A quick bite

1. Mark is Superman. He drove the entire trip and never subjected me (or himself or the other drivers on the road) to the torture of my stick shift skillz. He’s a good man.

2. We’re in Monclova, Mexico. We’ve been to a Christmas Eve party, church service and wedding so far. The people here are seriously SO nice. They also have a McDonald’s. And a Burger King. My kind of place.

3. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but it’s been 55-65 degrees the entire time we’ve been here and I’m bundled up in sweaters and scarves. I understand that this is warm, in my world, for December but I think seeing everyone else in scarves and sweaters has convinced me this is cold.

4. I don’t know that I could have asked for better in-laws. Funny, thoughtful, generous, lots of great adjectives to use. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Two weeks with a family I haven’t spent much time with is scary, especially when that family comes with the label “in-laws”. However, each day I’m falling more and more in love with these wonderful people.

5. We’re getting to spend lots of time laying around “doing diddly”, as evidenced by my favorite in-law of all Mac…

Ok, that’s a quick update mostly so that no one thinks I killed us on the road. And tomorrow we’re hoping to bring you a special Mexican Domesticate Me video for your holiday viewing pleasure.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach

Mark’s usually still in bed while I’m getting ready in the morning, which I think is wrong. If I’m up and don’t want to be up and you’re married to me you should get up, too. Because THAT’S what love is.

So I’m getting ready and walking around the bedroom with a light tan colored towel all turban-like on my head. Mark props himself up on his elbows and he’s squinting really hard and staring at me.

Mark: Who… What… oh my gosh, you scared me.

Me: Why? What happened?

Mark: In the dark, and I couldn’t really see, I thought there was a blonde haired woman walking around our bedroom. I was like, who is this person in my bedroom?

Me: A blonde, huh? You sound a little too excited about the idea of a strange blonde in your bedroom.

Mark: It was kind of exciting. I mean, I was going to see if she’d make me breakfast.

Um. I’m not really sure what to think. My husband is awesome because his first thought about a blonde bombshell (heh, I’m taking some creative license on what kind of blonde I’d make) in his bedroom is food. Or I’m really such a bad wife that, according to Maslov, my husband is too hungry to think about more advanced urges, like sex.

I’ll just go with he’s awesome.

And remind him that there’s cereal in the pantry.

He knows where the milk is.

Only witches drive sticks

You know. Like a broom stick.

I slay myself.

So. In mere days Mark and I will be trekking down to the border to visit his parents who are currently missionaries IN MEXICO. Yeah, when I said the border I meant THE border.

This is how excited I am…

I love this little girl.

When Mark and I decided to go visit his parents we decided to drive. Because it’ll be fun, right? 24 hours in the car together. Loving every minute because what’s better than spending TWENTY-FOUR hours in a car with the person you love the most in the world?

Yeah.

By September the idea horrified me so much that I was on Southwest.com nearly every day looking to see if there were flights that we could afford.

By October Mark had decided that not only would we be driving, but we would be taking his car. A stick shift.

Does this man even know who he is married to?

By November I was googling things like, “How did Scotty beam people up?” because my ability to drive Mark’s car had increased by zero yet Christmas kept getting closer and closer.

In December we had our FIRST stick shift lesson. First. I’m a quick study but this was insane. I was able to get the car into first gear. Or at least that’s what Mark said I did. All I know is that when I pulled into our driveway (yes, I graduated from the middle school parking lot to our subdivision’s roads) the car died, or something, and I started crying and screaming and just got out of the car.

This trip is going to be fantastic, right?

Things haven’t gotten much better on the stick shift driving front. Mark insists that I will be able to manage my 8 hour leg of the trip by Saturday. After all, he says, I can get into first gear. Which, to me, is the equivalent of agreeing to open heart surgery because a dude can cut in a straight line… not really hacking it in my world.

Once we get to The Border, everything is going to be wonderful Christmas gravy, though. His parents (Connie in the comments, in case you cared) are amazing and I can’t explain how happy Mark is about getting to spend holidays with his family. I’m excited, too, but Mark’s been needing this kind of Christmas for awhile.

So if you guys could just pray for stick shift driving skills OR affordable “Beam me up, Scotty” transportation we’d appreciate it much.

Like a drunk packrat

First order of business: If you enjoy reading about marriage from a realistic and funny voice please go over to Kathleen at Project M. I found her blog a couple of weeks ago and I’m in love. Now back to regularly scheduled blogging…

I’m a horrible packer.

On my first day of kindergarten, for some reason, I ended up packing my own lunch. Do you know what I packed? I packed toys. Like the little toys from cereal boxes and Happy Meals. I guess I figured I’d bring the toy portion of the meal and someone else would provide the food.

Poor, hungry Marie

You can imagine the embarrassment when 5 year old Marie opens her Little Pony lunch box and pulls out various characters from the Bambi movie instead of a pb&j sandwich like everyone else. Agony.

My packing has not gotten any better with age. I’ll bring my bathing suit everywhere, yet forget my toothbrush. I pack athletic shoes but no socks. I’m addicted to bringing my college formal dress on nearly every trip because what if we need to make an unexpected appearance at a black-tie affair?? Yep, I’ll be prepared with my formal dress and athletic shoes. No socks.

My worst packing, however, came during a fight with Mark where I was leaving and never coming back and you can find me at Shelly’s when you’re ready to apologize to the President.

Heh.

Yes. We’re still fighting about politics.

Months ago we ended up in a particularly heated debate where I decided that I was NOT going to spend another second in that house so I proceeded to “pack”.

I had never packed because of a fight before because normally when I got this upset I just went to my personal sanctuary, the McDonald’s down the street, and all I need there is a smile and $5 for the #12 meal.

I stood in our bedroom looking around for what I’d need on my vacation from married life.

A toothbrush? Well, we share the toothbrush. And that’s mean to steal the man’s toothbrush. I grabbed the bottle of mouthwash instead.

What about clothes? It was a week night, so I’d be going to work the next day. Pack work clothes, right? Not really. Instead, I grabbed a dress that I’d worn once. It’s just dressy enough that I’ve never worn it to work so, yes, that’s an awesome choice, you idiot Marie.

Well, I’m going to need to wear those heels with this dress. Grab the heels. And I’d better pack the other bra because there’s no way I’m going to fill out the top of this dress without some extra help. What kind of underwear should I pack???

Every decision to take one item led me to needing another one. The underwear reminded me about needing shower toiletries which reminded me that I’d need the straightening iron which made me wonder if it was going to rain the next day and should I bring a jacket?

As I stood there holding mouthwash, a too fancy for work dress, high heels, 3 days worth of underwear, my shampoo, conditioner, and a straightening iron I looked down and saw Omi looking up at me.

Meow?

My cat. I needed to pack my cat.

You know how when you think a series of really crazy thoughts there is usually one so absurd that it wakes you up and you think, “What on earth am I thinking?”

Yeah. Packing the cat should have been that thought for me. Heck, my cat doesn’t even like me and would have a fit if I tried to take her anywhere. Unfortunately, all that thought really did was cause more stress because where am I going to put the kitty litter?

It wasn’t until I dropped the shampoo bottle for the third time that it occurred to me that this plan was, well, stupid. And that I’m a drama queen. And that I probably need to apologize to Mark for being a baby. And for stealing the mouthwash. And that he should probably thank God for my really crappy packing skills because they may have saved our relationship.

I’m not kidding when I say I love Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!!

Mark the Ripper

I read about relationships all the time. Like, seriously, ALL the time. And a few months before our wedding I read that the whole “smash cake in each other’s face” was a sign of passive aggression. Some times I don’t even know what passive aggressive means, but I always know that I don’t want to be it or for it to exist in my relationship.

There would be NO cake smashing. None.

The thing is, I was marrying Mark and he likes crap like that. Smashing cakes and being silly. I think it has something to do with being a dude.

Anyways, a few weeks before the wedding I sat him down and said, “We are under no circumstances whatsoever going to smash cake in each other’s faces. It looks bad.”

“Looks bad?” he asked, “What looks bad? Everybody does it.”

“Yeah, well I’m a relationship counselor and I read in Yahoo Answers a VERY important study that couples who smash cake hate each other. We don’t hate each other so we won’t smash cake. Got it?”

This was probably my biggest Bridezilla moment during the entire wedding process. I demanded nothing short of pure happiness and bliss during the cake eating.

While I trust Mark with my life, I didn’t trust that he would keep his half-hearted promise to refrain from stuffing cake up my nose. This meant that most of the pictures from the cake eating look like this…

I’m not really sure how looking like an old lady gremlin helped, but that face and neck elongation was how I planned to protect me and my dress. I guess.

I’ll be honest, I can’t really remember if he ended up smashing cake in my face. I think he did a little bit. Nothing too horrible, I guess, considering I can’t recall it.

In my head we had a successful non-aggression filled wedding. Until I saw this a few months later…

My friend Veda had this on her Myspace page and I was SHOCKED. Um, Mark, you tried to kill me? While cutting our wedding cake?

Here I am worried about a little cake on the dress and in reality I had just married Jack the Freakin’ Ripper.

Disaster.

(I mostly wanted to post the 2nd picture because when I saw it I thought, “This is so the kind of thing Dateline would drag up if I come up missing one day making the viewers believe that Mark most definitely killed me”. Just so you know, the pic is innocent…I think.)

Thanksgiving is about love not Haters

Dear Thanksgiving Haters,

I hear you’re wanting to start your Christmas celebrating early. You’re all “Christmas is fun” and ”Christmas has cool music” and ”Christmas is  the perfect excuse for overconsumption and debt all in the name of God coming down to earth in the humble form of a baby”.

Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving is just a speed bump on the way to a REAL holiday, right?

WRONG. So freaking wrong, it isn’t even funny. It isn’t even American. You are an American, aren’t you?

Well, if you are an American then you better put your Pilgrim hat on and give a big ‘preciate ya to the Native Americans from whom we stole this beautiful land. Unless you’re a terrorist or something…

Happy NON-terrorist Thanskgiving from the McKinney-Oates Family!
(This photo is from 2008. There WILL be an updated pic on Thursday. Trust.)

When the little things add up

Mark and I start off nearly every morning with prayer. Nothing particularly holy or spiritual, just two people who believe in a loving God giving thanks, asking for wisdom, or praying for our friends and family. Seriously, our prayers last about 45 seconds and are simply a part of our goodbye routine in the mornings. And I would be lying if, most days, I didn’t see our prayer time as just another obstacle between me and getting out of the house on time.

Mark and I also have lots of fights discussions that sound like they’re coming straight out of our favorite book on communication…

Mark: Why are you doing the dishes like that?

Me: I would REALLY appreciate if you didn’t criticize the way I did the dishes. Jerk.

Mark: It wasn’t my intention to criticize your dishwashing skills, what did you hear me say?

Me: I heard you say that I’m doing the dishes wrong. It was more in your tone than in your words…

Mark: I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. And my tone was probably because I don’t understand why you’re not using the dishwasher I installed. I put it in because I thought you wanted one, and I was just disappointed you weren’t using it, I guess.

Me: I really appreciate the dishwasher, and at the same time there were only a few dishes so I figured it was easier to just wash them by hand. Sorry about jumping to conclusions… forgive me?

Mark: Of course, Sweetie. (cue the rainbows and butterflies)

Lots of I-statements, lots of clarification, lots of active listening.

And lots of Marie eye-rolling.

I’m all about these skills, obviously. However, sometimes I think the whole process can be time consuming and feel a bit on the scripted side. And there were times, especially during the first few months of marriage, when I was so mad and Mark tried to pull the “what did I do and how did it make you feel” crap and I would yell, “Oh give me a break with your psycho-babble questions. Let’s fight like a REAL COUPLE.”

Yes, the MASTER of marriage and family therapy told her husband to quit the psycho-babble and partake in some good, old-fashioned mud slinging.

Praying nearly every morning and talking through nearly every conflict we encounter has seemed like overkill to me on more than one million occasion.

Then last week happened.

I got home and saw Mark staring worriedly at his computer. I knew something was wrong and my gut said that ’something’ was finances. And I was right. According to Mint, money was going to be a little tighter this month and I think Mark was on the verge of a panic attack.

As we sat there looking at our accounts I could feel the tension between us. I could feel him wanting to question me about always forgetting to pack a lunch and eating out nearly everyday. I wanted to wonder outloud if this rock climber gig was really worth it and maybe he should just go ahead and do something else. All the ingredients were there for us to have one of those financial fights that destroy marriages.

Except we didn’t have the fight.

Without skipping a beat we had a psycho-babble conversation about what we were afraid of and how we could fix this as a team. And as natural as a goldfish in water we prayed for guidance and expressed gratitude for everything we DID have (each other, great family and friendships, health).

All of a sudden all of our morning prayers and over-analytical conversations made sense. We decided early in our relationship that we valued our spirituality and our communication and we’ve exercised those values on a daily basis. Last week all of that exercise added up to a really great moment for Mark and I.

It’s so easy to look at all the small things we do and wonder “What’s the point?”, especially in our immediate gratification obsessed culture. Maybe your awesomeness at work is still going unnoticed or you’ve been Shredding it for 2 weeks and still can’t get into your skinny jeans. I’d really like to encourage you to keep going and all your hard work will pay off soon enough.

***
Because I’m sure I’ve bored some of you to tears, here’s a treat for everyone who made it this far. A FB status that I wanted to write but knew wouldn’t be a good idea so I hid it here, at the end of a “serious” post:

Marie McKinney-Oates pooted something ferocious and would love to blame it on Nala but is pretty sure Mark would take the little guy to the vet…

No really, Dude, I’m awake. Promise.

One time in college a friend called my dorm room at some ungodly hour and I answered with as much chippery-ness as I could muster. I was determined that she would not know that she woke me up from the recurring dream where me and Kenny the hot RA were about to kiss. Determined.

“Were you already awake?” she asked like it would be crazy to be awake at that hour (to which I would like to ask THEN WHY THE HECK ARE YOU CALLING?)

“Um, no, not really… your call woke me up. What’s up?” I answered STILL really cheery.

So she was all, “Wow… you sound really… happy,” in a tone that clearly meant, “Are you on drugs?”

I wasn’t on drugs. But I do like to respond, as nicely as possible, when people talk to me. Even if I’m asleep or about to fall asleep.

Wanting to respond, no matter my state of awareness, means that I do a lot of nonsensical talking. Especially to Mark. I don’t know how many times Mark has told me that he would ask me a question, thinking I was awake, and get an answer about my thoughts on Fox News and how the cats MIGHT be aliens.

One morning Mark and I had to wake up extra early and I reached over to check the time on my phone. Instead of grabbing the phone I ended up swiping it off the dresser.

Mark: What was that?

Me: I knocked my phone off the dresser. (I said this into my pillow because that’s how everyone talks at 4 in the morning)

Mark: Oh, you’re still asleep.

Me: No, I’m not.

Mark: You say the weirdest things when you’re sleeping.

Me: I’m NOT sleeping! I knocked my phone off the dresser!

Mark: Quit talking in your sleep.

I can’t describe to you how distraught I was in the middle of this conversation. It was like someone telling you that you’re dead when you’re so NOT dead but they can’t hear you so you’re wondering “Well maybe I AM dead and being dead doesn’t feel any different that feeling alive…”

You know that feeling, right?

And he was being so serious. Like I really was talking all non-sensical when IN REALITY I was making perfect sense. Perfect.

Me: I AM NOT ASLEEP.

Mark: (silence because he’d given up on talking to crazy woman)

Me: Give me a math problem. I can do a math problem.

Mark: What?

Me: Give me any math problem. I’ll do it and prove that I AM AWAKE.

And that’s when it hit me that if he thought I was talking in my sleep before then demanding to prove Pythagorean’s Theorem at 4:15 in the morning was not going to “prove” anything other than, well, I was crazy. And more than likely talking in my sleep. Nothing I could do would have proven my awakeness.

And I still get mad at him when I remember this.

Because I really can’t ever be happy

Remember how I shared that it took a month or so before Mark and I shared our first kiss? And everyone was all, “WTH” and I was all “Dude, he was my Sunday School teacher! You NEVER make out with your Sunday School teacher on a first date. It’s in the Bible” and y’all were all “Are you sure he even liked you?”

Remember that post?

Well, first of all, he DID TO like me.

And second, that wasn’t the only level of physical intimacy that we waited to… enjoy. I’m not going into any specifics because both of our moms read this blog (hello, Moms, who are probably having a heart attack right now) and Mark would, well, he’d kill me. And I like being alive. So let’s just say that when I hear that it is a common practice among my peers to CONSUMATE your relationship by the THIRD date I poop my pants. I seriously can’t believe it. I don’t know that I could wear a one-piece bathing suit in front of you by the third date much less… YOU KNOW.

So I’m sharing all of that to share this…

I was allowed into Mark’s bedroom one time the entire time we were dating.

ONE time. 

The ONE TIME I did spend a substantial amount of time in his bedroom was only because he was painting it so there was no furniture in there. In other words, there was no BED in there. A bed that we could have… YOU KNOW.

(my mom is having an asthma attack right now…”Marie! You weren’t supposed to think about YOU KNOW before you were married!”)

Any time we made out it was on the couch in his living room.

(Mark is having an asthma attack right now… “Marie! No one is supposed to know we made out before we were married!”)

(I’m having an asthma attack right now… “Mark! You’re reading my blog?”)

So all of our make out activities were strictly relegated to areas where we could be walked in on at any time (he’s always had roomies) which meant we wouldn’t end up doing anything we were embarrassed to be caught in the middle of.

It’s a great plan. It worked.

But can I tell you that the entire time we were dating the thing I wanted more than anything in the entire world was to kiss this man in his bedroom. It was like that stupid forbidden fruit. And I wanted a bite.

“Can we go in your room?”

“No.”

“Seriously? We can’t even just pop kiss in there?”

“No.”

“Can I have a greyhound?”

Just kidding. Wanted to make sure you were still awake.

I was relentless, but not relentless enough. He was not changing his stance on In Bedroom Kissing.

I wish I was joking, People.

When we decided to get married I was positive that there would be NOTHING better than finally getting into his bedroom. With the bed in it. I mean, there were going to be angels and ponies and rainbows in there. I was sure of it. If you asked me the week before our wedding the three things I was most excited about this would have been my list: 1) Our Jamaican honeymoon, 2) Getting to sit on Mark’s bed and 3) Commiting my entire life to one person.

My first night in my new home was, well, awkward. We had just gotten home from our honeymoon, so I was already used to sleeping in the same bed as Mark, but this night would be the first time I was allowed to enter the inner sanctum. There was so much anticipation on my end that I really didn’t know what to do with myself. I waited in the living room as Mark got ready for bed because I hadn’t been given the verbal ok to enter.

“Are you coming to bed?”

“Um, sure… uh, where should I sleep…”

“What? In our bedroom…”

“Are you saying I’m allowed to enter now? Should I take a shower first or anything? What are the rules for… In There?”

“You are so weird.”

Weird AND ecstatic. We were going to pop kiss In There. We were going to make out In There. We were going to…. YOU KNOW IN THERE.

Heaven.

Well, we’ve been married a year and a half now and do you that the ONLY place we do anything is in the bedroom? The boring bedroom that doesn’t have angels or ponies or rainbows. Just dirty clothes and cats.

And do you know what I want more than anything in the entire world?

To make out in the living room.

*This post is proudly sponsored by the Coalition of Men Who Correctly Believe Women Are Never Happy.