Poor Baby Bear

Last night Nashville got some unexpected snow. This unexpected snow was the reason that I got this call on my way home from work…

Me: Hello.

Mom: Where are you? Are you driving? Are you ok?

Me: Yes. I’m driving. And I’m ok. But talking on the phone while driving may change that status…

Mom: Well, when I saw the snow I told your dad I was going to have to call all my babies to make sure they were ok. Where are you?

Me: (Name of road closer to my parent’s house than to mine.)

Mom: Come here then! Don’t drive all the way home. Just come here and spend the night. Tell Mark to come here, too.

My mom pretty much solves all of life’s problems with family slumber parties at her house. And she does this because she’s what I lovingly call a Momma Bear. There is no question in any of our head’s that our mother would destroy anything that hurt any of her babies. No question AT ALL.

I mean, you can even see it in the last post where Mark karate chopped me in my sleep (w/ pictures).

you are such a good artist …you can draw really good and also a good actress….but are you really ok.

Very first comment. Momma Bear needed to know that Baby Bear wasn’t hurt by Mean Ugly Karate Chopping Husband Bear. And if Mean Ugly Husband Bear DID hurt Baby Bear? Oh. It would be ON.

That’s just how my mom rolls.  Don’t hurt Baby Bear. No exceptions.

Well, I thought there was no exception. I’m slowly realizing that I thought wrong. Apparently, no one can hurt Baby Bear except for the mythical creature known as Grandbaby Bear.

Grandbaby Bear can do whatever the heck it wants to Baby Bear. Grandbaby bear can make Baby Bear vomit and cause back pain. Grandbaby Bear can live INSIDE of Baby Bear and start out the size of a molecule, grow to the size of a watermelon and then push it’s way OUTSIDE of Baby Bear through a hole the size of a peanut*.

Not only is Grandbaby Bear allowed to hurt Baby Bear in all these horrible ways but Momma Bear is begging, pleading and PRAYING for this inhumane torture to befall  poor, poor Baby Bear.

And I Baby Bear would just like to say, “Not cool, Momma Bear. Not cool at all.”

*I’m really not sure if the specs of Down There match the size of a peanut. I just wanted to make a point and that point is “God should have made certain holes bigger”.

ETA:
A drawing. I promise I work.

And this drawing wasn’t sponsored by On Demand Staffing or anything, but I’d totally be down with drawing on your company’s stationary for money. Doodle-monetization. I’m all over it.

I promise I’m sober and Treena won

Let me explain my history with alcohol.

I refused to drink until I turned 21 because I was all over being pretentiously holier-than-thou during college. In a cute and approachable way, of course.

When I turned 21 I had a margarita and some wine coolers. And by “had” I mean I sipped and gagged and was convinced that I was allergic to alcohol.

For the next year I dated a fraternity guy and went to a few parties with him. I’d have, at most, 2 glasses of something and be convinced that I was drunk as a skunk. I would also insist that I was hungover the next morning because according to that month’s Cosmo greasy food was the cure for a hangover. And I will fake hangovers if it means I get to order a BLT and tater tots for breakfast.

I drank a sample glass of wine at a recent bridal event after which I was once again convinced that I was plastered.

Basically, even if I did enjoy alcohol I can’t tolerate it so it has never seemed like something that would be a part of my life.

Then things changed.

Mark and I had dinner with one of our favorite couples ever and they gave me a glass of merlot. And I drank. Like, a lot. Well, a lot more than I normally drink. And I got this truly delightful buzz.

A few days later I decided we should have some of that “on hand”, you know, “just in case”.

So I bought 3 bottles.

Then the snow hit Nashville and we didn’t have much of anything to survive on. Other than wine that I had recently bought and that we had forgotten we had. And by the end of the weekend we had drank nearly every alcoholic beverage in the house. Or at least it seemed like we had.

We were having oven pizza and wine for nearly every meal. It was like we went on vacation to the snowy part of Italy. And it was awesome.

Boozing it up is totally cool when you’re stuck in the house with no where to go. But when you’re getting ready for work and you’re wondering “Oooh, a glass of wine would make this morning better!” then I’m pretty sure you have a problem.

I think I have a problem.

*just for clarification (Mom) I am not really turning into an alcoholic. And I don’t think alcoholism is funny. I do think it’s funny that I went from puking at the thought of alcohol to almost replacing my morning cup of coffee with it.

I’m not playing with your nunchucks

Early Saturday morning I was woken up with a hard THWACK! to the middle of my back…

Me:  What the…

Mark: (snoring that he’ll later deny)

Me: Dude.

Mark: Quit talking. I’m sleeping.

Me: You hit me!

Mark: I did not.

Me: Yes. In your sleep. You literally karate chopped my back!

Mark: Oh, wow… are you ok?

Me: Yeah, I mean, I guess so.  I mean, ow. Ow. It hurts. Oh, no. I can’t feel my legs. My legs!

Mark: Iamsosorry. I am sooo sorry. Do you need anything? Can I get you something? I’m so sorry.

He’s so cute when I’m dramatic.

Me: Oh, I’m cool.  What was that karate chop about, anyways?

Mark: I’m not sure. I was having a dream about this dude keying my car and I was trying to get him to stop…

Me: So you naturally broke out the karate chop. Awesome.

Sleeping with a ninja isn’t nearly as glamorous as it seems.

It Don’t Mean a Thing (If You Ain’t Got a Ring)

I can honestly say that the idea of getting married was not a big deal to me until 2003. Before then marriage was something I had hoped to do, but mostly because I wanted to have sex and still be allowed to go to church. I wasn’t that interested in becoming a “Mrs.” or buying a starter home or getting a ring. Ok. Maybe I wanted the ring. But mostly I just wanted to have guilt-free sex.

Things changed, however, when I joined a sorority. It was then that I was introduced to the candlelight ceremony. I’m pretty sure every sorority does this, but for the uninitiated readers a candlelight ceremony was the ultimate in sororitydom.

The candlelight ceremony was how you let your sisters know that you’d gotten pinned (if you were dating a fraternity guy) or engaged. So the newly engaged sister, and those close to her, would bring a candle to the meeting and let the president know that there would be candlelight ceremony that night. At the end of the meeting we’d form a circle, turn off the lights, light the candle and pass it around while we sang a song about pretty girls in rose and white. You let the sorority know you had been pinned or gotten engaged by blowing the candle out when it was handed to you. Squealing would then begin. Because what’s more exciting to a woman pursuing advanced education in a field she’s passionate about than GETTING A RING FROM A BOY? Right?!?

Squeal.

Getting engaged (or pinned) is like picking teams at recess. And as you watch all your friends march down the aisle you can’t help but wonder, at times, why doesn’t anyone want to pick me?

What’s worse is that once girls get picked to be on Team Married they seem to do everything they can to make it look like the most fabulous thing to ever happen to them. Everything in their world magically falls into place and they have pictures on Facebook to prove it. Their new fiance or husband never does anything wrong and they haven’t had a negative feeling since. Well, other than being tired from all the love and wonderfulness going on, of course! And married people, especially the wives, offer their condolences for you not being married. Because who wants to miss out on this awesomeness??

I used to believe it. That getting that proposal and ring and wedding and marriage license would mean that I would be happy forever with my fabulous spouse by my side. And having the person who completes you in every way would mean you’d feel forever cherished, desired, loved, appreciated, supported and never alone. Til death do you part.

But it’s not true.

A ring, a wedding and all the guilt-free sex you can handle (more lies) don’t get rid of any of the bad feelings…

You still feel lonely when you’re silently eating warmed up lasagna together on the couch watching another episode of CSI.

You still deal with the insecurity about your breast size when he takes too long to change the channel from the Victoria Secret fashion show.

You still feel ignored and not very special when he tells you that watching that episode of CSI was date night. Duh.

You still feel sad when he doesn’t get just how devastating the “retirement” of Samantha the American Girl doll is for you.

You still feel irritated because someone can’t seem to ever fold your underwear correctly.

All you did by getting married was make a decision. You decided to enter an agreement to do your best to love each other through good times and bad. And more than half of you are going to decide you made the wrong decision within  5 years. Life did not, and will not, become perfect when you said “I do”. It just became different.

So if you think, like I did, that life is somehow not complete because you haven’t found your until this gets too hard forever love, then I would like to shake you. Shake you until you see that there is, more than likely,  tons of things in your life to be thankful for and to enjoy and to be excited about that have nothing to do with your marital status.

I promise.

*Before anyone thinks this post reflects the status of my marriage, I’ll let you know that I’m more likely to write funny posts when things are “eh” and these kinds of posts when things are “awesome”. I do, however, cringe about my A-cups when the Victoria Secret commercials come on.

He’s only a jerk 1% of the time

I knew I had special readers. Really, I did. I just didn’t realize how many of you were that overachieving 3rd grade nerd with the thing for Popsicle sticks. Wow. Two-stories? For real?

Anyways, I’ll be randomly selecting one of you to win a scarf I haven’t made quite yet soon. Very soon. And, Miranda, you called it, talking about bursting fruit was pretty much mortifying. Extra point for you.

Ok, now back to your regularly scheduled programming…

Mark and I spent 2 full weeks in Mexico. That’s 336 hours of being together. No time apart for work or karate or climbing rocks or clients. Pure Mexican togetherness.

I’m not going to lie. I was scared. I know, I know. I’m married to him for forever and spending that much time with him should have been nothing. I mean, who gets scared of 336 hours after you’ve promised infinite?

Me. That’s who.

I’m sorry, but I don’t even believe that Edward and Bella could have driven to Mexico and spent 2 weeks together without hating each other by the end of it. AND they have that crazy vampire/timid human love thing going for them. All Mark and I have are marriage vows and a mutual love for Big Macs. And, sadly, Big Macs aren’t always enough.

I was prepared for fighting, getting uber-annoyed with each other, and threatening to walk back to The Border where Shelly would (hopefully) be picking me up.

But guess what? None of that happened. NONE.

We didn’t fight and I didn’t try to leave or make him pull the car over or anything. We seriously had a great time together, and both of us agreed that they were probably the best two weeks of our marriage ever. I know I shouldn’t be so shocked, but I seriously was.

In fact, I am so impressed with our ability to like each other for such a long period of time that I’ve taken the time to document it in pie graph form:



Out of the 336 hours, I spent 4 hours mad at Mark. I’m not sure how many hours Mark may have been irritated with me, but I’d guess…zero. I’m too cute.

As seen in the graph, there is lots of blue which means lots of happy. I’m sorry, but the happy stories are boring. It’s just kissing and giggling. Barf.

That little sliver, though? I’d like to tell you about that:

mad at mark on the drive down – 1 hour
By the time we got to Arkansas it hit me that I would not be spending Christmas with my family. That I had spent 27 consecutive Christmas-times with my family and now this…this…this JERK was kidnapping me and taking me to Mexico…

(Literally out of nowhere)
Marie:  I’M NOT GOING TO SEE MY MOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY! (sobbing)
Mark: We’re in Arkansas. We can’t turn around.
Marie: Why do you hate me???
(goes on until we stop at McDonald’s where I finally calm down)

mad at mark that one night – 1 hour
Most nights I ended up in bed about 30 minutes before Mark did because I was worn out from all the knitting and reading I had done. Going to bed alone rarely bothers me, but on this one particular night I knew that Mark’s late arrival to the bedroom was a sign that he didn’t love me and that our marriage was slowly deteriorating. By the time he got there to “defend” himself I was crying and trying to make a bed on the floor (maybe I’m more Drama Bear than Care Bear…).

I’m not going to lie. This fight ended well… if you know what I’m saying. Heh.

mad at mark on the way home – 2 hours
Ah. This one was the doozy.

Mark had driven the entire way to The Border because of  my lack of stick shift driving ability (you can’t get to Texas in first gear). That’s, like, 19 hours of driving. In Texas. Which, though beautiful, is boring. He was basically my superhero, right? Right.

I guess I kind of assumed that he would make that same magic happen again on the way home.  Heck, I even managed to guarantee that magic by promising he could buy whatever electronic gadget he was lusting after as soon as he got us home safe and sound.

He agreed.

So, I’m sorry that it was 2AM. And I’m sorry that he’d been driving for nearly 14 hours. And I’m sorry I wasn’t a better stick shift student… BUT a deal is a deal, Dude. And if you want to play with a new doo-dad gadget you  better keep on driving.

In the middle of my speech about how making me drive would be a breach of contract, something Jesus would NEVER do, Mark pulled off at the next exit (an exit, I would like to add, that only had a boobie bar… something else Jesus would NEVER do). He pulled off the exit so that we could switch places. Him in the passenger seat, me in the driver’s seat.

Marie: I don’t know what I’m doing!
Mark: You’ll be fine. Get into first gear please.
Marie: I hate you.
Mark: Ok, the clutch please (he puts it into second). Accelerate.
Marie: You’re not getting a new toy.
Mark: Clutch (he puts it into third). Accelerate.
Marie: I mean, what kind of person does this to someone they love? You do love me, don’t you?
Mark: Clutch (into fourth). Accelerate.
Marie: This is like a death wish, you know. Letting someone who can’t drive a stick drive? What is wrong with you, Man!?
Mark: Clutch (into fifth). Just keep doing 70. And please quit whining. I’m going to take a nap.

And there I was. All by myself on an interstate in Arkansas DRIVING A STICK SHIFT. Normally, I’d be ecstatic and beating my chest with my typical “I am AWESOME!” stuff, but I was PISSED. And for the next 2 hours I fumed at how unfair Mark was being, you know with making me drive for what ended up being a total of 2 hours and all.

Jerk.

I probably shouldn’t have replayed that last memory in my head. Now I’m pissed again.

Dang.

Domesticate Me: We’re Knitting! (and a contest)

When Mark’s mom asked if I would want to make a scarf I thought, “Oh my goodness. She’s been reading the wrong blog. She thinks I know how to knit! I’m going to break her heart!”

But her heart wasn’t broken because she’d already caught on to my domestic… disability. She realized all things crafty do not come naturally for me, so she helped me out by introducing me to this knitting circle/hoop/wheel/loom thing. And it’s, like, this magical device that allows people, like me, to feel like one of those uber-cool crafty people without necessarily developing the mad skillz of the uber-cool crafty people. The perfect activity, no?

Anyways, we decided to combine our craft (the scarf on the knitting loom) with the blog (what you’re reading now) and bring out the ultimate in Domesticate Me video footage… Marie watching someone (her mother-in-law) knit. Awesome cool, right?

*So I forgot to clip the beginning and end of the video to avoid you guys seeing the random chatter. I’m not going to go back and do it because me and this video have been tangoing for quite some time and I’m tired and you’ll just have to witness my uncomfortableness of talking while Mark and his dad are in the other room. Also, I’m sorry for that nervous giggle thing I keep doing. The whole time I’m thinking, “I have a guest on Domesticate Me! A guest! Oprah has guests! I am Oprah!” And anytime you think you’re Oprah you giggle. It’s a law of physics.

But, wait! There’s more!

A contest! You could win a scarf handcrafted by yours truly! I don’t have a picture of it because, well, I haven’t made it yet. But I do know that it will be red and black because that’s the yarn that I had left over (yes, you’re getting a scarf made by a knitting newb with left over yarn… trust me, it’s practically Dior).

So here are The Rules:

1) Drop a comment letting me know what the coolest thing you’ve ever created is. The ability and desire to create is one of my favorite qualities of God and I think it often gets looked over by the church, so let’s celebrate this wonderful and spiritual part of ourselves.

2) Drop this comment before I get back to work on Monday (so before 7:30 am CST, 1/11/10) .

3) One comment = one entry

4) Don’t bother entering if you’re related to me because I’ve either made you a scarf already OR plan on making you one before the end of the year. So I’d hate for you to ruin your birthday/Christmas/just because surprise.

5) Get an extra entry if you can identify the most embarrassing point, for me, in this video. Heh.

So that’s it. I hope you enjoyed the video and my lovely mother-in-love, Connie, with her mad crafting skillz! And go here if you want more info on how to do this awesome and EASY craft.

(Comment or I will think you don’t want my scarf and I will cry. Ask Mark. I’m like a faucet. Turn it on. Turn it off.)

Milk. It does a body good.

Well. We survived Mexico. With its “never below 50 degrees weather”. And wonderful food that wasn’t “prepared” with the help of a car and drive-thru window. And the lazy afternoons spent knitting (oh, yes, I ‘knitted’) and playing dominoes and dice.

Yes, we survived all of that to come back here. To Tennessee. Where it is THIRTEEN degrees outside. Where I have to use every scarf made on vacation just to try and stay warm. Where I’ve been working since I stepped on to Tennessee soil (yes, within hours of pulling into the driveway from an 18-hour drive, I had counseling sessions. I amaze myself).

Needless to say, I miss Mexico.

And my in-laws. I had probably spent a total of 3 days with them up until this trip. I’ve now spent 2 consecutive weeks with them and I have fallen in love. Which is odd because normally spending 2 weeks with anyone makes you want to scratch your eyes out. But that didn’t happen for me. Thank God.

The best part, for me, was finally getting to fill in some blanks in my imagination. I have it in my head what kind of grandparents my parents will make one day (hopefully). My mom will constantly play dress up with a little girl, whispering into her ear how she’ll make a beautiful Miss Philippines one day. And she’ll back up this dream by reading the book of Esther to her every night before bed. My dad will finally get to invest in the complete Lego kingdom he’s always dreamed of. And tell them the story of Jim Henson.

I couldn’t dream about my potential child’s other grandparents until I met them, though. But now I have dreams about them, too. Now I imagine my mother-in-law presenting a little girl with her first (handmade!) apron so they can make chocolate pies together. My father-in-law will teach them how to play “Don’t you feel cheated?” and how much eggs cost in China.

Our future children (Mark would throw up if he ever read that) are going to be lucky little boogers.

Ok. Enough gushing. On to the stories…

This is milk. I don’t drink milk other than for cereal consumption. If left on my own I would maybe go through a gallon a month.

One of the things I learned about Mark after we got married was that this guy? He drinks milk. Gallons upon gallons of milk. I make milk runs on the way home from work at least every other week, not to mention buying it every time I go grocery shopping. Despite a couple of cups here and there, he is the sole milk drinker in our home.

With that said and out of the way, on our first day in Mexico the four of us went to the grocery store to pick up food that we’d enjoy. Mark and his dad wandered off to discuss the pros and cons of various cuts of meat… or something, and me and his mom wandered through various aisles.

Mom-in-love: Do you guys like hot dogs?
Me: Yeah. Mark likes brats better, though, so get those.*

(turn down the next aisle)

Mom-in-love: What about tangerines?
Me: Yeah, those are good!

(turn down the next aisle)

Mom-in-love: Do you guys drink milk?

Ok, I’m going to interrupt right here because I don’t think I made a strong enough point up above.

Mark. LOVES. milk.

We were preparing to leave for this two-week long vacation and he called me to ask if I’d pick up some milk because we had run out AND HE MIGHT DIE IF HE DOESN’T GET HIS MILK. Please hurry.

So I bought a half gallon and was sure that it would go to waste before we left. But what my man wants, my man gets. And he wanted milk.

It gets worse.

We left his car on our side of the border and his parents picked us up to carry us over. When we were locking the car up Mark says to me, “I hope the milk doesn’t go bad”. HE BROUGHT THE MILK WITH US. On a 24 hour road trip. AND he was hoping it would still be good in two weeks.

Ok, back to the grocery store.

Me: Yeah. Mark LOVES milk. He drinks it all. the. time. Get the milk.

Cut to a few hours later…

Mom-in-love: Oh, Mark, just so you know, there’s some milk in the fridge.
Mark: Oh, I don’t drink milk.

Excuse me? You don’t drink milk? Who the *bleep* are you, and what have you done with my husband?

Mom-in-love: Oh…
Mark: Yeah. I read it may be what is causing the inflammation in my shoulder muscle.

Really? Really?!? Because I’m pretty sure there is a stow-away carton of milk sitting in a Civic in Texas that would beg to differ.

I was cool with him making me look like a total fool in front of his mother and making it seem like I had a dairy loving fling on the side and I was simply unable to keep my lovers’ preferences straight. I really was cool with that.

What I wasn’t cool with was getting back to our car two weeks later and hearing this…

Mark: Hey! My milk is still good! AWESOME!

Aye.

* I was also wrong about the brats. Apparently, he hates those and would never, ever eat them. Yeah, don’t look for us on any future episodes of The Newlywed Show.

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.