Newlywedded

It was just an accident...I swear

Telling your husband that you've gotten into a car accident that's your fault, is a lot like being in high school and telling your mother that you got a D on a French test. Brace yourself. 

ME: "I got into an accident."

Pause. Now, I know he knows that I'm OK because I sound OK. I'm not in a coma--in fact, it sounds like I'm driving past the 405 on my way to Starbucks--which I am. Regardless, he knows he HAS to ask...

MIKE: "Are you okay?"

He's got to do the right thing...even though he doesn't want to. I can hear the tension in his neck-like a gear tightening--click click click...

MIKE: "Was it your fault?"

He must have ESP. That's another thing that happens the longer you're married. You just know that...

ME: "Yes. It was my fault."

Gulp.

And here's where I regress. I'm fifteen all over again. 'Yes mom! I did fail the French test! But so did everyone in my class! Everyone failed! It was the hardest test in the history of french tests...it was...'

ME: "Really small. We were going, like, literally two miles an hour. Actually, the scrape on my car isn't even a scrape. It's just rubber residue. You can just rub it off. It probably doesn't even need to go into a body shop."

In fact, it wasn't an accident at all. It was a love tap, a massage...it was practically calming for each car to make this connection. In fact, it might have been necessary, even fateful. Bashert.

Now, this is all good until it's time for me to present my...uh...work. It's about 9pm, we're in a parking lot and I'm almost giddy with excitement at how absolutely minor this boo boo is. 

ME: "See? It's nothing."

He's seemingly convinced.

MIKE: "Yeah. It looks fine. We'll just have to take it to the body shop and have them...look...at..."

He's skulking around the front of the car. He then squints his eyes like Vincent D'Onofrio in Law and Order Special Victim's Unit...like he's discovered the murderer's bloody footprint. 

MIKE: "Your bumper's crooked."

OMG. It is absolutely NOT crooked.

ME: "No it's NOT. It's fine."

He then proceeds to walk around the hood, placing one hand in between the hood and the bumper and then doing the same thing on the other side. 

ME: "Why are you 'finger measuring' the hood? What is that accomplishing?"

MIKE: "The distance between that one edge of the hood and the other edge of the hood. THE WHOLE FRONT OF YOUR CAR IS OUT OF ALIGNMENT!"

I've failed french class. I'm in HUGE trouble.

From then on out, my teeny tiny fender bender has become a full blown wreck. Totaled. It'll never be the same and it'll cost our life savings to repair this car to say nothing of the teeny tiny scrape on the car that I hit that, presumably, has now become as bad as an IED. 

When you've been married to a man long enough, you realize that he's perfect when it comes to cars--despite the time he smacked the back of his car into a pole in a parking lot or the billion times he's scraped the rims of my car on the curb and bashed the edge of my tires when he's doing a crappy parallel parking job. 

I have now formulated a different answer for his initial, obligatory question, "Are you okay?" An answer that will be even more different tomorrow after I go to the body shop and find out he's right. 

It's Halloween Again

And you know what that means. The great battle between MIke, Alexis and THEIR COSTUMES.

To recap--for those of you fans of the blog, you know that every year, Mike and I fight over what to be for Halloween. Why the fight? Because every year, he wants to be his tried and true PEE WEE HERMAN and I want to pick some sort of pop culture figure that, according to Mike, no one will recognize. Then, every year, I get upset when we go out and everyone yells, "Hey Pee Wee!" and gives me the once over accompanied by a low, "And who are YOU?"

So there you go. So tonight, I got the bright and brilliant idea of being BLAIR WALDORF from Gossip Girl--not on my own, of course, but from the also bright and brilliant idea of one of my seventeen year old students--go figure. ANYWAY, when I came home this afternoon...

ME: "Guess what?! I'm going to be Blair Waldorf from Gossip Girl!"

MIKE: "Who's that?"

ME: "Do you live in 1991--How have you never seen Gossip Girl?"

He looks at me as if to say, "Do you think I'm a 17 year old girl or a 34 year old man?"

I'll go with the latter. Needless to say, I'm disappointed. This means that once again, he'll be Pee Wee and I'll be Unrecognizable. Sweet costume.

MIKE: "No one's going to know who you are except, maybe for people who watch the show."

ME: "Oh really, huh? NO ONE? I'll have you know that pretty much everyone watches that show and unless you've NEVER read an US Magazine, you'll definitely know who I am."

He looks at me as if I've come out of some weird Britney Spears Twilight Zone where I believe that everyone lives in a pop culture vortex like....like...I do. Humph.

MIKE: "Well, whatever you decide to be. I am NOT going as one of those guys from the show. I refuse to wear a scarf."

ME: "So should I bust out your grey suit and red bow tie now or have you already had them pressed."

MIKE: "As a matter of fact, I'm not going as Pee Wee this year."

What?! Does this mean he's decided to go as some sort of "pathetically unoriginal skeleton meets zombie meets who cares, if it's not someone famous or funny as far as I'm concerned, why would you dress up as them" costume? 

MIKE: "I'm going to be one of the guys from the SNL 'Dick in a Box' sketch."

OMG. That's an amazing idea. F--k. I have the worst costume in the world and he has the funniest most fabulous costume in the world. 

ME: "That's amazing."

He's glowing.

MIKE: "I know. Isn't it? Josh and I are doing it together."

ME: "Yeah. That's...that's...really funny..um...geez...well...maybe I could be one of the girls from the Dick in a Box sketch! You know...that kind of 80s girl that Maya Rudolph played in the sketch. Then we could all, like, be the people from the video! That'd be SO funny!"

MIKE: "Yeah...um...no one's going to recognize you like that. I mean...unless you're standing with me all night...it's probably better to go with your Blair whatshername costume or one of the other ones you always do."

ME: "You mean, like, Audrey Hepburn." 

MIKE: "Yeah! That's a good one! Everyone knows her!"

ME: "It's just so boring."

MIKE: "It's all about being recognized as far as I'm concerned."

Now I'm feeling competitive.

ME: "Everyone recognized me last year when I was Sarah Palin! Remember?!"

He doesn't.

MIKE: "Yeah...kind of."

Here's where I'm about to throw a tantrum thinking about the fact that for the entire night, I'm going to be running around a party accompanied by a guy with a wrapped box on his crotch while everyone laughs hysterically and gives me a "Who the hell are you?" once over. 

ME: "Forget it! I'm going to be Blair Waldorf because it's a f-ing cute costume and it's fun and everyone'll figure it out, OK?!!!!"

MIKE: "Fine."

And with that, I turn on my heel, stomp into my closet, and whip out a little black dress, an old tiara, and a pair of black gloves. Breakfast at Tiffany's here I come. 

 

OMG...THIS IS HILARIOUS

3rd race at "the honeymoon is over" downs

hilarious.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSM8Okj_4TI

Poo Poo Poop

At times, being a wife isn't unlike being a mother. In fact, there are times when you ARE your husband's mother and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. In fact, when you get married, there really should be a clause in the vows -- "For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, and even when I feel like you're my teenage son and I have to be responsible for your inappropriate behavior, your ridiculous remarks and your sloth."

A few nights ago, I received a phone call from my "wife," Lisa.

LISA: "Your husband and my husband need to take a break from hanging out with each other."

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

LISA: "ALL my husband does is talk about poop."

ME: "Really? And you think that has something to do with MY husband?"

At this point, I feel like I'm a defensive mother. "My son has NEVER EVER told an authority figure to f-off, nor has he ever called a woman a bitch. No, Ms. Stevens, you MUST be speaking about one of your OTHER students." Unfortunately, since Mike and Matt spend more time on the phone than two pre-teen girlfriends, I had to acquiesce. 

LISA: "Yes, I DO believe your husband has an obsession with poop that goes above and beyond any rational human being's interest in the stuff."

ME: "I would have to say that you are right."

LISA: "Literally everything Matt says now has to do with poop. Even when he's talking about what to have for dinner, or taking the car into the shop, inevitably, he'll say the word 'poop' and I can't stop him. Your husband is a bad influence."

ME: "That's probably true."

At this point, the motherly side of my wifeliness has surrendered. "Yes, Ms. Stevens, only my son is capable of such a horrific act. I apologize. It WON'T happen again."

LISA: "Poop! Poop! Poop! I think he just thinks the WORD is funny."

And then, I start laughing and I can't stop.

ME: "It IS funny! It IS!" 

LISA: "Oh my god. You too."

I continue to cackle. I compose myself.

ME: "I sh...sh...shouldn't be laughing. I really shouldn't."

LISA: "You, your husband and poop. It has to stop."

When I hang up with Lisa, I chuckle like a father who's proud of his son for punching a bully at school or losing his virginity. I know it's wrong, but I can't help it.

That night, at CVS Drugs, as I scope the aisles for a birthday card for Mike, I find a card with four cats on it. They're all wearing suits and staring at a conference table with a dirty litter box on it. And, as per our favorite topic, there's, you guessed it, POOP spilling over from the box and onto the conference table. One kitty exec says to another kitty exec, "Who's thinking outside the box again?"

It's 10:30pm at the drug store, and there I am under the green din of the fluorescent lights, cackling like a crazy crow, all the while thinking of what would happen I had poo poo-ed poop conversations in my house. Oh, life would be such....poop...poop poop poop poop poop poop.

God that's fun.

Sham...wow

A wife with time on her hands is a little bit like a ticking bomb-eventually, she's going to go shopping. 

 Here's the thing. I'm not one of those girls...really. I usually work crazy hours (even on weekends), but during the summer, when things are really slow, I find innumerable ways to spend money. If it's new restaurant, a new boutique or a new movie, you can bet that I've been there, done that. But In an effort to ensure that I didn't become an antiquated cliche-the stuff of every I Love Lucy episode-oh please Ricky, it's just a new fur, a part in a movie, a trip to Hollywood!-I made a pledge to deal with myself. That meant I had to stop buying the same black shirts, start cooking dinner at home, and in general, leave the cash in the kitty. 

 Unfortunately, I hadn't anticipated...BED BATH AND BEYOND.

 Before we start talking about yet another cliche, a married person's love affair with BB&B (didn't we all watch Will Ferrell in Old School?), I must preface this by saying that I have an unhealthy obsession with infomercials which is only matched by my unhealthy obsession with Law and Order. Since I've started watching the Sleuth network (which is new and thus only shows infomercials and not real commercials), I have become convinced that my life would become immeasurably better with the presence of certain products, mainly SHAMWOW (the towels that wipe up absolutely everything), SPACE BAGS (never shove clothes in your closet again!), the SHARK VX3 Vacuum (it's wireless, it'll suck up everything that's wrong in your life), and SHOES UNDER (don't ask). 

 When I cruised into Bed Bath and Beyond yesterday to pick up a few necessities (I swear), I clanked my cart over to a ginormous AS SEEN ON TV display. I grabbed a box of SHAMWOW towels--guaranteed to clean anything short of a messy divorce, a box of SPACE BAGS and SHOES UNDER. All products that would definitely make me more organized but not before they'd make me funnier, smarter and hotter. I called my wife, Lisa, for confirmation.

ME: "Lise? I need to make sure I'm getting the right stuff."

LISA: "You're not buying more bath towels are you because I'll have to kill you."

ME: "No. I did that yesterday. I'm at Bed Bath and Beyond."

LISA: "Now you're talking. Shoot."

ME: "Do I need Shamwow?"

LISA: "Yes, definitely. Absolutely."

ME: "Really. Because I was convinced you'd say 'no.'"

LISA: "I have them. They're amazing. You need them. I promise."

ME: "What about space bags?"

LISA: "No question. You have no closet space. You HAVE to have them."

ME: "Shoes under?"

LISA: "Ew. No. You are NEVER putting shoes under your bed. Gross. Not happening."

 

After I paid for my new AS SEEN ON TV (AKA YOU'LL NEVER LIVE THE SAME LIFE AGAIN) products, a new can opener, a salad spinner and bath maths (don't tell Lisa), I headed home giddy. At about 10:30pm, Mike took a look at the loot and snipped, "Space Bags? Those don't really work. Do they?" He might as well have shot me right between the eyes. "Are you kidding? Space bags are amazing. Space bags could turn our dog into a mouse, our house into an envelope, our...let me just show you, OK? You don't EVEN KNOW WHAT THE SPACE BAG CAN DO!" I raced to our linen closet and pulled every wool blanket, pillow, beach towel and old sheet down from the shelves. Just then, my six months pregnant sister-in-law clacked in, swallowed by a pile of coats. "I bought the space bag for clothes! Let's do this one too! Joey's convinced it doesn't work but I KNOW it does."

 

After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the bags, shoving piece after piece in and sucking every last millimeter of air out of the bags, we watched as Jenna's coats became the size of the Sunday Times and the contents of my linen closet dwindled into nothing more than the size of a onesie. Incredible? Yes. Life changing? Absolutely. This was the confirmation that advertising is God, that we would now have time, order, money, and Martha Stewart meets Sandra Lee meets Oprah like perfection. I looked up at Mike, my hair matted wildebeest-like, my eyes bloodshot, my clothes dirty…I was ready for another fix. I growled.. “Honey? See these pillowcases? I don’t think we need them. I think I’m going to put them in a SPACE BAG.” And just as I was about to shove them into their new home…

HISSSSSSSS…………..

“Oh my god!” I whined. “The Space Bag! It has a hole in it! Oh nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! This is terrible! Do you know how f-ing long it took my to get that sh-t in there! It was like getting a porcupine down a snake’s throat! It was a lot of f-ing trouble and now….now it has…a…hole…in…it.” My voice was quivering, uncertain about this new "life change." And there he was. “You know what? We might actually NEED those pillowcases. Forget that space bag.” He was confident. Assured. Just like the Shamwow guy. At this point, he could sell me a bag of poop and I’d give him at least twenty bucks for it. “We haven’t used these pillowcases in three years,” I humphed. “Well,” he began. “We might need them for a houseguest with...with...with headlice. You never know. And you certainly wouldn’t want them using our pillowcases. Nope. They’ll need their own. You never know when headlice might pop up.”

I began laughing so hard that I slumped to the ground, exhausted and despite my certainty that SPACE BAGS and SHOES UNDER and SHAMWOW and THE INSTYLER CURLING IRON and THE SHARK VX3 VACUUM and the STRAP PERFECT bra strap correctors could and might transform my life for the better, I could never really be sure when an unanticipated hole might come into the picture…that, and a case of adult headlice.

 

S@#$ Happens

 

We’re finally back in town from a summer that’s been full of a lot of traveling. I accompanied Mike on a pleasure/work trip to Poland and Israel for several weeks. Being with your spouse while he/she is working in a foreign country is sort of an interesting thing. Of course, women have ideas about how they want everything to be and often, reality eclipses their fantasies. Mike warned me months ahead of the trip. “I’m telling you. I’m not going to be available to do much of anything. I’m going to be working about 12 hours a day so you’re going to have to keep yourself occupied with my sister and the rest of the family.” I would nod. “Fine, yes, I understand.” Mike would then interject. “Seriously, Alexis, I don’t want to hear complaining about the fact that I’m not around for dinner or shopping or touring. I’m just warning you now.”

 

Got it. Jeez.

 

When we arrived in Poland for the first leg of the trip, my sister-in-law, mother-in-law and I were basically on a separate vacation. While Mike and his film crew did what they needed to do, we lunched and dined, shopped and toured and did absolutely everything we were supposed to do. No Mike. No problem. After the first week of the trip, we began to wonder if Mike was ever going to share a moment with us and reality was beginning to eclipse expectation. You see, I, as the over dramatic wife that I am, had decided not to listen to anything he’d told me before we left on the trip. I imagined that there would be many breaks in the shooting schedule, that my husband would be able to whisk me off to a quiet café in Krakow, where we’d nibble on Perogi and sip Chopin vodka. He’d surprise me with a carriage ride in the square, during which he’d apologize for how busy he’d been and that he’d make it up to me with a hot air balloon ride. Instead, I was lucky if I saw him at 3am, tip toeing into our hotel room. Maybe I’d catch him drinking a beer in the hotel lobby with his crew. Alas, he warned me, and I just had to be wifey.

 

The less time a husband and wife spend with each other, the more they bicker. It seems like it would be the other way around-that spending less time with one another would lead to an appreciation (something that people in long distance relationships say to each other to make themselves feel better) but it’s just not true. The less I saw Mike on the trip, the nastier I became. He’d say “hi” and I’d say “nice of you to join us.” He’d say “did you already eat dinner?” and I’d reply with a snide look and a crisp, “what do you think?” Who knew that being together without being together would become so tiresome? But one night on the trip, a bunch of us (obviously sans Mike) decided to head out to a bar for some serious Polish vodka drinking. At about 1:30am, Mike joined us and as we all strolled back to our hotel together, Mike paused in the middle of the cobble-stoned street and grunted, “Damnit! I stepped in shit!” Uggh. All of a sudden, I switched into helpful, sweet wife mode. “Honey? Let me look. Oh yeah, that’s major shit.” It was as if he had some dire medical emergency. “Let’s get you back to the hotel so we can deal with this” I announced, quickening my step, devising a plan for scraping, washing and de-smelling our room. “You poor thing,” I sang to him as we rushed down the street.

 

Outside the hotel, I took off his shoe and dragged it against the curb, our group watching in disgust. He stomped and shuffled and I encouraged his movements. “Yeah, do that, that should get it. Go on. Keep going. Yup. That’s it!”

 

When we got to our floor, Mike noticed a shoe shiner and buffer with a rough pad on it—perfect for attacking the last bits of turd sandwiched between the grooves of his Eccos. He continued to scrape, shine and buff and I sat next to him all the while. “Perfect, honey, I think you’ve got it!” And across the hotel lobby, I watched as our friend, Lisa Weiner, snapped a photo of us. I squinted. “Lise, what are you doing!”

 

“I can’t help it!” she replied. “That’s literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen! He steps in shit and you’re just sitting there supporting him. I love it.”

That’s the thing about a relationship—shit happens and you come together. No more bickering. No more looks. No more stinky poop. 

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.