no one wants to read about your toad... toads aren't funny, and it really has nothing to do with our first year of marriage." He, however, insisted that his toad story is witty and that everyone loves a good animal story (even though toads are closer to the Ick kingdom than the Animal kingdom in my opinion). But I, falling short on brain power AND creativity, have decided to appease him. Thus, here is the story of Pat's toad.
    Once upon a time, in a castle (garage) far, far away (well, at least a good 50 yards from the house), lived a chubby green toad. Despite his fear of the vicious, hairy, beasts that roam the land (the dogs, not my husband), the toad found courage to one day make his presence known to Prince Reads-A-Lot, who commonly occupied the castle. After many a fortnight (didn't think I'd ever get a chance to use THAT word in a blog) watching the Prince faithfully recline in his lawnchair throne, book always in hand, under the buzzing glow of the moon (energy-saving, bug-attracting, garage light), the toad knew that he was to befriend Prince Reads-A-Lot. So night after night, he inched closer to the royal lawnchair, hopping to and fro, careful not to disturb the enthroned reader, until a mutual comfort formed between the two companions. The Prince, seeing that the toad looked hungry, was eager to put him to work. The toad, seeing the Prince being assaulted by large, winged creatures, knew that he was the man (toad) for the job.
    The friendship between the Prince and his toad grew as the Prince sat, night after night, reading and swatting.... the toad flicking his long, quick tongue to spare the Prince from being attacked. As time passed, even the beasts of the land grew to respect the toad and his loyal work for the kingdom. Unfortunately, Princess Sneezes-A-Lot, being highly allergic to all things big and small, reprimanded the Prince for his close acquaintaince with the toad. Afterall, who ever heard of friend that gives you warts? The Prince reminded his beautiful Princess (oh yes, I went there.... it's my blog, darn it, and I'll make me beautiful if I want!) that his friend, though lowly and basically disgusting, was serving her highness's allergy need by eating the creatures that leave Princess Sneezes-A-Lot red and itchy. (This is where my husband's story ends....)
     (This is where MY story begins....) The Princess, overcome with gratitude toward the toad, rushes to the lawnchair, bends down, and places a kiss on the top of his head. Then, the toad turns into Channing Tatum and the two of them ride off in a Chariot Grand Prix, ditching the Prince and his stupid story.

    The End

Life, Liberty, And The Pursuit Of Fireworks

    I love fireworks. There are such such wonderful memories of lying on the grass and watching the display unveil above me... the booming sound, the shimmering sparkles, people ooo-ing and ahh-ing. However, none of this is a good representation of this particular Independence Day. Sure, there were booming sounds and shimmering sparkles.... but they were followed by people shrieking and covering their heads as out of control fireworks threatened to make this their last July 4th.
    Backing up....
    My hubby and I decided to spend some of  the holiday weekend at our farmer's camp with his wife and several of their friends. Last year, we enjoyed a lovely round of fireworks on the final evening of the weekend, set off by our gracious farmer host. Since it was such a success in the past, I made the incorrect assumption that this years' safety was a given. I should have seen it coming. Our farmer. My husband. Walking across the river to a small island to set off the bombs (I mean fireworks). In the dark. With the apparent inability to understand the written directions on the box. So when the first round of works shot off in random directions, some skimming across the water like firey skpping stones, we should have called it a night. Our determined gentlemen (knuckleheads) however, felt pretty certain that if they built up some stones around the works, it would keep them in the correct position. Well, that was a flop (literally). As a random ray of sparks rained down on us onlookers through the tree branches, the dogs whining and cowering for cover, we could barely see which direction the next set of shots was heading... until a startled yelp arose from our farmer. We knew instantly. The poor guy took a cracker right to the shin. But still, our men trudged forward with the show, giving us a grand finale of little noise makers that jumped about 10 inches off the ground before landing in the water with a sizzle.
    Despite our racing hearts and the less-than-spectacular ending, we offered up a raucus round of applause. Afterall, the 4th of July is about freedom.... and after a close-up with death, I never appreciated it more.

The Mighty Fisherman

    Apparently cutting down trees isn't manly enough for my husband. Now he's taking to fishing. Well, let me rephrase that... he's TRYING to take to fishing. It has yet to be seen whether or not this will actually be a success (flashbacks to a couple of summers ago when he had the great idea that he was going to be a bow-hunter... and then quit when he proceded to lose all the arrows during practice in the yard (not to mention that he scared off a deer during a little gas-passing-incident)). Although I can say one thing, my guy has been awfully diligent with his new hobby. He gets up at daybreak and loads all of his fishing gear into the truck like a little boy scout, and then he stays down at the creek (excuse me, crick) until he catches something. Today, he even caught a turtle! At least the turtle was bigger than the 6-inch fish he bragged about 2 weekends ago. Apparently all the husbands at the crick have been complaining about the lack of fish this season, although I believe this new activity is just an escape from their wives complaining about how their fish-scented men are grossing up the house. Where once my kitchen was a place of female tranquility, I now have containers of worms in my refridgerator next to the eggs. And don't get me started on the fishing line (complete with hook) that I almost impaled my bare foot with on the front porch yesterday! I guess it could be worse... but if I ever come home to find a fish head on my kitchen counter, someone else will be getting the axe, as well.