Newlywedded

Holes

When you’re a wife, you assume certain responsibilities that you never realized were so important. Yes, for certain wives, these responsibilities may mean cleaning or decorating all in the midst of having a career and making sure that you haven’t become the most boring person on the planet. You make sure you still wear heels, put on makeup, and toss your hair and giggle when he least expects it…just to make sure that he’s still attracted to you. One of the other responsibilities one assumes is what I call basic maintenance. Now, you may not have noticed the “basic maintenance” issue when you were dating because when you date (even if you’re living together), these things are not your problem. What is basic maintenance you ask? Underwear and socks, my friend. Along with going to the doctor and making sure there’s milk in the fridge, basic maintenance is something a lot of guys are not good at. When sorting laundry the other night, I began to wonder how my husband survived before me. Each sock was stiff, crusty and had assumed an unnatural shade of gray. As I picked the last sock up gingerly and dropped it in the washing machine (hoping that it would get sucked into the “lost sock” vortex never to be seen again), I saw a pair of underwear that looked as if they had been in a five car collision on the 405 freeway. This underwear had holes…giant holes…there was one I could stick my hand through, one that looked as if a mouse had been nibbling on it and another large enough to make the briefs into a hat. Mike walked into the room and spotted my discovery. “You can’t wear these anymore,” I said. He started laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. “Why not?” he managed to say between heaves of laughter. “Why not? Because Mickey Mouse could fit his ears in them.” Mike snatched the underwear from me. “You just don’t know how special this underwear is.” And even though he was kidding, I know that deep down, they were his favorites. I knew that each time he put them on, he felt an ironic sense of satisfaction…like eating candy out of the tubs at the market. He then lifted them up and tore the sides off, stepping into the now stringy piece of elastic and placed the remaining piece of fabric over his crotch. “We can’t get rid of these. They make a great loincloth.” And with that, he exited the laundry room.

Snip Snap

It's been nine months and fifteen days since we got married.

That's basically the gestation period of a human fetus. At this point, I would say that the fact that we are "officially married" has actually popped. It's been realized, formed, and this weekend, it swooshed down the pipeline and right smack into our newlywedded house. This weekend, we started treating each other like we've been married for forty years. This didn't happen in the sweet, "older people sitting on a park bench holding hands sweetly way," but in the hostile "you always do this," "why can't you do that" way. It's not been pretty.

It all started on Friday when Mike became "pissy" in a way that I had never seen (or heard). I got into his old Porsche (a toy that he owns with his father) and slammed the door as per usual. He growled at me. "Can you NOT slam the door that hard. This is a TWENTY year old car." OK. uh...sure. I thought about how he might have mentioned this to me on a first date, when he hadn't slept with me yet. It might have gone something like, "Woah there...watch out!" wink wink and smile.

This morning, when he asked me to drop something off at his grandparents' house and I told him that I couldn't because I had to get to work yada yada yada, he cut the yada short with, "I get it. You can't do it. Fine. It was a simple question. Simple question. Simple answer." Grrrr. He's either PMSing or the next fifty years will take a very long time.

I told him that I know he's stressed, but that he didn't need to be so short. He apologized and clearly felt bad. They say "love is never having to say you're sorry." Who thinks that? I know I love him because I'd basically tell him I was sorry just to appease him. I know he'd do the same for me...and that's just what he did.

not cute

I'm becoming one of those women that gets home from work and puts on gross clothes as if she's still single and it doesn't matter. I came home tonight wearing a tailored pair of pants, a cute shirt, a jean jacket and absolutely killer adorable flats. I looked good. Within seconds I was in my closet, tearing these clothes off. Five years ago, this might have been to have a torrid encounter with Mike, but now it's to put on frumpy pj pants and unmatching striped socks. Where are the garters? Where's the teddy? Where's the black satin corset? In my lingerie drawer with the rest of the shower gifts. At the very least, shouldn't I be parading around our house wearing Carrie Bradshaw-esque tight tank tops and skinny jeans with six inch heels just to talk on the phone and pluck my eyebrows?

OK I'm going to defend myself for one second. I did wear all day, and am still wearing, a super saucy g-string with a bow on the ass (part of the shower loot). This was, however, not on purpose. I'm out of clean, every day undies. Do note, though, that the bow is presently peeking out of hideous pj pants with a hint of "come and get me."

This is my saving grace...well, today anyway.

today's news

When I came home today, I was futzing around in my office and Mike started hollering from the bedroom, "Oh my God! Did you see this?!" I sprinted in, convinced that Gracie had taken a shit on the carpet or something. "What?! What happened?!"

There was a bouquet of orchids lying on the bed, wrapped in raffia and newspaper.

"You forgot to read the paper," he said.

Yes...yes, I did.

good morning

This Sunday morning at approximately 8am, I hear crashing and clanging and general madness going on in the kitchen. My eyes flutter open and I holler, "What are you doing?!" Beat. Then, over the noise of my prized cappuccino maker, a kitchen device even more beloved than my precious pots, I hear, "Making cappuccino and doing a really horrible job of it!"

Now, I have attempted to show Mike how to do this at least a hundred times. Every morning when I make our cappuccinos, I turn to him as he scrambles the eggs and say, "Honey, see, here's a trick I learned. You hold the nozzle just about where the milk hits the air and it starts to foam. See?" The response is usually, "Uh...yeah...great...yeah, uh, I see..."

Like most men, Mike isn't interested in instruction. He just wants to jump in and do it himself, even if that means melting the inside of my machine. Which is precisely what he did. Well, OK, I'm exaggerating...but it wasn't pretty. The reason that he insisted on making this cappuccino has to do with his bodily functions--a fact about men that every newlywedded girl becomes frighteningly familiar with. When asked why he decided not to wake me for this cappuccino, he replied, "I'm going spinning and I need to USE THE BATHROOM before the class otherwise it's a REAL problem." Ah yes, what could be a better laxative than a beautiful cappuccino by yours truly. Cappuccino, for my husband, is not something to be savored at a lovely cafe overlooking the Seine but rather something to be consumed, roughly and in approximately 40 seconds. He gulps it down like it's his last scotch before heading out to enemy lines...or in our case...spinning class.

I throw my robe on and pad into the kitchen. He's standing over the machine as if it were a misbehaving puppy, attempting to coax it into submission and praying for foam. "Honey," I say calmly. "The machine is overheating." I open it and sure enough, it has melted the pod of espresso and there are granules of coffee in every crevace of the machine. "You will remain calm," I say to myself. "You will not get all uppety on a Sunday morning about the goddamn cappuccino machine. There are people starving in the world for crying out loud!"

Why don't I ever listen to my own advice? "You ruined my machine!" I yell.
"I didn't RUIN the machine, and it's not YOUR machine, it's OUR machine!"
He's right.
"Well, but, look at this mess! How are we ever going to clean this!"
"We're just going to clean it, that's how!"
"Ok...well...fine...so now we have to clean it!"

We inplug the machine. Drag it over to the sink. We run water through it. We scrape it with a paper towel. The prognosis? Cappuccino maker will live.

Don't think that I didn't mumble and grumble my way through this process. Uttering statements like, "You never pay attention." "Why do you insist on doing things like this yourself." "You're such a guy." and of course the requisite heavy sigh accompanied by an "Oh God." Hey, we've all got to get our two cents in there somewhere.

Once the operation is complete, I make the cappuccino for him and he does exactly what he does every single morning. He stands there, acting as if he's paying attention. Smiles as the foam foams. Thanks me as I hand him his Coffee Bean caliber beverage and sits down, content.

Some things we wives just have to accept, and others, well...acceptance is the first step to a healthy marriage...I gather there are at least eleven other steps but I'm learning as I go along.

Broken Glass

Here are some of the little things that have made being married worthwhile:

1) This year, for the FIRST time in our relationship, Mike had flowers DELIVERED to me for Valentine's day. Now, Mike has GIVEN me flowers many times before, and I absolutely adore him for it. I know that a lot of guys have enough trouble remembering to use Kleenex to blow their noses, and that flowers seem as daunting as nuclear war. But this year, Mike had the flowers DELIVERED, which is a whole other thing...light years better! There's nothing a girl likes more than having a stranger come to the door requesting YOU, as if you're Reese Witherspoon on the red carpet or something. You have to sign for the flowers which is so official and fun. Truly, the documentation that you receive with DELIVERED flowers makes it worth the mark up, the trouble the ridiculousness of it all. The high maintenance aspect is so sexy. Oh, and they were lillies...white...my heart is going pitty pat as I write...

2) The other morning, I stumbled into the kitchen to make us both a quick breakfast and in my grogginess, I managed to reach for a plate (which wasn't even the plate that I wanted) that was really out of my reach, knocking over a glass, which knocked over one of the two espresso cups that I own and within two shakes, it shattered on the floor. Now, normally one would just groan, find a broom and deal, but no, I'm married...a few seconds later I heard, "What happened?! Are you OK?!" We underestimate the power of those phrases. They're so simple that we take them for granted, but there's nothing like having someone you care about yelling from bed (a place from which they really don't what to get up). "I broke a glass!" I yelled back, hoping that he would leap out of bed and Prince Charming himself over to our broom and sweep it up for me, but remembering that this is the same person who is incapable of making the bed, I was realistic about the possible response. "I'll be right there!," he callled back and there he was, in his briefs and tennis shoes, sweeping up the glass...my shattered cup...he picked up the pieces, cleaned it all up and everything was as good as new.

3) Every night when I get in bed, I have to pee at least three times. Once before I get in bed, once while I'm reading and once after I've fallen asleep reading. Inevitably, Mike will have fallen asleep before I have, and inevitable I'll toss and turn over something, to which he will inevitably repond, "What's wrong?"
"I'm thirsty."
"Why didn't you get water before we got into bed."
"I forgot."
"I take it you want me to be the one to go get it."
"I didn't say that."
"Well, you're not getting up, so you're implying that this is what you want me to do."
"Maybe, but seriously, I'll totally do it."
"No you won't."
"Yes I will."
"Do you realize that in the time we've spent talking about this, you could have your glass of water."
"I know but it's cold."
At this point, he throws off the comforter, and stomps into the kitchen from which I hear the trickle of water from the fridge.
"Thanks honey!" I yell.
"You're welcome!" He yells.
And then we're asleep.

It's Getting hot in here

So I haven't written in months. Yeah, MONTHS. Like five months. But that's just fine actually because you want to know what? I've been busy being married. Yeah, that's right married!

But I'm back.

And I'm here to talk about temperature. That's right. I'm cold, he's hot. Sound familiar?

Let me preface this by saying that it's February here in sunny Los Angeles and it's pouring rain. I would say that it's in the low 50s outside, which to me, is freezing. I think I speak for most women (at least women in CA) when I say that anything below 70 degrees is cold. Too cold. Sweater cold. Presently, I'm wearing a turtleneck and a GIANT coat in my own house. This is because my husband refuses to turn on the heat. This afternoon (yes it was still pouring and freezing), Mike yells from the other room "Is the heat on?!" Now, this is a difficult question to answer because he is nowhere near the heat gauge so he doesn't really know whether the heat is on or not. I, on the other hand, am so hyper-aware of heat that if it's not blasting from the vents in our eighty-year old house I will shiver and complain for the entire day.

So he asks the big question, and I contemplate the answer. If I tell him it's on, he'll want to turn it off. If I tell him it's NOT on, then I run the risk that he'll find out that I lied which will certianly thwart any future efforts of sneaking turning the heat on. Unfortunately, I told the truth (Have I not learned anything in my seven months of marriage??). "Yes! It's on!" I reply, grimacing, hoping that he won't say anything, hoping that...too late. "Jesus Christ, Alexis, it's f*&^%$ing boiling in here! Are you trying to kill me?" I continued to tell the truth. "Mike, it's freezing outside and it's freezing in here. I can't function without the heat on today, I'm like a snake Mike...I'll die if the heat's not on."

Now, here's the thing about being married that's different from dating. You see, they spend so much time with you that they know all of your tricks. Obviously Mike knows that I'm not a reptile. He knows that I'll stay alive sans the heat. He knows that I own sweaters and jackets. He knows that I own fur. My argument is not going to work.

"I'm turning it off!" he yells. What a fascist. I can't live like this! I've had enough!

"I'm leaving for work in twenty minutes, Mike. And for those twenty minutes, I want heat. I'm not going to take a shower without the heat. I'm not going to stand, naked, teeth chattering when I know that I can have beautiful, working heat blasting from an antique grate. Give me the heat for the next twenty minutes or I will divorce you."

Sidebar: I have noticed in the past few months that the phrase "I will divorce you" (USED VERY SPARINGLY) seems to WORK. I don't know why. I'm obviously not going to divorce him....at least not over something as ridiculous as heat. Why does this seem to frighten him/sometimes make me get my way?

"Fine, you've got twenty minutes."

I took thirty.

Moated and Corroded

OK so...Mike's waiting for me to get starting on our writing session but I had to sneak this post.

I am obsessed with making our bed in the morning. It's a total carry over from my mother, who wouldn't let me leave the house to go to school if I hadn't made my bed. I was so anal about it in college, that I would straighten the comforter on my roommate's bed if she hadn't done it-needless to say, my college roommates wanted to kill me...

I have married the messiest, most disorganized person on the planet (Have I mentioned this?) Anyway, I left to tutor a client early this morning and asked Mike if he'd make the bed while I was gone. I came home and the bed was a disaster-as usual. I marched right into the house and peeked into our bedroom-just to see if he'd done it. I'm sure I'm not the only wife that does this, but it's NOT NORMAL.

Standing in the doorway of our office, I put my hands on my hips. "Thanks for making the bed," I snarled. "Um...I'm washing the sheets," Mike said, so proud of himself. I was burned.

I think that's what they called being "moated" when I was in elementary school.

Newlywedded Landfills

Adam and I started working together about 2 years ago and now we're at the stage where we would actually call ourselves "writing partners." Now, I've never had a writing partner before and it's sort of weird. I'm an only child (and I'm sooooo not into dissing onlies) but I will say that sharing my space with and listening intently to another person's opinions is difficult at best. Adam's been incredibly patient with me, probably because crazy Cantor Lam (his dad) is also an only child-poor Mike, he can't seem to get away from us!
We're trying to finish a script before we go on our honeymoon next week and lately it's been painful. We don't have air conditioning and our place is so hot--by the time 3pm rolls around, I just want to crawl onto the couch and pass out. That's the tough part about working at home-you constantly have to discipline yourself to stay focused. Sometimes, I wish I had a BOSS to look over me and yell at me to "Get back to work!" Instead, I have Mike, who knows me way too well, and when he's babbling on about how this character should do this and that character should do that, sometimes I'm checking out and he can totally tell. "Hey," he'll say, "Um...can we stay focused?" "Yes, sorry," I mumble, exhausted. It's pathetic.
In the meantime, however, we have been doing something non-work related that's been much more fun: dog training. Well, it's not our dog, she belongs to my mother-in-law and we're babysitting her. The thing is, Mike has basically run a boot camp for our dog, Louie, since he's had him. Our dog sits, rolls over, never has accidents in the house, doesn't go on furniture (except he jumps on the couch when we're not home which seems to be something we can't do anything about), and he's generally a good, sweet dog. Gracie, my mother in law's dog, is so cute that you actually feel like you could puke a little bit-it's disgusting. Anyway, her first day here, she peed twice in the house and MIke and I decided that that was it. This dog was going to get it. Needless to say, she hasn't gone to the bathroom in the house this whole week-major accomplishment for this animal.
But tonight, instead of cuddling with cute little Gracie on the bed, we dragged bags of styrofoam balls and wrapping paper from our gifts down to the trash cans-Mike actually took the initiative for this which I was quite impressed with. Usually, I have to stomp my feet and grumble about how I always have to ask him to do things and how he doesn't take enough of an active role in the house, etc. Tonight we dragged the bags down our block, looking for empty trash cans to stuff them in. We were like the newlywedded mod squad. I think by 2007, our gift room will be unpacked and the waste from all of the packaging will have created a fantastic landfill.

The New Girl

I have to get back to the pots. I know it seems like I'm obsessed and well...I am. In the past week since we've unpacked them, I have cooked dinner a whopping four times. Also, for those of you that don't know, my job forces me to work afternoons and evenings so I'm never around to cook. I made dinner for my high school friends on Wednesday, dinner for my sister-in-law and her boyfriend on Friday and dinner for the marrieds on Saturday night. I have to say that it was rather exhausting. First of all, Mike doesn't cook-let's just get that out there. He can make a turkey burger, eggs, and some BBQ items and that's it. Our deal is that I cook and he cleans, but lately I have been cleaning just as much as he has. I don't want to be petty but I'm going to anyway-when we have people over, I have to cook and basically help him clean. Now, it's not that he can't clean on his own, it's just that he's not as thorough as I am and so I have to help otherwise it doesn't get done right. God, I hope I'm not the only one saying that, but it's true! I did sort of have a Peg Bundy moment the other night when I made shrimp fajitas for all of our friends and I heated up tortillas in the oven-now, I've never heated tortillas anywhere but the microwave, so I had no idea that they would overcook and get so hard. They weren't burnt or anything, they were just hard. So I put them in our tortilla warmer (fab wedding present-so random) and when Mike got his out he got all testy. "Um, Alexis, I think these are just a little bit hard," he said. Though I wanted to say, "Hand one to me and I'll bop you on the head with it," I smiled innocently (which is very hard for me to do) and said, "I'm sorry. Make another batch." I ACTUALLY MADE A DECISION NOT TO GET ALL CRAZY like I did with the pots. What really sent me over the edge though, was that he proceeded to get two tortillas out and bang them together as if they were symbols, indicating to me JUST how burnt they were. The wife of one of our friends chided him, "You're going to be in sooooo much trouble later, you'd better give that up. She's trying, you know." I was a little confused by this statement. "She's trying, you know." The thing is, I wasn't trying, I was doing. It made me feel like this was as refined a newleywedded as I could be-like I was the new girl on the job or something. I know Mike's sense of humor-which is basically that of a seven year old-so I know he was just being a dork, but when she said that I wondered if it was true. Am I just trying or am I really a wife? Do I even know what I'm doing? Do the other marrieds we know do things better than we do? Granted, the wives in our couple friends are a bit older than I so they either think i'm a total neophyte or they don't really care either way. Right now, though, I'm really starting to feel like that new girl at school who's started mid-year from a school somewhere far away. Luckily, I think Mike's just as green as I am...