Newlywedded

That Was one Big Bug

Mike’s been out of town for the past few days. Women who’ve been married for a long time always seem to think that having the husband gone is a good thing. When he’s gone, you get a lot done-you don’t necessarily have to worry about having food in the fridge or what you’re doing on Saturday night because it’s just you. You can walk around the house in homely outfits, giant PJ pants, eat peanut butter out of the jar and poop with the door open. There is, I must say, something rather lovely about not worrying—what he’ll want to do for this, and mostly, “Did you do this? Did you do that?” Nagging takes up a lot of time, and now that my schedule’s more free, I realize just how much “trouble” a husband is. It’s kind of…well…it’s kind of like having a child. Yup, I said it.

 

The other night, our friends, Cari and Aaron, picked me up so we could all go to dinner. When their Prius sailed up the street, I was standing outside. Cari was shocked. When I plopped into their backseat, I was greeted with:

 

Cari: “You’re so on time!”

Me: “I know! Crazy right? You want to know why I’m so on time?”

Cari: “Because Mike’s out of town?”

Me: “Exactly. Guys, you always think we’re late because it’s me when, in reality, I’m spending half my time running around asking Mike to do things and by the time he actually gets them done and gets himself ready to go, we’re late. So, the truth is that it’s not always me, guys. Sometimes, it’s him.”

Cari: “Fair enough, but a lot of times it’s you too.”

Me: “OK, maybe…fine.”

 

I couldn’t quite convince them of my innocence, of my innate talent at multi-tasking, of Martha Stewarting and Oprahing myself to the point of genius (all because my husband is out of town), but over the past four days, I’ve certainly convinced myself. I’ll be meeting Mike in Europe, and usually, packing is a nightmare, getting the house and the dog ready is usually such an ordeal that I wonder whether there’s a point to leaving at all. This time, though, I was packed 24 hours ahead of time. The dog walker had been de-briefed, the house cleaned, the bills paid, the unreturned calls returned and everything, generally, in order.  I was feeling like a GIANT rockstar until about 1pm yesterday, when I went into my bathroom cabinet to get some nail polish and A GIANT COCKROACH FLEW OUT AT ME. And, not just a smallish bettle, it was so large it needed a leash. I yelped, actually I shrieked—it kind of sounded like the shriek of a woman who’s being attacked…bottom line is that if in fact I were being attacked, clearly none of my neighbors care because no one stopped by to ask if I was OK. No need, though, I was just taking my cockroach out for a spin.

 

My ammunition? The dustbuster and a rag-neither of which would suffice.

Eventually, he met his fate when a heavy bottle of rubbing alcohol landed on him and he got swooped up with a Lysol wipe. Juicy and dismembered, he’d given me an anxiety attack.

 

A few minutes later, I decided it was time to take out the trash. For those of you who aren’t regular readers of my blog, the trash is a BIG issue in our house. I’ve made it known that it’s NOT MY JOB—that I have many many jobs in the house and that’s NOT ONE OF THEM. Despite the fact that I believe that our job descriptions have been pretty clearly delineated, Mike still avoids taking out the trash and I still find myself in this position—“Honey, can you take out the trash?” “Honey, you still haven’t taken out the trash.” “Take out the f-ing trash before I rip your f-ing head off!!!!!!!!!”

 

Hence, yesterday. Hubby’s gone so wifey has trash duty. Simple enough. Do it all the time. I flick the lid open and am welcomed by a stench that most closely resembles day old vomit and rancid cabbage (yeah, that about covers it). No problem. In two seconds it’ll be a distant memory.  Grabbing the bag from the top, I yank it hard and…nothing. The bag refuses to budge. I yank again. And again. And after developing some serious lower back pain and busting three holes in the plastic bag as I dug my nails into it in frustration, it became frustratingly clear that this bag was not coming out of the can. After ten minutes and the realization that a PhD program in “taking out the trash” might need to be offered at most major universities, I knocked the trashcan over with my foot and decided that I would coax the bag out horizontally. I hadn’t, however, been prepared for the white puss-like substance that oozed it’s way out of the bag with each tug. One…last…yank! And there I was. Tossed to the other end of the kitchen, a trail of the stinky liquid trailing behind. Sick. No wonder he hates taking out the trash. I’m never ever going to bug him about it again. Ever. I should give him an award for doing this, it’s so horrible.

 

And the piece de resistance. The last pre-trip dog walk. Our twelve-year old yellow lab, Louie, is in pretty good shape. Lately, however, he’s been limping about with some high maintenance dog allergy paw problem that I’m choosing to ignore hoping to forgo a $300 vet bill and instead, opting for natural healing. Keep your fingers crossed. Anyway, so we’re taking a late night stroll-something we always do with Mike (Louie’s on his best behavior with Mike). We run into a couple of neighbors, chat for a few seconds, Louie’s as tame as can be and ALL OF A SUDDEN…he DRAGS me across the brick divider between the sidewalk and a neighbor’s lawn, causing me to scrape up my entire leg…all for a piece of his most sought after delicacy…a piece of cat poop.

 

As I iced my leg last night, with the dog staring pathetically at me like a three-year old who has no idea why he’s taking a “time out,” my lower lip quivered. “I miss Mike,” I whimpered to Louie, whose eyes swelled with that exact sentiment. My bags were packed, the house was in order, but I was a wreck. Life with Mike runs later, is so much busier, is certainly messier, definitely stinkier (especially when he hasn’t taken the trash out in days), but it’s so much more fun…

 

Plus, he’s a hell of a cockroach killer. 

The World According to Mike-PART II

If you haven't read part I yet, it was posted yesterday--check it out before you read this one. 

At this very moment, I'm sitting in a hotel room in Solvang, CA watching Law and Order re-runs while Mike gets his nails done (something I forced him to do as he's in a wedding this evening). So, it's our dear friends' wedding weekend here in the Santa Ynez Valley and since we got here yesterday, I recognized a great irony in my marriage. When Mike and I are at home getting ready for social events, I'm always late--I can never figure out what to wear, I'm running around the house frantically looking for my Blackberry, hollering about how I can't find my keys and all the while my husband is standing there, dressed and waiting for me. 

On vacation, however, things are different. On vacation, I go into psycho-on-time mode. For this trip, I've had every outfit planned, every location mapquested and I am, in effect, the vacation Nazi. On the other hand, since we got here, Mike's been on a laissez faire kick. I'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact that he doesn't have to think for one minuet (as I've done all of the work already) but he's actually ABLE to switch his stresser off and...well...be on vacation. I, however, am seemingly terrified of it--the thought of relaxation seems a far off notion...a mirage...something that couldn't possibly be possible.

And last night, on our way to the rehearsal dinner, I subjected everyone in the wedding crew to my fascistic vacation ways. Several of the groomsmen (including my husband) were running late for the rehearsal dinner and assured me and the other wives that we could be late for the dinner, that it wouldn't matter, that it's OK, that even though it was called for 6:30pm...we could show up at 6:45/7:00 and it would be FINE. I, of course, was having none of this. I had been ready a half hour early. I had done my outfit agonizing early, I had exfoliated, I had done my eye makeup...at 6:30pm I was sitting on the edge of the bed watching as Mike leisurely shaved...

ME: "Honey, we have to go."

MIKE: "It's fine. I'll be ready in five minutes."

This, BTW, is MIke's FAVORITE phrase. 

ME: "The dinner is at 6:30, it's 6:30."

MIKE: "No one else has left yet. It'll be FINE."

ME: "No no...this is not fine. I'm ready, do you see? This is me. Ready. I'm never ready and now I'm sitting on the bed and no one at this dinner will know that I was the one ready on time! We'll walk in late and they'll all be like, 'oh, of course they're late. Alexis takes forever.'"

MIKE: "Relax."

This is Mike's favorite thing to tell me when we're on vacation. Relax-as if it's so so easy.

MIKE: "Seriously, you need to calm down."

ME: "It's 6:38, Mike. It's going to take us some time to get there and we're going to be those a-holes who walk in so late that, like, the speeches will have to be paused and someone might even make a joke about us."

Ten minutes pass.

ME: "I'm getting Ben. I'm sure he's ready."

I go outside to the other groomsmen's rooms. Let's just say that one of them couldn't answer the door because he was in the shower and there I was, banging on his door, screaming, "Ben! It's 6:40! We have to get there!" Ben, of course, seemed to be on my husband's train and responded with...

"I'll be ready in five minutes!"

I stomped back into our room.

MIKE: "So?"

ME: "He's not ready yet."

MIKE: "I told you."

ME: "Well, this is RIDICULOUS. I'm leaving."

I grabbed my Pashmina in a huff, snatched the keys from the table and clip clopped to the car. Mike ran after me...

MIKE: "What's wrong with you? Everyone's leaving at the same time!"

ME: "I REFUSE to be late for a rehearsal dinner. It's rude. If I were Heather, I'd be steaming, STEAMING! I'm ready, I'm going and I'm NOT going to be the a--hole!"

MIKE: "Fine, let's go, but when everyone else walks out of the hotel and sees that we've left, you're going to look like a crazy person."

ME: "Well, at LEAST I'll be ON TIME."

We get into Mike's Jeep. The others walk out.

BECCA: "Where are you going?"

ME: "We're late, guys. It's rude. We're leaving."

SCOTT: "But I thought we were all going together."

I slump out of our car and into Becca's and Scott's car. Five of us head off through the hills of Santa Ynez and arrive at the rehearsal a half hour late. 

ME: "See guys? Everyone's already inside. I told you. We're so late."

MIKE: "Look, there's Josh!"

Josh, the groom, had just arrived. The other four people in the car turn to me...

MIKE: "I told you to CALM DOWN and see? Josh is just getting here...there's, like, no one here yet and you were freaking out."

As we made our way into the private dining room, I realized something...maybe the world according to Mike is the world as it should be...go with the flow...always on time (even if we're late) and always...relaxed. And then, the scariest thing happened...

MIKE: "See? I'm always right."

ME: "Yes. Yes....you are."

The World According to Mike-PART I

In a relationship, you learn that your significant other views the world very differently than you do. While you may have come together based on mutual likes and dislikes, your significant other will age, leading him or her to become more and more....well...strange. He or she will decide that that there are only certain things, circumstances, and situations in which they're equipped to engage and it is only around this sun that their world will revolve.  Now, for most wives, the world revolves them, but, the joy of being married to Mike is that when the world turns on its axis, facing him, we all get to see things like we're...well...on crack.

A few days ago, our bathroom sink was backed up. Ironically, despite the fact that Mike cannot fix anything (except DVD players and computers) I always...always run to him when something's broken. Whether it's a shattered glass or a noise in my car, I run straight to him...as if he's going to do anything about it....and BTW...as if I necessarily NEED him to do anything about it. It's not as if I haven't taken my car to the mechanic or killed a cockroach on my own before, it's just that, once you live with a man, it seems that it's their responsibility to handle these things. Why? Perhaps because we handle most everything else and it seems like the universe is throwing us a bone when something's f-d up, it's like, "here, have him deal with it and see what happens!" At the very least, God knows, comedy will ensue.

ME: "Honey, the sink's stopped up." 

He saunters over to the sink in a cowboy-like way, adjusting the elastic on his underwear and puffing up his chest. 

MIKE: "Hmmmmm. Looks like the sink's stopped up." 

At this point, he's empowered. I have given him license to decide what's wrong and how to fix it. He's a MAN.

ME: "Yes, that's true. What should we do about it?"

He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet with skeptical brows, pondering...

MIKE: "This is an issue."

ME: "Yes, it is. I'd like to brush my teeth."

He grumbles....all the while thinking, "She thinks I know how to fix this f-ing thing but I don't and yet, I'm going to act as if I'm thinking about how I'm going to fix it and I'm going to sound thoughtful and smart."

MIKE: "So would I...So would I..."

ME: "Any ideas?"

I lean in to look at it alongside him and he, puffed chest and all, thrusts his arm out in front of me the way a driving mother does to protect her child in the passenger seat. 

MIKE: "Hold on. Hold on...Just....Give....Me....A MINUTE."

ME: "OK"

He walks away. Thank God! Walking away means he has the solution! He knows how he's going to solve the problem and within four minutes I WILL be brushing my teeth, taking my makeup off and in a few MORE minutes, I'll be getting into bed! 

He returns.

He's holding a plunger.

Now, in the world according to Mike, this is a completely completely logical idea.

ME: "Care to explain?"

MIKE: "We don't have any Drano, and I realized something..."

He's standing there, in his underwear, brandishing his sword...THE PLUNGER...

MIKE: "...there's absolutely NO reason why you can plunge a toilet and not a sink."

ME: "Are you sure? Because I feel like that's something that's just not done, you know? I mean, I feel like if it were something that people did, then we'd...uh...we'd know about it."

MIKE: "You know what? Maybe it's just something that no one's figured out. Maybe I'm the first one to do this and everyone will thank me when it works."

May I remind you that he's standing there in his underwear waving his plunger at me?

ME: "If this works, Mike...if it works...we....will...be....gagillionaires. This could be the start of something big."

MIKE: "You make fun, but I don't see how this couldn't work, it makes perfect sense."

And with that, he thrusts the rubber bowl of the plunger into the drain of the sink and begins furiously plunging plunging plunging. He's sweating, our 1930's sink is rattling around....I can't watch....

I turn away and head into the bedroom.

ME: "How's it going?!"

Beat. 

MIKE: "Well...l

An even longer beat.

Mike: "Let's just say...you...DON'T want to come in here."

This is usually the part where Mike's joking and he finishes with, 'because i fixed the sink and you didn't believe me so now you don't get to use it,' but instead...

ME: "Why?"

He hears me padding towards the bathroom...

MIKE: "Don't....come...."

Too late.

The sink is now overflowing with a black, tar-like substance that groans and bubbles to the top.

ME: "What the hell did you do?! It's so much worse than it was before!"

MIKE: "I told you not to come in here!"

ME: "What? So I'm never allowed to go into my bathroom again?! It's going to stay like this forever?! It's my fault for coming in here but it's not your fault for DECIDING TO PLUNGE THE SINK? Who the f-k does that?!"

MIKE: "Actually, this isn't my fault."

ME: "And why, pray tell, would that be?"

MIKE: "Because you asked for my help with this and you never should have done that."

He plops the plunger on the tile floor of the bathroom, shoots me a look, and exits...

ME: "You acted like you could fix it."

MIKE: "Call a plumber. In my world, that's what you do. This isn't my job and until then...."

ME: "What?"

MIKE: "Don't go into the bathroom."

ME: "Let's make a deal."

MIKE: "Yes?"

ME: "In my world, you call the plumber."

MIKE: "Fantastic. Can I go now?"

ME: "Yes."

MIKE: "Thank you."

After the sink fiasco, our washing machine began shrieking like a dying hyena. I, of course, went running to 'you know who' and he fixed it with a swift bang of his foot. Mike looked at me, "That's how I fix things. Otherwise...."

ME: "Yes, I know. Call someone."

MIKE: "You got it."

Lesson learned...until....of course....a cockroach dances across our living room floor. Then, I'm definitely going to need that foot of his...

What the?!

Marriage is strange. No one tells you how bizarre living with a man is or what to expect and once you're in it, there are times that you hover over your kichen or your living room and watch the scenes as they play out between the two of you and you think, "What the...?"

A few mornings ago, Mike and I were having breakfast and he kept making this sound...a short, repetitive yoga breathing type of sound. I looked up from the paper.

ME: "What is that?"

MIKE: "What?"

ME: "That. That thing..."

MIKE: "What thing?"

ME: "That weird noise you keep making...that! You just did it!"

MIKE: "Oh that?"

ME: "Yeah!"

MIKE: "That's muted burp."

What the?!

ME: "I'm sorry...what?"

MIKE: "It's a burp but it's sort of quiet, like, I'm not busting out with a real burp because I don't really need to burp burp, but it's still releasing a gas without being loud."

ME: "It's really annoying. You keep doing it over and over again."

MIKE: "So? It's not loud."

ME: "I know but it's weird. Do you really have that much indigestion?"

MIKE: "Yes."

ME: "Maybe take a Tums and try not doing that so much?"

MIKE: "Whatever."

Needless to say, he continues to do the muted burp thing all the time now and of course, since I brought it up the first time, I'm so hyperaware of it that it's not longer "muted" it's on full volume. Then, the other night, a friend of ours called about boyfriend advice and I was standing in the kitchen, on the phone with her...

ME: "Well, I think you should call him."

MY FRIEND: "I can't call him. You told me I should never call him unless I'm returning one of his phone calls."

ME: "Well, now it's time to up the ante. You need to call him and invite him out this weekend otherwise you guys will lose momentum."

MY FRIEND: "Uggh! Why can't I just get married and be done with this!"

ME: "Oh, yuck!"

MIKE: "What?!"

MY FRIEND: "What?!"

ME: "There's all this...grainy stuff on the kitchen floor!" 

MIKE: "Yeah, there is."

ME: "Wait, I don't understand...you've been in this kitchen for the past hour, I just got home, and you never thought to clean up whatever that stuff is before I stepped in it in my bare feet and tracked it all over the place?!"

MIKE: "What's the big deal?"

What the?!

MY FRIEND ON THE PHONE: "Oh, that is so annoying."

ME: "It's annoying!"

MIKE: "So you're going to clean it up now. Calm down."

ME: "The point is, it was here. When you see it...just wipe it up, so that you and I and the dog don't take it on a whirlwind tour of our wooden floor so that I can continue to sweep it up everyday for the next three weeks and every time I find a pile of those little grains I'll think, 'Why didn't Mike just sweep this up when he saw it?'"

MIKE: "Fine. I'll do that next time."

Sure. 

ME (into the phone): "See? This is what you have to look forward to. This is why people stand at altars and profess their love for each other...so they can have this exact conversation over and over again for the next 25 years."

MY FRIEND: "Maybe I don't want to get married."

ME: "No, no. You do. You just have to know that when you celebrate someone's 50th wedding anniversary, you're really acknowledging the fact that they were able to endure having this exact conversation 750 times without eventually murdering each other. It's a true accomplishment."

And so, when went to a wedding last Saturday night, all I could think was, "If you can put up with the muted burps, the leaving the laundry in the basket for three weeks without folding it, the refusing to acknowledge spilled food products on the floor, the never ending conversations of 'why can't you' and 'why didn't you?'...if you can survive this...without bludgeoning one another...you did it...you did it..."

So last night, I'm cleaning up around the house and I notice these white specks all over the floor in the bathroom, in the guest room and in the kitchen.

ME: "Honey? What's this?"

MIKE: "I don't know."

ME: "It's weird. I think it was the dog...it smells like perfume though..."

MIKE: "Oh, oh, yeah...I dropped my deodorant on the floor."

WHAT THE?!

ME: "And you didn't clean it up?"

MIKE: "I don't know...I guess I didn't."

And just as we were about to have the same coversation...the one we'll celebrate at our 50th anniversary, I stopped myself.

ME: "Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

And I did...without murdering him. 

RESTAURANT WARS

Couples love to compete over restaurants. It's an integral part of what my friend, John, and his wife, Kristen, have deemed the FRIEND OLYMPICS. You see, couples are eligible for the Friend Olympics if they have 2 or more couple friends. Most couple friends don't necessarily hang out with each other--meaning--that mutiple couples usually only hang out in foursomes. Dinners for six can become cumbersome and the foursome, to the marrieds, seems more manageable. I, for one, couldn't really care less how many people I hang out with, but these days being as busy as we all are, it seems nearly impossible to get more than four people in one place at a time anyway. Once you're eligible to compete in the Friend Olympics, you realize that couples get fickle about who they give up their friday, saturday and sunday nights to. If you're on the A-List, you'll get a Saturday night, the C-List, a Wednesday and so on. With that being said, if you're a serious competitor, and you tend to have the real deal weekend plans, you'd better do something AWESOME-a triple lutz, a quadruple flip off the diving board-you'd better break records. In the Friend Olympics, you'll encounter situations where you feel like the competition's really getting to you, times when all of your training and focus might blow out the window over something as simple as...A RESTAURANT.

Case in point. A few weeks ago, we were out with our dear friends, Cari and Aaron, and we were talking about a restaurant we'd all been dying to go to. 

CARI: "I tried to get reservations at Cecconi's for the other night when our friends were in town..."

ME: "Wait a minute...you were going to go to Cecconi's WITHOUT us?!"

My statement was so incredulous you'd think I was suggesting that she and Aaron had been secretly planning to go to the moon. Friend Olympics was in effect.

CARI: "Yeah...why?"

Crestfallen, I shrugged my shoulders and pouted like I was eleven years old.

ME: "I don't know..."

Cari looked at me as if I was out of my mind and I then made it my mission to try Cecconi's that very week. 

But I did have one win in my future this past weekend when we made plans with Mike's friends, Jennifer and Yuval. Our game got off on the wrong foot from the very start. First, Jennifer suggested an 8:30pm dinner when Mike and I were thinking more like 7pm. The fight had only just begun.

Jennifer: "So I was thinking we'd do, like, 8:30ish?"

ME: "Are you crazy? I'm already starving and it's 5:30. We haaaaave to do 7pm."

Jennifer: "Alexis, get a grip. It's Friday night. Let's at least do 8pm."

ME: "7:30"

Jennifer: "7:45"

ME: "Fine."

I wouldn't consider that a win. It was more like a tie. Then comes the decision about WHERE TO EAT. Now, couples get very attached to "their" restaurants. They all have the places that are dear to their hearts, places they've been dying to try, and places that are, to them, sure to please any difficult palate, allergy, or vegetarian tendency. In this game, I found myself on the offensive--I was in it to win it. 

Jennifer: "I made a reservation at Cheebo."

ME: "Ew. That's a lunch place. What about Sur?"

Jennifer: "Yuck. Sur sucks way more than Cheebo. What about Frida?"

ME: "I already checked. They can only do 9:30. What about Larchmont Grill?"

Jennifer: "We've never been there."

ME: "Guess we'll have to try it!"

I could feel the hesitation in her voice.

Jennifer: Fine."

I WON! VICTORY WAS UPON ME! Until...Yuval and Jennifer picked us up and Yuval began to whine, "Larchmont Grill's American food. I really wanted spicy, like Thai or Mexican."

Mike and Me: "Too late!"

But our gold medal high wouldn't last long. Last night, we had dinner with Matt and Lisa and they informed us that they had gone to Osteria Mozza, a culinary hot spot that we haven't yet been to, with our other friends, Dave and Jen. 

ME: "You went to Osteria Mozza with Dave and Jen and you guys didn't invite US?" 

MATT: "We only had a reservation for six and Lisa's parents were in town, so..."

ME: "Uh huh...I see how it is. We lost the Friend Olympics. No no...that's OK...I understand..."

MATT: "Want me to pour more salt in your wound?"

ME: "Please..."

MATT: "It was AWESOME."

With one bronze medal and a gold under our belts, we ended the weekend tired but excited for more. Next weekend, I'll be out of town, and Mike will have to see which couples fight over alone time with him. Maybe he'll bring home a silver and our collection will be complete.

 

Work It Girl!

For those of you who haven't been reading the blog for very long, there's something you should know about my husband...he's OBSESSED with "working out." He doesn't "work out" like other guys do--he's not hitting the gym to lift weights or to run a few miles. No, his work out schedule is akin to that of a housewife on Beverly Hills 90210 (of course, this is in between the 4 days a week that he plays basketball, but we'll ignore that for now). Yes, Mike loves spinning. He spins up to three days a week and if he misses a class for some reason, God help us all. 

Case in point: on Monday night, I told Mike I'd meet him at the gym to take a spinning class with him. While I was driving there, he called me...

MIKE: "What's time's the class again?"

ME: "6:30"

MIKE: "Are you sure?"

ME: "Yes I'm sure....I checked on the schedule when I left the house."

MIKE: "I just want to make sure that it's the right class."

ME: "What is WRONG with you?! Of course it is! You don't trust me?!"

Ah yes...marriage...only in a marriage will you have a conversation about TRUST stemming from the time of a spinning class. 

MIKE: "I trust you. Of course I trust you. I just want to make sure."

He doesn't trust me. That's OK...I'm always right anyway.

So, I'm standing in the locker room, clicking the fasteners on my spinning shoes when my cell phone rings. It's Mike. He sounds really really stern...as if I were his teenage daughter who'd been caught cheating on a math test.

MIKE: "Guess what?"

ME: "What?"

MIKE: "There IS no 6:30 spin class."

ME: "What do you mean? I swear...I saw it on the schedule at home."

MIKE: "That's WHY I asked you to look on the computer. On the computer, they have the most recent schedule. On the computer there's..."

ME: "OK, chill out crazy town. It's a SPIN class. We didn't have surgery scheduled." 

MIKE: "That's not the point!"

ME: "OK, I'm coming out of the locker room right now and we can discuss this like rational human beings."

As I exit the locker room, I see Mike standing there wearing his BIKE SHORTS, his tight SLEEVELESS DRYFIT  WORKOUT shirt, and his SPIN SHOES. He's got his hands on his hips and he's PISSED. I start to giggle.

MIKE: "What?!"

ME: "I just...I can't argue with you when you're wearing that."

MIKE: "Wearing what?"

ME: "That! That outfit! It's more Real Housewives of the OC than Lance Armstrong. I'm just saying..."

MIKE: "Of course you're JUST saying. And meanwhile, we can't work out because there's no class."

We start walking towards the gym's spinning room. As we pass grunting middle aged pot bellied lawyers and uber collagen-ed cougars, he stikes another pose. 

MIKE: "I don't have regular tennis shoes so I can't go on the treadmill and thanks to you, there's NO WORKOUT TODAY."

ME: "You are completely crazy. You need to calm down."

Mind you, he's still standing there with his hands on his hips.

ME: "As sexy as you are in your bike shorts, I have to say, you're really annoying right now."

MIKE: "How hard is it to look on the computer?"

We walk into the dark spinning room, still bickering...

ME: "How was I supposed to know that a regular 6:30 class had been canceled?!"

We each pick a bike--bike's that are, of course, right next to each other.

MIKE: "You would have known because you would have checked ON...THE...COMPUTER."

ME: "I got that part..."

We adjust the handle bars....

MIKE: "So, next time you'll make sure..."

ME: "Oh my God you're annoying!"

MIKE: "YOU'RE annoying!"

We each get on a seat and start pedaling, facing each other in the mirror. We're the only ones in the room. It's dark. We have our GAME FACES ON.

ME: "I hate you."

We start pedaling faster...

MIKE: "I hate you more."

ME: "You know? This is sooooo typical. Anything having to do with sports, or a game, or..."

MIKE: "You're talking. That means you're not working hard enough."

I poke him under his arm where he's so tickle-ish he jerks his arm away and squeals like a little girl.

MIKE: "Stop thaaaaat!"

ME: "You're talking! You're not working hard enough!"

MIKE: "No...YOU'RE talking!"

ME: "No, YOU are!"

And then...we stop talking and begin our own utterly and completely lame spinning class-just the two of us, pedaling in unison, panting, and desperate for a teacher and some music. And just as we feel like we have a rhythm...that our fight is over...a good looking guy in bike shorts struts into the room...

GUY: "Is there a 6:30 class today?"

I look at Mike. He looks at me. 

ME: "See?! I told you!"

MIKE: "You didn't TELL me! If you'd told me we wouldn't be in this..."

ME: "Oh please! Like you've never looked at the...."

And with that, the guy pivots and heads out of the room...disappointed that there isn't a class but relieved that he isn't married. After another spat, we spin and spin in silence. That's the thing about marriage, sometimes, it's just better to shut up and ride.

I'm just saying...

Too good for TP

It's no secret that men aren't good at replacing the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. We've watched this scene in movies and there probably isn't one couple in the history of, well, toilet paper, that hasn't had an argument that goes something like this...

WIFE: "Damnit! Why can't you just PUT THE TOILET PAPER BACK ONE THE ROLL! What the f*^&%^ is wrong with you????????!!!!!!!!!

HUSBAND: Why can't YOU do it?!

WIFE: Why can't YOU do it?!

And so these arguments are heard 'round the world, except, of course, if you live in my house. In my house, we have a different issue.

So, there I am, sitting on the toilet, minding my own business...catching up on US magazine's hard news...Rihanna's stupid, Jennifer Aniston's got a hot body, that girl from Slumdog Millionaire is gorgeous, there's no toilet paper, THERE'S NO TOILET PAPER??!!!

ME: "Babe!"

MIKE: "Yeah?!"

ME: "There's no toilet paper!"

MIKE: "OK..."

OK? What do you mean OK? Like, OK, what do you want me to do about it? Or, OK, I'll go get some? Or OK, why does it matter? What's OK?

ME: "What do you mean...OK? I need toilet paper!"

Mike whips open the door--PS-this is one of the most lovely aspects of married life-the fact that we can all just chat with each other while we're on the toilet. I try to avoid this practice but my husband seems completely fine with breaking the "fourth wall" so to speak.

MIKE: "There's none left."

ME: "What are you talking about?"

MIKE: "There isn't any toilet paper left."

ME: "I don't understand."

MIKE: "There...isn't...any..."

ME: "I'm not a moron, OK? I understand that there's no toilet paper but I can't understand how that happened. We just went to the market!"

BTW: Please DO NOT forget that, at this point, I'm still chilling on my porcelain throne, pants at my ankles, ready for this party to end.

ME: "If you knew there was no more toilet paper, why didn't you just get more?"

MIKE: "Because I don't use toilet paper."

ME: "What are you talking about? Who doesn't use toilet paper? Everyone uses toilet paper."

MIKE: "Well, I don't."

ME: "Since I'm pretty sure you don't use your hands, what, pray tell, do you use?"

MIKE: "Wipes."

I look next to our toilet to face what has now become my greatest obstacle to proper bathroom hygiene--THE BOX OF COTTONELLE BABY WIPES WITH THE CUTE LABRADOR PUPPY PICTURED ON THE PACKAGING. I forgot--my husband is a baby...literally. He needs special wipes for his ass...he loves these wipes so much that he's forsaken a daily necessity. He's too good for toilet paper and now we all have to suffer. 

ME: "You don't ever use toilet paper. Ever?"

MIKE: "Never."

ME: "What if we're on vacation and we're staying at a hotel?"

MIKE: "I bring my own wipes."

ME: "What if you're in a "situation" and you're not at home and you're not at a hotel and you're in a restaurant or someone's house..."

MIKE: "Not gonna happen. I don't "go" at restaurants..."

ME: "Never? What if it's an emergency?"

MIKE: "I don't "go" in public places. I wait 'til I get home or 'til I can make it to a friend's house."

ME: "Wow. That's a lot of trouble to go to...and, I'm assuming the friends..."

MIKE: "Yup...they ALL have wipes."

ME: "Of course they do. You've got it all figured out.

He smiles.

MIKE: "Yes I do."

ME: "But what about me?"

He gestures to the box of wipes.

ME: "I'm doing this just once. ONCE. And then, there'd better be a GIANT COSTCO sized pack of toilet paper."

MIKE: "Fine. But you should really use the wipes..."

ME: "I'm not a newborn baby. I don't need wipes."

MIKE: "Neither am I."

I shoot him a "look"

MIKE: "OK, so maybe I am."

ME: "Would you mind leaving your wipes and me alone for a minute? We have some business to take care of."

MIKE: "No problem."

You Gotta Have a Gimmick

For those of you who are fans of this blog, you'll remember an entry I wrote a while back in which I discussed a new method I'd developed to get my husband to do things around the house. I'd simply say, "You WILL empty the dishwasher" in a hypnotic tone and he'd robotically reply, "OK" and he'd march into the kitchen and empty the dishwasher. Well, guess what? My tactic, which has, no joke, pretty much worked flawlessly for the past few months, is faltering. Uggh.

A few days ago, Mike left the country on business and I was desperately trying to get him to prepare for his departure EARLY. His office was a mess, bills hadn't been paid...bottom line? He had nag worthy, annoying, time wasting, irritating shit to do. He knew it and I knew it. 

ME: "Honey? Can you call the accountant before you leave on Thursday?"

MIKE: "Yes."

Two days later...

ME: "Babe, what'd the accountant say?"

MIKE: "What?"

ME: "What did the accountant say?"

MIKE: "What are you talking about?"

Now I'm gritting my teeth...

ME: "I aaaaaasked you three days ago to call the accountant."

MIKE: "I don't remember that but OK."

When he said this, I think I actually heard the cartoon-esque sound of tires screeeeching to a halt.

ME: "What do you mean you don't remember?"

MIKE: "You NEVER asked me to do that, but OK, I'll do it."

Either this is early onset Alzheimer's or he's got a gimmick and I'm in REAL trouble. 

I figured this had to be a fluke...I mean, there could seriously be a chance that he doesn't remember, right? I forget things all of the time...actually, let's be real, I'm a wife, I don't forget. Maybe husbands forget...Mike once told me that men only listen to about 20% of what women actually say so maybe he didn't hear me. 

ME: "Honey, before you leave, don't forget to take that stuff out to the garage."

MIKE: "Sure, no problem."

A few hours later.

ME: "Honey, you said you'd take that stuff out to the garage!"

MIKE: "No I didn't."

ME: "OK, it was four hours ago. I asked you to PLEASE take that CRAP out to the F-ING GARAGE and you looked straight into my eyes and said, 'NO PROBLEM'!"

MIKE: "I don't remember that but OK."

I DON'T REMEMBER THAT BUT OK. This is a man's version of  trying to mess with his wife. OK fine. I'll give him that. I did try to hypnotize him by using the phrase 'YOU WILLLLLLLLL fold the laundry' and he didn't flinch and neither...will...I. TWO CAN PLAY AT THIS GAME. 

A few days later, with a cloying smile and buttery tone...

ME: "Sweeeetie?"

MIKE: "Hmmm?"

ME: "I don't know if you remember this, and it's TOTALLY OK if you don't, but I was just wondering if you could call the dog walker before you go."

He was just about to chirp, "No problem" (code for: don't even waste your breath because in three and a half minutes I'm going to be hit with a severe case of dementia and while it may not be severe enough to send me to the bank with no pants on, it will certainly make me "forget" absolutely everything you've ever asked me to do. You can bet on that).

ME: "Oh...wait..honey?"

MIKE: "Yeah?"

ME: "I just figured since you're so busy it'd be better for me to write some of these things down, so I made a list."

I think I actually saw, "GRRRRR," spray across his forehead.

I handed him the list. 

MIKE: "Thanks..."

ME: "No problem."

I'm sicker than you are...

So you haven't heard from me in a while because, like the rest of the country, I've been on my deathbed. From strep to bronchitis, I've had it all and the best part about it is...it started with my husband. He got it first, then I got it and now, our collective illnesses have sparked, well, a competition of sorts. Being sick at the same time isn't at all like having one person in the relationship who's healthy enough to take care of the other person who's down for the count. When two people in a relationship are sick, it becomes "the survival of the sickest"-- scrambling for the title of "who's got it worse" seems to be what's at hand. The person who's sicker doesn't have to clean up the dishes, fold the laundry or replace the toilet paper...the person who's well is in charge of piling up the dirty kleenexes, making the tea, and all but wiping their partner's ass. In times like these, Mike and I each need a husband and a wife. You know, a nice older couple who can move in with us and cater to our needs as we indulge ourselves in Law and Order re-runs and overly salty chicken soup. They can take messages for us, go to the pharmacy and alleviate any concern over who used the last tissue. Wouldn't that be nice? Instead, it's...

ME: "Honey, can you please hand me the remote?"

MIKE: "Why can't you get it?"

ME: "Because me head feels like there's an anvil sitting on top of it. Please...just...hand...it...to...me."

MIKE: "And you think that it's easy to lift my arm? I can barely breathe let alone sit up."

ME: "Well, my nose is so stuffy that I've gone through five boxes of Kleenex in the past three days and if I even get up to go to the bathroom, my heartrate soars and I almost pass out."

MIKE: "I basically DID pass out on the toilet this morning...that's how sick I am."

Needless to say, the conversation ended with...

ME: "Hand me the f-ing REEEEMOOOOOOTTTTEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!"

MIKE: "Fine."

But we couldn't go on like this forever. Someone would have to win eventually and the other would be resigned to being the caretaker. As our days on the couch wore on, phone calls remained unanswered, dirty underwear formed a leaning tower of Pisa on top of our hamper, and every single cup in the cabinet was sitting on our kitchen counter. Staring at the mess, Mike and I started to cough. We hacked and wheezed our way to the bathroom--he took the master bathroom and I the guest bathroom for the most thrilling activity of the day, hocking loogie time. 

MIKE: "Oh my god!!!!!!!! You've got  to see this!"

ME: "No. You've got to see THIS!"

It was the time of reckoning. We met in the hallway, each with our fists holding a prized kleenex that sheltered THE LOOGIE TO BEAT ALL LOOGIES. We cradled our tissues the way you might a baby chick and revealed their contents.

MIKE: "Mine's flourescent green."

ME: "You think that's bad? Just wait."

And there it was. KHAKI. A khaki that was so, ironically, unnatural looking that it seemed a color that could be produced only at the paint store--it might have been a nice tone for the kitchen, actually.

MIKE: "Oh. That's f-ing disgusting. That's....how is that even possible?"

ME: "I win"

MIKE: "Yes you do."

The next day, he was almost better and I was on my way to round 2 of antibiotics, inhalers and God knows what. 

MIKE: "I don't think I've ever SEEN you this sick. It's horrible."

I smiled.

ME: "Can you please hand me the remote?"

MIKE: "No problem."

I had a husband to hand me the remote, to bring in the mail and to answer the phone. Would the laundry get done or the dishes put away? No. Of course not. But at least I had my remote. 

I Need to Get a Wife

A few weeks ago, I planned a girls' night out. 

ME: "Honey, this Saturday, I'm going out with the girls. Is that OK?"

MIKE: "Perfect!"

ME: "What do you mean?"

MIKE: "I'm going to hang out with Matt, then, and watch the Laker game."

Ah yes, Matt and Mike...husbands forever. I had forgotten that my husband already has a life partner-for those of you who haven't been following, Matt is my dear friend Lisa's husband and Mike and Matt are obsessed with each other. 

Anyway, here I was, worried that I was going to have a conversation like this:

ME: "Honey, this Satuday, I'm going out with the girls. Is that OK?"

MIKE: "Honey, Saturday's OUR night. That's the night we're supposed to be going out on a date."

ME: "Oh sweetie, it'll only be for a few hours and then I'll come home and we'll have our date night, OK?"

MIKE: "I don't know what I'll do without you."

How could I have been so wrong? Before I could even say the words, "Sounds great," he was already texting Matt making plans for their big night in. As his thumbs danced on his Blackberry, he mumbled, "this way, we can watch the game UNINTERRUPTED."

A few nights later, before Mike and Matt's big date was going to take place, we were hanging out with Lisa and Matt, Matt turned to me and said, "Thanks." I was confused. "For what?" I asked. "For letting us watch the game...UNINTERRUPTED." 

That's where the Twilight Zone music was supposed to come in. 

And just when I thought the two husbands couldn't get more serious about their relationship, Mike spent the entire week before his "date" planning and planning. 

ME: "So, honey, are you guys going to hang out at Matt's and Lisa's place?"

MIKE: "That...or we'll hang at Matt's parents' house."

ME: "Why Matt's parents' house?"

MIKE: "Well, Matt's barbeque-ing ribs and we're having some people over and his parents have the back house which will be perfect..."

ME: "For your dinner party? It sounds lovely."

MIKE: "Plus, they have a jacuzzi."

ME: "Wait a minute. You and the ladies are going to use the spa?"

MIKE: "Hey! I like the jacuzzi."

ME: "Babe. Guys use the jacuzzi when girls are around but they don't use the jacuzzi when it's just dudes."

And in a huff...

MIKE: "Well, I'm bringing my bathing suit anyway."

The next morning, my cell phone rang. It was Lisa. "Did you hear that Mike's planning a jacuzzi soak for him and the boys?" "Yup," I replied. "I mean, it's like they're a bunch of girls on Spring Break," Lisa continued. "I know," I said. "I wonder if there'll be pillow fights and mani pedis."

But it didn't stop at their dinner party. They've been texting and giggling all day, every day ever since. Yesterday, I picked up Mike's phone because it beeped with an email from, guess who? Matt. As I scrolled through his emails, I started cracking up because I'm sure most women peek at their husband's phones when they're suspicious that he's cheating, but not me. No. As I glided through the emails and texts every other person was MATT NELSON ... MATT NELSON...MATT NELSON. Of course, every text read something like this: "forget the trade. he's weak." "don't underestimate so and so. he's a killer." "woo hoo! another win!" It was like reading a teenager's in code text messages. Soon, I'm going to have to start speaking Laker.

"Babe, every email on here is from Matt Nelson." He snatched the phone away from me as if he were a 15 year old teenage girl angry at her mother's prying. "Give me that. God!" I started cracking up. Then, you know who called and they started gabbing away. I had just returned home from work, and Mike had just had a pitch meeting that I was dying to know about. Just then, his husband called. "Honey," I whispered, "I want to hear about your day." He raised his hand up "Hold on, I need to tell Matt about the meeting. He's dying to know." So I stood there and heard all about the meeting through the husband gossip mill. I poured myself a glass of wine and went into the living room. I turned on HGTV and felt, suprisingly, thrilled that my husband has a husband. Why not, right? It takes the pressure off. I can hang with the girls, watch my crappy TV and not worry that hubby has no one to talk to. So, I picked up the phone and called my wife. 

ME: "Hey Lisa? It's me...Yeah...I figured we'd chat since our husbands are talking to each other. So, how was your day?"