I know where you can put that stacked loafer sir...

I have the type of job where I have to wear a suit everyday. Truth be told, I don't mind...I like a sharp suit, I think they look good on women. Days I am in the office all day, I wear a pant suit, and go with a pretty mary jane, or stacked loafer, maybe something a little flashy, like my green suede ballet flats. But on days I have to go to court or out to a meeting, I usually wear my "tall shoes". I am only 5 feet high and so when I have to make an appearance in court, I try to look as tall as possible and this means wearing high heels. And as any woman knows these types of shoes are more often than not, not comfortable. Therefore, like many women, I choose fashion over comfort on days when I have an event of some type at work and suffer through the pain; because lets face it...looking the part is half the battle. So for those of you (read: Men) who do not realize that I prefer not to wear my toe numbing heels just for laughs....

MEMO TO ALL MEN:
If you know you are going to cancel a meeting/court date/event that is requiring me to wear the aforementioned uncomfortable shoes, please let me know the day before so that I am not forced to walk around in pain all day FOR NO REASON. Not to do so would be rude and quite frankly, a tad misogynistic. So the next time you whimsically change your mind at the last minute and decide that you don't feel like presenting that motion after all, do me a favor and bend over. Because I would like to show you the intricate stitching detail on my new Charles David black heels. And then we can bond over how uncomfortable they are together.

My $ is Your $

You know those post cards that your college/graduate school sends you in the mail to
update your biographical information because they are editing and reprinting an Alumni Directory? Well we recently got those post cards from our law school. The following conversation ensued:


Him: Oh before I forget, guess what I did today? (with a very proud attitude)

Me: ....what?.....

Him: I called and updated our information with University.

Me: ummm...good...that's good. (Thinking, who gives a hoot? and moving on to more important things like the new JCrew catalogue)

Him: I ordered us one too.

Me: WHAT? DAMN IT! YOU BOUGHT THAT THING? THE WHOLE POST CARD THING IS A SCAM SO THEY CAN SUCK $50 OUT OF YOU...WHY WOULD YOU BUY THAT? WHAT DO WE NEED THAT FOR? IT'S A WASTE OF $50.

Him: It wasn't $50...it was $75.


I suppose if my husband kept a blog he could post an extremely similar conversation except instead of a directory, I bought this great runner and napkin set for the table from Williams Sonoma...

Ahhhhh. Marraige, the blending of two souls, and bank accounts...

Ode to Grampy

My husband's grandfather died last night. And while his children mourn and struggle, and hold each other close, I can't help but think that he is watching all the commotion and thinking "what's all the fuss about?" Because for the last few years, Grampy has been a prisoner of his body. Sharp and vibrant well into his 80's, Grampy suddenly found his body giving up on him, wearing out. And I think it made him profoundly sad and desperate to move on. And he did, last night Grampy freed himself. So while my heart breaks for my father-in-law and his siblings, a little bit of me smiles at the thought of Grampy finally on the move again, and I know Grampy is up in heaven giving them a run for their money, because resting in peace is just not his style.

So in honor of the man I called Grampy, two favorite Grampy ancedotes:

Grumpy

I had been dating my husband for about 3 years when I first met Grampy. Grampy lived in Florida and only came up to visit once a year for a couple of weeks right around father's day and his birthday. And from what I had heard, Grampy was a grump. Somewhat a grump of legendary proportions. Apparently never the most affectionate of men, he was described to me by my father-in-law as "not the type of grandfather to play with you or sit you on his lap."

Well I can say that within 30 seconds of meeting Grampy, he asked me to sit right on his lap...and to his dying day, Grampy always had a smile and a wink (and a slightly inappropriate comment) for me. I truly never thought he was grumpy. Since the day I met him, he has been telling my husband to marry me...and so I fell in love with Grampy. He was a real character, and I appreciated him. Plus, I like to believe we shared an inside joke or two.

Grampy

Grampy and I had a great first meeting, and I liked him ever since. Truth be told, I beelined right to Grampy every time he was around just to hear him tell me I was pretty, and tell a few dry jokes. And I would say "hey Grampy, how is it going?" and we would talk for a few minutes, he would be smart and I would be sassy. And as we left, I would kiss him and say "bye Grampy, see you later." This went on for a few years. YEARS PEOPLE, YEARS!

And one day, after my husband and I were engaged, we were at a family party. Grampy wasn't there, and I asked for him.

My Husband's Aunt: It's so funny that you call him Grampy!

My Husband's sister: You call him Grampy?

Me: Why what should I call him?

My Husband's sister: You call him Grampy...to his face?

Me: (starting to get alarmed) Yeah....why...? That's what you guys call him...

My Husband's sister: NOT TO HIS FACE! You call him Grampy to his face?!?

Me: (on the verge of an all out panic) I HAVE BEEN CALLING HIM GRAMPY FOR THE LAST 3 YEARS!!!! YOU ARE WAITING UNTIL NOW TO TELL ME THAT NO ONE CALLS HIM GRAMPY?

My Husband's sister: We call him Grandpop. Grampy is a funny nickname, we say it to be funny to eachother!

Much laughter ensued. And I was of course, very embarrassed. But you know what? I called him Grampy until yesterday, when I said goodbye to him in the hospital. And he never once let on that he minded.

So goodbye Grampy...Thanks for always being so nice to me. We'll all miss you.

Clocking It

We have an ongoing battle, nay, a war going on nightly in our home. I can see no end to it and it aggravates me each night anew. It begins each night innocently enough, between 7pm and 8pm:

Me: What time do you think we should go to bed?

Him: Here we go again...

Me: Can we just go to bed early ONE DAMN NIGHT? I've been exhausted.

Him: Why can't you go yourself?

Inevitably, I end up going to bed on my own and not being able to really sleep well until he lays down next to me. So every DAMN NIGHT, I ask if he can please come to bed early for me. And every DAMN NIGHT, he doesn't. AND EVERY DAMN MORNING, HE WON'T GET OUT OF BED BECAUSE HE IS TOO TIRED FROM STAYING UP LATE. Is it too much to ask that he comes to bed at 11? Or in the alternative to get himself out of bed in the morning?

I have tried to reason with him. "How about 3 nights a week you come to bed early?" No. Even on nights he claims he will come to bed around 10, he ends up doing god only knows what until around 11 before he rolls upstairs...and I count these nights as a victory.

But what gets me, what really burns me, is the following conversation we have every morning:

Me: What time did you finally come to bed last night?

Him: Around 11:30

Me: I was awake at 11:30 and you weren't here

Him: 11:45?

Me: (cranky from not sleeping well) WHEN DID YOU COME TO BED REALLY?

How much longer can we go on like this? I'm thinking, not much.



*Please note that I am prone to being overdramatic...my husband does sometimes come to bed with me around 11, and in his defense, if I had my way, we would be in bed by 9...but my THEORY REMAINS UNCHANGED!

Me vs. Mixer

My husband doesn't know it. He thinks all is kosher in the house and I don't know how much longer I can keep it from him. It is eating away at my very soul.

I hate the kitchenaid mixer. I mean, I really hate it. I want harm to come to it. I want to explode everytime someone says "oh, those mixers last forever, I've had mine for 20 years...you'll get alot of use out of it." My blood actually boils at the thought of looking at that smug machine sitting on our counter for the next 20 years.

But I feign love for the mixer. I act like I am excited to use it. As if I can't wait to find recipes that call for the use of a mixer. I even go so far as to rave about it to coworkers and friends. But really, I want to smash it with a shovel. That mixer represents every fear I have about being a good wife. And so while I originally vowed to beat the mixer at it's own game...to become a mix master if you will, I now just want to kill it. Does anyone know how to burn the motor out on one of these suckers?

My mom came this weekend. It is always stressful to have my parents come visit. Nothing that is their fault really, just hard to have 24 hour guests for the entire weekend. At any rate, in preparation for her coming, I baked Chocolate, peanut butter chip cookies. I used the mixer.

Yawn.

And she did not eat a single cookie.

The point you may ask? This is the point...the mixer is evil. Why? Well pull up a seat and listen closely lest you fall prey to the kitchenaide mixer in its many vibrant colors. Having mastered the cookie making process, people are no longer impressed. It is now common place to have fresh cookies in the house. My husband has taken on a wierd "thanks for the cookies, but what else can you do with that thing?" attitude. And it occurs to me that no matter how many recipes I master, people will always want more from me. It will never be good enough...I will have to keep pushing the envlope further and further.

Good god the pressure. I feel like Britney Spears. What crazy thing does a girl need to do to satiate her audience? AND SO HELP ME GOD AS LONG AS THAT MIXER IS WORKING, I WILL BE EXPECTED TO REINVENT MYSELF OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

Maybe meatballs next...what do you think?

The Greatest Day

It is amazing that I am still standing after this past week. If ever I was moved to find a volcano to throw myself in and end it all, it would have been this past week. Just one of those awful, cry on your way to work, anxiety all day, crawl into bed when you get home weeks. God, my husband is lucky to have me!

But then, Sunday came. Oh, glorious Sunday. We slept in, which is becoming more and more rare as life hurtles us forward at break neck speed. So around 11 am we both shook off the grogginess and in no particular rush, got ready for the day. The no rushing part was quite unexpected by my husband as I am in a constant state of rushing, no matter where we are, what we are doing or how much time to we have to do it in. For me, it really is the basic principle of rush or die. But not Sunday, and I sensed my husband's gratitude and heard his heart beat a little fast for me at the prospect of not hauling ass out the door.

So we rolled downstairs and decided to go to Springdale Farm and get some pumpkins and fall decorations for the house. Springdale Farm is great, and quaint, and relaxing...pretty much the antithesis of the supermarket rush. And it was perfect for a lazy Sunday outing. We are so suburban you want to puke right? I know, so do I. But bear with me.

So we got two huge pumpkins and four more of varying sizes, and some gordes and whatnot (I say "whatnot" to cover up the fact that I am not well versed in what all the different fall vegetables and plants are). Then we went to the bakery and got some fresh pumpkin cream cheese pie as they were out of the pumpkin spice muffins my husband loves so much. The pie was fresh and warm, and so was the blueberry crumb muffin we couldn't resist. Am I painting it too Martha Stewart for you? Spare me...I deserve my God Damn wedded bliss as much as the next person so back off...that's right, I said it. BACK OFF BRO. But I digress...

Upon checkout, we realized we spent approximately $80 on pumpkins...they charge by the pound apparently...who knew? The suburb life don't come cheap. Que Sera Sera...we were having a good time. Did I mention it was GLORIOUS?

Then we came home and relaxed a little, loved each other a little. Talked about how our new house is just now starting to feel like ours. We lit a scented pumpkin spice candle and teh house was toasty on this crisp sunny day. It was GLORIOUS! A blue bird actually landed on my shoulder and told me how lovely a couple we were (ok, I made that up, but you get the point)

And then my husband performed the greatest feat ever accomplished...HE HOOKED UP OUR TiVo (which has been sitting on top of the TV unhooked up since we moved, just taunting me, crying out to me, begging me, pleading with me to be wanted again)...and he HOOKED UP THE STEREO, DVD, VCR, AND CABLE as one integrated unit. THERE IS A GOD, GLORY HALLEHLUHIA! We are back to the land of TiVo (aka, the greatest invention of all time, ever.)


It took him almost a year, but my husband finally did it, finally tackled the his fear of electronics. The Ellen show is once again, mine for the viewing.

I FELT LIKE OPRAH AND HE WAS MY STEADMAN. Except, you know, we're not wealthy, or even mildly rich, I don't have a TV show and neither of us is African American. But for that one Sunday, Life was Perfect. Eat your Heart Out OPRAH!

And may I be the first to welcome back our old friend, TiVo. My, have we missed you!